Foy Coiffeur
Location: Quarters, "Foy-er"
What a fine and chipper morning it was on the Retribution. A funny name for a ship, Retribution. Brings to mind a great hammer, poised to smash ne'er-do-wells and violent enemies of the Alliance. The manner of massive flagship sporting hundreds of fighters and dedicated patrol boats, crewed by the best and brightest that the Central Planets had to offer.
The Retribution. Yes, a truly intimidating name.
The unfortunate state of things: It was a patrol boat. The kind that would have been at home docked on an Alliance Interdictor; the latter being the type of ship he had
really hoped The Retribution was going to be. So much for sweeping staterooms, wide hallways, and grand amphitheatres. So long to five-star cuisine prepared by the finest of Core culinarians, and goodbye to the security of being quartered deep inside several hundred hulls of a spacebound citadel surrounded by thousands of soldiers and combat pilots.
Being intimately accustomed to finery, that would have grown dull eventually. It was a consolation, seemingly small in nature, but it rang with truth - Finery can be acquired from many sources, for a man of means. New experiences, particularly ones that come with monetary compensation, are a unique and coveted thing. Besides, he was under contract. An elaborate contract, full of allowables, clauses and the like. Very businesslike. Very up front. It detailed the conditions - realistic conditions - of his quartering and provisioning. This... sufficed, despite not being all for which he had hoped.
Nonetheless, it was still a fine and chipper morning. Our not-quite-protagonist stood in front of a long mirror in his quarters, viewing the result of his morning rituals. He was classically attired in pinstriped vest and slacks, a tough but stylish longsleeve dress shirt with loose cuffs, and a pair of well shined black madisons. The top button of his shirt was still undone. Ordinarily a faux pas, unless said gentleman did so intentionally to signify that he was at leisure. He was most certainly
not at leisure, not this early in the day. But he did have to give consideration as to the nature of his tie.
Yes! His tie was an important status symbol, worthy of his consideration. The neckpiece connoisseur stepped to the second (and thankfully unused) bunk in his room, to delve into his wardrobe trunk thereon. A quick snap later revealed an odd assortment of shoes and ties, cufflinks, etc., as well as a more interesting set of intimidating revolvers and the hint of something much larger and scarier just underneath. Picking through the finery and firearms, the Gentleman found the object of his search: A black silk ascot with a gold deco pattern. With practiced ease, dexterous fingers manipulated the length of imperial cloth into a loose Windsor knot and pushed the longer bit underneath his vest.
A black long coat and felt bowler cap were considered, but ultimately rejected as duties should not take him out of doors that morning. Pockets and holders inside of his attire quickly filled with various sharp implements and unguents, personal items and tools of his more pedestrian trade. A dab of cologne, a touch of pomade, and a few seconds of maintenance on his profoundly luxurious handlebar moustache later, and he was ready to greet the day.
"You are one Dapper Gentleman, Foy Coiffeur." he praised to his mirror.
"Time to go to work, old boy." Having been resupplied late the previous day, Mr. Coiffeur stepped lightly and smartly out of his quarters and down the hall to a comparatively larger room across from the medical recovery room. Outfitted to serve as a proper workspace for a Gentleman Barber, it was as much lounge as anything else. A selection of pastries and pot of fresh coffee waited there for him, beckoning to be sampled as a light breakfast. Foy selected a croissant and cup of the bracing black liquid, then punched up Alliance news on a nearby terminal. It was a short matter of time before members of the crew without formal obligation filtered in; the room that he affectionately referred to as "The Foy-er" had become a popular gathering point. Perhaps it was because it was the least military-looking room on the vessel. Or just maybe, it was because Foy had an inexhaustible supply of Wrapped Candies on premises.
The first of them appeared just in time to see Foy stropping an almost comically oversized straightrazor. The man considered turning back around and leaving; Foy had paused in his efforts to hone and polish his blade to stare at it, transfixed as if by memory. The light glinting from the tool seemed to hold him in some trance of memory, a slight but sadistic smile curling just beneath his gloriously oiled handlebar moustache. Noting the man entering the Foy-er, he closed his razor and tucked it into his belt.
"You are a touch early, sir. I shall be with you momentarily, do help yourself to something sweet while you wait." Three or four minutes of setting up classical and contemporary items of business later, Foy returned with his giant razor, asking,
"Would sir care for a trim, or just a shave for the time being?"...
Word got back to the Foyer that the ship was to be made ready to depart as soon as possible. It would take a little while to recall all parties attached to the vessel, so he figured he could finish doing what he was doing. After the boat made it to the Black, artificial gravity would make the interior as stable as if it were sitting on flat earth, and he could resume his overt work. Their pilot, whenever he or she reported in, would make a pre-flight announcement and give the final warning to strap in before the antigrav boosters hurled them skyward.
Until then, The Esteemed Foy Coiffeur continued to see clients and keep the conversations going, intent on finding out the details of the day without actually leaving his barbershop.
William Harper
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Location: Retribution, Bridge & Quarters
The Captain of this vessel seemed anxious to depart. In truth, so was William, though he was reasonably certain that his reasons differed from the ranking officer's. No matter. He could have his gear stowed in three minutes and have them off the ground in five, if need be. That part was simple. What was not so simple was the woman next to the Captain, in a simple black suit and blue gloves.
He knew what that meant. Generally speaking, it signified that one's proverbial goose had reached a proper internal temperature, with crispy skin and clear running juices.
Unless they were part of your crew. As no one was dead yet, so far as he could tell, that must be it. William kept his face neutral, except to state a simple,
"Yes, sir.". Mentally preparing for takeoff, his mind was already numbering the steps necessary for a vessel this size.
When the message came in informing the Bridge that their departure had been delayed, the pilot wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or nervous.
"I'll see to my belongings and return straightaway to plot astrogation, sir." He nodded to the Agent lady before turning, stating a flat and simple,
"Ma'am." as she departed. William stepped off of the Bridge, immediately met by a steward, hauling his few worldly possessions with him. The new Pilot followed close behind as he was led down the hall to his new living space for the next undisclosed length of time.
It was set up for two people, but from the look of it, the room was unused. That was a comfort, at least; he had some privacy. The moment the steward saluted and left, William brought the door to a close and breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't unpack, so much as secured his luggage and brought out one or two items of interest. First up was his Cortex Terminal. It was a secured device, unmarked and without signature identifying its presence anywhere on the Cortex. It was quite true that you can't stop The Signal, but in many instances you can hide where it's coming from. There were no obvious red flags about his situation in the usual places, and that Agent hadn't taken him in immediately. It seemed that he was free to embrace his new existence and move on with life, until a viable opportunity presented itself.
William was a pilot. Times past, he was an officer, as well. This is what he did, with proficiency enough to make many envious. Two more years, or another opportunity to "die", and he could live and let live for the rest of his days. But first, a quick splash of water to his face, and back to the Bridge. The Lieutenant had astrogation toward Whitefall to program.
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