Sigil

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Building 1 (Lobby) -> Building 1 (Cells)

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It just kept speaking. Constantly, unerringly opening and closing its mouth while sounds came pouring out, whether or not anyone had desire to listen. This was Eden's great plan, was it? Kill a few, then plant some observant blowhard to jump bodily upon already raw nerves? Well, the fact that it knew things about him that could not have been gleaned without sustained reconnaissance was bothersome. Ash would certainly have to get to the bottom of it, but he would greatly prefer to make it more on his terms. Any concession on his part that wasn't earned solidly would put him in a weaker position for future discussion. This entire situation had to be reworked.

Entering the building, word came filtering back through his walkie that Newnan's spotters caught nothing amiss. Everything looked clear from their vantage points, Newnan Leads checked in with relative still. Ash looked around the Courthouse Lobby, noting the children, Kristina, Niesha... and responded.

"Copy that. Hold position for now. Will get back with you in a moment."

The procession of Ash, Ryan, and Bridgette continued down and back, to the cell that the newcomer Edenite had recently escaped. The door was open, and a very ashamed looking man sat nearby on a bench. Ash addressed him in even, but solidly angered tones, trying to keep his disappointment and rage from filling the room. "Keys." Ash held out his hands, accepting them, "We will discuss the details later. For now, grab a volunteer and recover Lily's corpse. Be extremely careful, it could be a trap. Afterwards, you will report to Livestock. Guy has a shovel for you."

The man nodded, gave a quick salute, and hauled ass away from the Cells. Ash kept his gun on Ryan, urging him back into his Newnan home. As soon as the door closed back, the Captain locked up and readdressed his radio. "Guy, I'd like to offer you congratulations. Your term of service shoveling shit is over. Please grab a rifle and relieve our man in the Tower."

His tone changed into something almost upbeat as he continued speaking, "Mr. James, sir! Once relieved, please report back to the smoker. Newnan needs you."

Finally, he looked to Bridgette. Sighing just a little bit, he stepped up the hallway some, pulling her along. When fairly certain that they were out of earshot, he intoned in a quiet voice, "I need you to stick around here until someone comes to relieve you. It'll be about ten, fifteen minutes. Then go back to your duties. Do not approach, do not engage. If he tries anything, fill that cell with buckshot. We good?"

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Bridgette Vinters

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Location: Building 1 (Cells)

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"Yeah, yeah. We good."

This didn't exactly play to her strengths, staying quiet and not hurting people. Nor did following orders come naturally to her either. But it was more than just herself and Astrid to worry about, now. It might be rough, considering how this guy absolutely loved to talk shit, but she could play nice for a few minutes.

She hoped.

Bridgette walked back into the area of cells proper, taking a seat on the bench nearby. Staying within sight of the manipulative prisoner, she leaned her spear on the wall nearby and took up her sawed-off, marveling at the possibilities of so much exposed, smooth metal. It seemed the perfect medium to engrave designs and runes, little patterns of artistic knotwork, maybe. Even the stock had potential. As much as Ryan was correct: It would indeed have given her greater pleasure to insert something sharp into the man, rather than the impersonal "point and click interface" of a firearm, this gun had potential. It was simple, easy to use, and had lots of decorative potential.

She wondered to herself if she could make one, given a piece to open and study.

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Black James!

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Location: Building 1 (Courthouse, Tower)

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James heard the news over his walkie. Yessir, Cap'n! That's some good news, right there. I'mma give another 360 sweep with m' scope, make sure we're all good before steppin' down." His attention most assuredly stayed on task with that rifle, looking this way and that, covering the grounds of the inner and outer walls. Where he could clearly see outside of the community, he checked as well. In the back of his mind, though, he did think about that deer, still inside that smoker.

It hadn't been vented for a while, meaning that the fire could have gotten too weak, even gone out. Smouldering was best, no question, but proper air was needed to keep things ideal. It was more than likely alright, in any case. A little more smoke couldn't really harm the meat, not at this stage. While he was anxious to attend to it, the concept of a happy and free Newnan was obviously of much greater importance.

Swinging his sights back to the large Probate Court building just outside of the Outer Wall, James looked at Lily's crucified body yet again. "...these people ain't right..." he muttered to himself. In this world, he had seen worse things happen to people. But this was a different sort of thing entirely. Something had to be done about them, whether it was a treaty, driving them away, or burning their home down on top of them.

"Hey, we got people on Miss Lily, yeah?"

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The Great Bazhooli

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Location: Building 2 (Mess Hall)

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It felt good to work and talk with people again, even if it was mere manual labor. Then again, the "mere manual labor" involved getting food together for a small community of people that didn't seem to want to murder them on sight. Now, the food part of that thought was well enough, but people not murdering him? Icing on the cake. He could only think of his lonely handcar, out in front of the main gate on those tracks, testament to both the colorful, nostalgic grandeur from which he came and the bitter miles he had to travel after it was all taken from him.

He really wasn't sure what to do with it now. The cart itself could run off of tracks, granted, but it was much more difficult and certainly not pragmatic for anything else. Perhaps it would simply sit there for a while, until he could devise a way to bring it inside the walls. Otherwise, the last bit of his railway adventure (and last possession of his circus) would eventually become a locked-up home for insects and small mammals. Maybe a tarp in the meantime?

If Newnan worked out, pitfalls and all, it would be a small matter in comparison to the gain of home and people.

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Schrödinger

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Location: Building 2 (Mess Hall)

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"Meow..."₁

Translations

1 = I have secured food, and the trust of the locals. Excellent. I must explore my immediate area, forthwith!

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The walkies around Newnan crackled to life once more, with Ash's voice issuing from them. It was a simple two-word utterance, but one that brought with it a profound sense of relief:

"All clear."

A moderate pause in time, just a few seconds, brought with it further instruction. "All details, please remain armed for the time being. One from the Mess Hall, please relieve the guard posted at the holding cells. Further, we need two armed personnel to assist Bridgette at the Outer Wall. Volunteers to the Courthouse doors. Anyone without specific orders, please return to your duties. That is all."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

@FantasyChic

Living life to the fullest and out there on the edge at Day Four since your last post.

🦄 After Miranda - A Firefly Rp - Season 1 (Completed)

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Lounge (Sealed Off)

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"Well sir, merely as one man's observation, but this the details of this occasion certainly explain the redundancy associated with employing two experienced ne'er-do-wells aboard a vessel of this, ahh... diminution." Foy tried to choose that last word with something resembling lightly sarcastic tact.

This was a small vessel, as Alliance ships went. The presence of a Mercenary and an Assassin, both, on a patrol boat that had been reduced to a skeleton crew was unheard of, barring pressing, extenuating circumstances. "Even if, my good fellow, one of those ne'er-do-wells is a fount of nigh aristocratic refinery, from which the underprivileged crew may draw fine example."

Foy was, of course, referring to Foy. It was widely known among anyone who had been in a conversation with the man that he had a high opinion of himself. "Whereas I do myself no small amount of metaphorical handshakery, gentlemen," he continued, now speaking to both men, "rest assured I make a legitimate observation. This ship ordinarily would not be crewed by non-military personnel, to say nothing of the truly vorpal presences of private contractors such as Miss Lobo and myself."

It seemed a bit off topic, but the always sharp Mr. Coiffeur felt the need to press his point. Partially because he enjoyed hearing himself speak, but also because it drew a piece of nervous attention away from the Box of Medically Paralyzed Monster. "Now, (and correct me if I'm wrong, Captain Quinn, it's been a while since my own commission) if a ship is journeying about with something specifically unsavory in mind, that may warrant the presence of someone such as, again, our dear Miss Lobo. The fact that I am here as well means that there is more to be revealed about our black and frightening mission. Whereas I am ...comfortable..." The last word was enunciated with just a hint of a smile, "...with my own sense of personal value, I hold no illusions that the Alliance now views me as anything but a six-foot stack of talent and experience, contractable and expendable without public accountability."

Foy understood how this worked. Everyone has their own piece of the puzzle, those pieces fit together into a single, successful mission. Very few could see the whole picture, possibly not even Dr. Jahosafat Moreau. It was the way of things. Just so long as they understood that his contract contained his own terms and provisos. He was not an indentured servant.

"Josie, you and I go back to our salad days, old boy. I'll look after you, you look after me. Carla is a fine choice as your primary security. She'll do her job and not distract - no matter how hard you try, you rakish houndsman! I can maintain my position on the boat, and be at your beck if something, ah, special requires my attention."

"And Greg, (may I call you Greg?) I am a professional, sir, and my contract is my very mucilage. So long as terms are met, your office shall always have the mark of respected guideline."

"So, gentlemen... This is not the ideal situation for everyone, but here we are. However we kick off the gallant festivities, I recommend we commence, and posthaste."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

I remember my first 'ship here in TWD. Lasted all of three posts. She stole his ride and then got ripped to shreds by dead people. He was devastated. Afterwards, there was another 'ship that was discussed, a couple of meaningful IC discussions. Maybe after he deals emotionally with the death, they make it official. Then she gets shot, an hour of IC time later.

Then more people died. Lots more. If anyone got close to him, either emotionally or just proximity, they got shot or gnawed on by zombies. Eventually, it was merely called The Curse and is driving him slowly insane.

The good news is, he's single! And in charge. Has a nice car, too.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

@Morose

Hi.

Yeah, totally screwed the pooch on that last part. Best as I can figure, I hit the "latest post" button and completely skipped over yours, somehow. I have altered my post to reflect the fact that Caesar is significantly more observant than myself. For your convenience, the return message (minus flowery descriptive setup) is below:

Understood. Be thorough, read me in later. Might stop by. Changes going on here.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Queensguard R&D Industrial Complex: Conference Room --> Security employee lounge

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Caesar accepted the card with the barest of nods and took her hand briefly. This woman seemed to shoot straight without overtly revealing much that could not already be determined. He supposed it was a positive enough first meeting. At least his company retained the R&D facility contract, and with it access to the complex and equipment therein. Moreover, hanging onto the contract, or any decent contract nearby, gave them legal cause to carry and use otherwise restricted hardware, not to mention engage in investigations related to their contractor and personnel. Even if these people were directly responsible for the deaths of Alicia and Lorna, he would not give up that access. Hell, especially.

The thought of his girls struck him - the very recent memory of having to identify their bodies, having to experience the solid fact of their deaths. It began to overwhelm him. Fearing a noticeable break in his exterior demeanor were he to attempt speech, Caesar looked at the card once again, nodded a vague affirmation of what Mrs. Queensguard promised to set up, and turned to leave the room. She had appointments to keep, and he had his own things to do. Not the least of which was to arrange for the interment of his daughter.

Someone would have to take over this location in full while Caesar did what he did best: Finding fuckers and making them pay. But now that the issue of trust, on all levels, came into question, restaffing became necessary. His man, Keystone - he believed he could place his trust in him. After all, it was MSS that sought him out, not the other way around. But he wasn't much more qualified to run the entire location permanently than Caesar was to handle their Tech division. The large man had made a few good suggestions. Caesar was going to use them. Additionally, there was one person who, with assistance, he trusted to run this facility. But the conversation to recruit this person would be life-threatening.

The elder Mexican made his way from the conference rooms to the Security areas, less inviting places that were not quite as opulently furnished, and into the nearest employee lounge. He snapped a quick picture of Mrs. Queensguard's business card, front and back, then examined it closely. Regarding the small rectangle of rich pressed paper, he popped open the door to the microwave oven nearby and tossed it inside. He punched up fifteen seconds and watched as it slowly rotated.

As it cooked, he addressed his associate, Keystone. "You had some good ideas. I'm going to make those happen. You get in touch with your guys in London, your old Director knows what you're doing here now. I'm calling our offices in Seattle, get our tech team down here. At least the ones that Alicia hired last year. Let's get our own Agents in this place, keep a lid on what's going on here."

The momentum of the last few minutes altered as Caesar's phone buzzed quietly. An incoming text message (apparently actually from Cecily this time) drew his attention away from both serious personnel overhaul discussion and nuking the newly acquired business card. His eyes scanned over it, even as a look of bitterness crossed his face. Short seconds had a reply sent before his attention returned to the here and now:

Understood. Be thorough, read me in later. Might stop by. Changes going on here.

Caesar changed his tone a bit, as he continued with Keystone, "I'm going to have to leave town for a few days, okay? I might be sending someone back, that's going to take over as Director here. Now, this is important: Do you remember the meal you prepared for us in my apartment? Good, don't say it out loud. That's how you'll know to trust this person."

Leaving the broad man wondering what the hell he was talking about, Caesar punched up the contacts on his satellite phone and began the first in a series of discussions that would shape the next week or so of his life, and his company for the foreseeable future. He rather wished he had a drink.

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard R&D Industrial Complex: Conference Room --> Security employee lounge

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Keystone summoned what manners he possessed, shaking Mrs. Queensguard's hand and intoning a quick "Thankya for your time, ma'am. We appreciate the personal touch you're takin' with this, really. Y'company's in good 'ands." He collected the paperwork and followed his boss/mentor out of the conference room. Yeah, he was really the smooth and savvy negotiator, rubbing elbows and blending in with the rich and powerful. Or not. Mostly not. He tried to shake off the somewhat awkward manner of his deprture, hoping that the woman would understand the newness of his position and not confuse it with a lack of competence.

The large man continued to follow Caesar through the complex until reaching their destination. He had expected to stop in one of their offices, and was surprised to see that the old man had chosen the lounge as their destination for serious, possibly game-changing discourse. It seemed a little odd at first, as they really never spent any time in here. Then he began microwaving the business card, and it started to make sense.

"Yeah, Boss. Heard clear n' loud, it is. I might be givin' it a wait 'till I'm someplace quiet to ring up neeps on a couple other matters, but I can press that personnel request to London right bloody now. You do what you've gotta. I'll 'old it down on this end, 'specially when we get our people flipped around."

He too punched up a number on his phone, intent on getting a couple of his people on board asap. Of course, where we was calling, the day was ending rather then beginning. Certainly, they wouldn't hold it against him. And if they did, they could wrap their anus around a doorknob. Keystone was an Acting Director now. So there.

🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S.

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Egyptian Museum

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The Lord Major noticed the curator's sudden appearance and understandable disappearance without so much as a "how do you do", offering a quick, informal gesture resembling a salute. In the midst of the chaos of the moment, books spilling about, Vera landing on William in a manner most unprofessional, the Lady Munn being, well, herself... Reginald could very well see why a man would cut his losses and disappear into the shadows of the museum. He had considered it once or twice herself, given the oft troublesome nature of her little accidents.

Then again, what manner of gentleman would retreat when there was obvious distress involving the aristocracy's fairer gender? The Lord Major rationalized the curator's decision, owing to his presence. There was already a gentleman of stature nearby, closer in fact, that could assist in the endeavor of righting the situation. It might have even been a breach of etiquette, given the situation, to attempt to overtake the clear duty of the gentleman present. The idea rang optimistically in Reginald's head. He knew the curator personally, a man of education named Senbu Khons. If not aristocracy (he was never really clear on his status in that regard), Mr. Khons was a gentleman, thusly would be operating under the higher guidelines of Manners. The subtleties of these guidelines changed from country to country, even region to region, but one could always recognize the presence of another gentleman.

Even if he was muttering supplications to God and running away.

"Well then, Lady Munn, good to see that you're all in one piece!" piped in the Lord Major, a jovial note to his voice. He set hands upon Vera's shoulders to steady her, just in case she felt a bit light-headed and inclined to take another tumble. "And with the good Mr. Drake none the worse for wear either, I see! Yes, quite befuddling incident to be sure, but no harm done. How about I help you tidy up a bit, and you tell me more about this Bastet? I'm quite curious now, you see."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Parking Lot between Building 6 (Armory) and Building E (Apartments)

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It was simple, squeezing a trigger. Less effort than raising a fork to one's mouth, and in this instance infinitely more satisfying. A loud report from the firearm, startling to any not accustomed to such a noise, sounded across the Inner Wall of Newnan. Echoed, just a little bit. Then it was over. A small moment of time, minimal effort, and the voices urging Ash to act quieted, leaving behind a sense of satisfied accomplishment. The man himself began to realize that this warm feeling of contentment was not a thing foreign to himself, but how he truly felt in that second of noise and muzzle flash. Useful be damned.

The bullet itself had already passed in and out of the smug prick's head before his nervous system allowed him the luxury of reacting to it, spraying blood, bone, and softer tissues in a sickening cone shape behind him. A single, noticeable chunk of skull remained partially attached by a flap of scalp, creating an odd hinge effect that, for some reason, Ash found slightly amusing. The wound looked small at the point of entry; somewhere around the size of a manicured fingernail. The exit wound, though, was more the size of a coffee cup. It was amazing the damage that could be caused sometimes when a bullet struck flat bone.

Now his corpse could be used as a message to those terrorists in Eden. The time to fuck with Newnan was over.

Ash smiled, ever so slightly. The mere thought of killing this man brought great satisfaction to him. He could see, in his mind's eye, all of the glorious carnage that a simple second of action would bring. The love of killing was not motivation enough to warrant such behavior, no, but the fact that his uncertainty about the man would be laid to rest was. His people would be safe. They wouldn't be in any more danger than they already were because of it, and the wolf in sheep's clothing would no longer be a concern. No torture, no sating an appetite for revenge. Just the simple an undramatic death of a dangerous man. Ash's position would be cemented for the newcomers. Eden would understand that "nice" was done with.

For good or ill, that wasn't the kind of place this was. Nor was that the kind of person Ash was. This man was correct: Ash did still have compassion. It was a fault as much as a virtue, anymore. These times had a way of changing people, though - Compassion takes many forms. A subtle shift from the virtue on an interpersonal level to showing compassion to an entire community of survivors wasn't that big of a stretch, and indeed was taking place within the gruff Captain. The shift was not complete; he indeed did wish to show mercy. At least part of him did.

Ash did not wish to appear shocked nor impressed at what the man had just told him. Knowing full well that his face would betray just that, on some small level, were he to remain quiet and staring, he instead opted for sarcasm. Paraphrasing one of his favorite movies, he began "Darnit, Mr. O'Reily, you use your tongue prettier than a twenty dollar whore." His gun did not move from the man.

He shifted the direction of his speech over to Bridgette, who looked almost gleeful to be in on the action. "Let's make sure he gets back to his cell. If he deviates from a direct path, kill him in any manner brings you the most happiness."

Ash lifted the radio once more, keeping his words short and pointed. "Check under the pillow. Clear the cell." The again-stoic Captain stepped to one side and motioned with his hand for Ryan to begin walking.

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Bridgette Vinters

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Location: Gravesite, within Outer Wall -> Parking Lot between Building 6 (Armory) and Building E (Apartments)

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"Wow." Bridgette thought to herself, "Walldick's really bringing the intensity today."

She couldn't know what was going through Ash's head, but the Twenty Dollar Whore comment made her hold back a chuckle. Ok, she liked this guy. He was like the more straightlaced older brother that she never had. Plus, he made booze. Ash was alright. But this other guy? Well, she didn't know. He was kept alive for some reason, and while she really wanted to know why, now was not the best time to bring it up. Maybe after everything calmed down. Or just before. Or as soon as he was in a cell and out of earshot. But soon! Yes, soon.

But for now, she did say that she would act as a Security Detail for Ash, so that's what she was doing. It felt a little off, her preparing for a fight without her shield on her arm, but the situation called for more of a "boomstick" kind of option. She could still get at her preferred armament, but for now a spear and shotgun seemed the most effective combination, considering.

"Yeah, I got a mouth on me. Got a gun on you. Start walking, Fuckstick."

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The Great Bazhooli

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Location: Building 2 (Mess Hall)

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"Vas talking about whole town, not just kitchen." said The Great Bazhooli, a polite look on his face as he addressed Sally, "But vould be happy to help you now." He moved as the older Newnanite directed, filling and placing serving dishes. He was no food service worker, but he wasn't lazy nor stupid. Food goes in this, this goes over there. Repeat as necessary. As a side note, don't go for anything sharp or dangerous that would put the men with guns at unease. They didn't seem like the randomly violent type, but Bazhooli was the new guy in town.

From the show he had put on outside the gates, they might expect that a man like himself could turn a properly stocked kitchen into a place of sharp, flying death. Indeed he could, but that would be horribly counterproductive to being accepted into this place. With the gunshots and worry, he suspected that it wouldn't take much for things here to go south for him. So, he kept his hands busy and in plain view, avoiding getting near anything that could be used as an obvious impromptu weapon.

When Sally mentioned putting on a show for Newnan, a very accepting smile crossed his face. The little ballerina jumped at the idea, to the point of immediately dragging him into it. Not that he minded. He had a few good routines on standby, usually the kind of thing one would see from a street performer. Tatiana very likely had never worked as a Knife Thrower's Assistant, and there was no time to get the tiny nuances of said performance drilled into her by then. But they could at least do something.

"Da, da. I like very much this plan. But... vould need things back. Maybe is for later? Ah, ve figure something out."

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

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Keystone

Location: Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Evening of Day Three

Interacting With: The Group

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The campsite was soon awash with the sights and smells of a proper meal tooled together by expert hands, the light clinking and scraping sounds of utensils on cooking wares accompanying an occasional nod or grunt of affirmation from Keystone. Those few who chipped in (that he didn't object to) were invited to stick around the fire to give the occasional stir or scrap of conversation. The large man's armored leather coat was folded and set atop the section of log he was using as a seat. In its place on Keystone's torso hung a tool-bearing apron of canvas and leather.

To better facilitate speed and ease of cooking, Keystone had pushed the sleeves of his long, woolen shirt over his elbows and removed the pair of fingerless gloves that seemed ever-present. A set of richly engraved bracers gleamed dully in the firelight, now fully visible for the first time to the company assembled. Dwarfcraft, for anyone with an eye for it, but obviously sized to fit a Human. While the unburdening of his limbs helped in his endeavors, it had the effect of revealing a roadmap of old, extensive scarring. In places, it was quite disturbing. He didn't seem to mind, though, as his dedicated work to the task before him saw those time-again damaged and healed hands flowing between wooden spoons, a flat spatula, and his favored knife. In short order, a meal came together.

He was not in high spirits. Not particularly. He conversed, made tiny cooking requests of those who chose to stick around the fire with him, and answered any mundane questions put to him simply and directly. It seemed as if he were waiting on something, and not just the food to be ready. Sure enough, the inevitable did occur, and their supper was ready. Stewed Rabbit with edible greens and caramelized onion, pan roasted Pheasant (or whatever the hell bird they were, they were at least prepared as Pheasant) with root vegetables, and a short pan of a strange, white grain that many of occidental origin would have been sadly unaware. It was cooked simply and appeared very fluffy and starchy. Keystone insisted upon it to round out their meal, placing a portion of it into every bowl as he passed them around for his group.

Addressing Sana's suggestion to dry meat for the next day, Keystone responded, "Weather's against us on that, Miss Sana. 'Sides, it'd take more hours'n we got. I'm Low n' Slow-in' the foxes a while, maybe good by morning, if that helps. It's gettin' cold out o' doors, so we should be tops for the meats to hold through at least tomorrow. Throw more heat under 'em before we set to gnawin' on it, anyhow."

Keystone made sure all parties appropriate got a decent portion of food before acting on his own impulses to gorge himself. Even before that, he recovered his coat and gloves. The weather was getting cold, and he suspected it may be a long night. He got a plate together for himself and set it to the side. There were a few items of cleanup he wished to attend to, not the least of which being his large covered cast-iron pan. With the largest amount of the sanitation done, he finally got around to his own supper. Turns out, he was hungry.

Between mouthfuls of neeps and birdie of which he was in mid-attack, he managed to eventually vocalize, "So, Chiefy's got some terms..." He did not expect this to be well received, even as he explained the situation. It was hoped that a full stomach would soften the impact.

🦄 After Miranda - A Firefly Rp - Season 1 (Completed)

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William Harper

_{"...wrapped candies...?"}

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Location: Foy-er

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It could not be understated, the benefit of sitting down someplace quiet and slowly sipping on a hot cup of coffee. Again, Harper lamented his present lack of something with more "octane", but not with any gusto - years of doing without had filled him with a sense of patience, especially for lack of luxuries. A glimmer of a moment had Harper, in his sudden realization that his Perfect Plan had hit a hitch, mentally scanning for creature comforts. It was a holdover from a previous life; likely one he would never fully shake. Everyone had little vices, benign or otherwise.

A cup of something warm and a moment's pause wasn't so bad, all things considered. Just a little ritual to center himself in this place that didn't belong on a patrol ship; practically an anachronism except for a few very modern conveniences. Given precious seconds to adjust to the surroundings, Harper found it fairly comfortable.

This worry helped no one. No, he was the Flight Officer of the I.A.V. Retribution, the latest of the Alliance's nigh mythical Black Ships. Harper was going to do precisely what he said he was going to do and familiarize himself with the boat. Afterwards, he intended to make himself available for Piloting and Navigation duties, as fit his job description. Keeping his sense of military obligation in mind, Harper rose.

He carefully rinsed his now empty cup in a small hand sink, dried it gingerly, and replaced it with the others. His head tiled deliberately to either side until a muted popping sound issued from his neck, providing what appeared to be a fraction of discomfort followed by lasting relief. Straightening his coat, Harper walked to the door with a destination in mind - His second home away from home: Engineering.