Sigil

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Agriculture: Storage (West Side between Inner and Outer Wall)

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That voice. That voice was killing him inside. He had once trusted Alicia with his life. While she wasn't military in the strictest sense, the woman was trained by some of the most dangerous people he had ever personally heard of. He would have chosen her for a BlackOp over many seasoned combat veterans. If she had a weakness, it was that she was impulsive. Well, that and dead. So dead, in fact, that the voice in his head was either a haunting or a hallucination. While Cap'n Ash most certainly believed in corpses getting up and shambling about with an insatiable hunger for the living, it would take a little more convincing before he fully believed in ghosts.

So again, he was visited by the realization that this nagging, underlying distrust of the situation came from somewhere inside of him. This woman, Thana, did indeed hold a bit of sway with his emotions, what few he allowed to rise to the surface. There was a tense moment when that Texan professed his love to her, and it did feel like a chilled smack to his nethers. Thinking about it logically, unless that scene was planned purely for the sake of drama, it made zero sense. Such an act established a preexisting relationship between Gavin and Thana, and served to sow distance and possible mistrust between herself and Ash. No, unless this was a well orchestrated series of point and counterpoint, he doubted that this was a setup.

Plus, so much as the thought of harm coming to James galled him, he was exiled. There was nothing he could do, or should do for him, by his own decree. And he knew the direction they were traveling. If a horrible plot was afoot to kill James and take his collection of fine overalls, he would likely want to wait until they got access to the cache of supplies a mile or two to the south. Then Tex would have to deal with three very angsty and armed survivors. They really were survivors, too. Each one in their own way, with their own methods; one still spattered with flecks of blood from the man he'd just murdered.

Thana wanted to take a trip outside of the walls? No problem. Hell, it might actually do him some good, anyway. A little quiet time with his lady, a sort of a post-apocalyptic date.

It is not a logical assumption that this is a trap, Captain. Even if so, your death will not signal the end of Newnan. You control the location, you control the details. Bring insurance from outside threats.

Naturally, the voice of one of his greatest confidants and closest companions was spewing doubt, while the emotionless, narcissistic expression of self was a welcome experience. Life was really strange sometimes. And maybe, just maybe, Thana had a good point. Ash sighed, giving her a quiet smile. She was quite an affectionate woman in private, a vast contrast to the icy exterior she showed around others. His lips were still warm with her kiss as he slowly responded, "You know, there was a place I had been meaning to scout. Determine feasibility for sending in a supply team. It's about six miles out and I've been looking for an excuse to drive my 'Buster farther than the outer wall."

He nodded in the general direction of his house (well, their house, unless she chose other accommodation), "Yeah. Lets gear up. You need a gun?" Ash moved toward the door and held it open for Thana to exit unhindered.

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Location: The Meet - IN A TANK

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Thalia had to admit, for his faults, Alexander was making a solid attempt to diffuse a tense situation with humor and otherwise stay out of the way. She might have given this credit aloud if she didn't find the whole attempt annoying as hell, but it was something. Silence remained the more sincere compliment she was willing to give at the moment, despite the fact that the guy had basically volunteered to come along on what might turn into a firefight.

Even Lola, for her faults, had proven to be a selfless friend despite her suggestive conversation and general tit-busting. She required no prompting to make this meet, not even a request was necessary. That was the thing that needed to be done to make Thalia's life easier, and she just jumped to it. Lola had earned her loyalty, period. Thalia even imagined that she would act the same way without the benefits that her tank provided her, though those were hefty benefits.

As they pulled up to the scene in question, Thalia examined their surroundings through the turret's optics. The place was mostly open ground, but there were dense trees nearby that could conceal additional manpower or hide a determined rifleman, ditto the abandoned Water Treatment Plant that loomed back from the side of the road. The roads looked clear, too, except for the large, black truck dominating the center of one of the joining roads across from them. She didn't like it too much. Lots of potential for someone with time to set the scene. The tank was formidable, enough so to scare off a number of human threats and enough to protect from all but the most massive of firepower. Just as soon as they left it, all bets were off. Truth be told, she'd rather be among them than across a distance. She was so much better up close, and proximity to the opposition (if indeed they proved themselves to be opposition) limited the effectiveness of ranged attack. She just needed to close the distance with something sharp. Calmly. Strategically. Carefully. Then Lola happened.

"Alright guys, sit tight, I've got thi... the fuck, Lola?" Thalia's briefing was waylaid by the overly impulsive Kiwi's simultaneous eruption from the safety of the driver's seat. Knowing Lola, she should have prepared for this. Anything less was stupidity on her part. Unless Thalia was busy knocking on the back of her friend's helmet while she was tied to her seat, coupled with Thalia screaming her intentions in a blaring Cockney accent through a megaphone directly into her ear, the unapologetic Sergeant L. R. Holler was going to do her thing, concerns for her safety be damned. Even then, it would have been some form of good-natured dismissal, only delaying her by a second or two. Like her tank, she was just going to keep moving forward.

It was too far of a walk. They were exposed to fire for an unsurvivable amount of time, having to walk all that way to meet these people. "Damnit, girl..." she growled, grabbing her satphone and shoving open the turret hatch. It was just like her to take point and try to catch the first bullet of the season. No, no. Without her, they were caught in that big, steel can for an indeterminate time until they starved to death or someone saw fit to stack logs around them and roast them alive. If they proved hostile, anyway. Sure, Thalia had seen the basic controls that Lola used to get the thing rolling, but the odds were clearly in favor of her driving the machine into a ditch. Or a lake. Or off a cliff.

Thalia climbed out of the tank and left the hatch open, in case she needed a fast re-entry. For the sake of speed and appearance, she left her primitive spear behind. If a melee was really warranted, the handle of her machete was visible from beneath the back of her jacket. Rather than admonish Lola for dangerously impulsive behavior (like she really wanted to), Thalia instead shot her a concerned, "What the Hell" look. Solidarity within the group must be maintained with initial contact of new people. To do otherwise implied weakness that might be exploited. She held one hand open and to her side, the other with her phone held out and in plain view.

After a scan of their surroundings to make sure there were no Zeds in the immediate area, Thalia began walking toward the truck, arms still outstretched.

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Black James(!)

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Location: The Meet (Three-way intersection near the Hershall Norred Water Plant)

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The Apocalypse had led James to see many things he figured a sane person would never actually speak about out loud. Yet somehow, the low rumbling and machinery sounds of an approaching TANK was one of the more memorable things he figured he would experience in this day and age, ranking right up there with the first time he saw Ash's Hordebuster perform its namesake action, mowing through a sea of walking corpses. (That was art.)

Then he could see it, cresting the line of trees around the last curve of road before the intersection. It was a goddamned tank. No two ways about it. It was pretty unmistakable. Ryan's interjection and simultaneous JAWS reference did not go unnoticed. If things turned ugly, they would indeed need a bigger gun. James looked down to his Barrett M107. It was a formidable piece of hardware, but he stood highly unsure that even that miracle of military hardware would be enough. James returned his eyes to the massive piece of armor ambling up the road toward them, mouth agape. "Ain't meanin' to play up a stereotype, Irish, but Good Googly Moogly." Then the tank's main cannon waved at them, as if in greeting. "Yeah, we gonna need a bigger gun." The sudden whack-a-mole style pop up and subsequent greeting of its driver didn't help settle his nerves much, either.

Then a dark-haired young lady seemed to fling herself from the tank and take point, arms to her sides. If his vision wasn't dimming with his approaching middle years, James could have sword that she was holding a piece of personal electronics. Probably the satellite phone that she had called from earlier. It would serve as proof that these were the people they had come to meet. James slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up his own satellite phone. Looking back to his companions, he said flatly, "Might as well get this done. I'll be just over there.' he motioned to the middle of the intersection a few meters away. The fact that they decided to park the tank a football field away from the meeting place was their concern, not his. And James wasn't about to do something stupid like ruin Gavin's line of sight. "Y'all wanna stay with the truck, fine. I'll be in hearin' distance. Tex got us covered." He could not account for the presence of the tank and who might still be inside, finger on the trigger of the cannon that might rain fire upon them at any moment. Perhaps that was the reason they stayed so far back.

While James would have been more comfortable with their vehicle being closer to the intersection, he could only assume that they would likewise have their own reservations about the upcoming Meet & Greet. Nonetheless, James stepped forward, directly into the center of the blacktop where the three roads converged, waiting for them to complete their approach.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks

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Qasr El Nil Barracks

Reginald took over the role of servant, of a sort, in his own office. He had waved away the tea steward earlier in hopes of avoiding another incident like the one that had embarrassed himself, and then his "favorite" Corporal. He didn't know much of anything about this George Benaszewski aside from the fact that he was a friend of his nephew's from the Great War, but it was enough. Even if he were some manner of crazed, opium addicted menace to society, he would receive proper decorum on his base until his actions dictated otherwise. "Lemon, yes quite..." he mused, counting out several very thin, semicircular slices of the tangy citrus fruit with a small pair of metal tongs, placing them on the saucer in front of him except for one. Proper service suggested that it should be hung from the edge of his teacup with the remainder set beside; if he wanted a touch more (or a lot more) it was calmly at his disposal, for use in several cups of tea or lumped into one if he so desired.

Then again, the man was American. Such civilized customs might elude him for that detail alone. But no! He was a gracious host. The Lord Major would educate his guest with minimal prompting, as it suited their preference.

Again, Reginald's mind went back to the visitor he had yet to receive, and the phone call that had yet to ring. Maybe he was giving too little time for such logistics to be made available. No, it was better to wait for a while. He had guests anyway, and though his office wasn't the greatest place to entertain, it would suffice for the meantime. At the very least, it would suffice well enough for tea service for three people before he had to get back to the business of quartermastering an expedition to the unknown.

"Well, let us not dwell upon things of depressing note, gentlemen. We were all part of the Great War; experienced it firsthand, the grime and glory of it, both. Let us speak of things more uplifting, if old soldiers like ourselves are able. What say you? Here, here we are... Peter, Mr. Benaszewski, have you the opportunity to sample much of the local cuisine? You Americans are fond of your coffees, but have you imbibed a thick, potent cup of Cairo black? It is quite the experience, you see."

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Российский императорский цирк

(Russian Imperial Circus)

Sister Mary Ignatia Hale & The Great Bazhooli

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Adam's actions seemed remarkably strange. It was not a usual thing for a child - an otherwise uneducated and forsaken child from the lowest social strata who had only known the uncertainty of London's streets was acting in the manner of a person with knowledges beyond their experience. It was near mesmerizing to view the child climbing onto the bed with Elizaveta and her tiger, completely unafraid for his own safety. Mary had never seen someone pray in quite that manner before. Perhaps it was because he was very new to the concept, but for all she knew, Adam was receiving some manner of outside guidance.

That thought stopped the young Apostolic in her tracks. She had healed Adam after a Ryne had attacked him. Preventing Soulless infection was a tricky proposition at best; she was not always successful. It was why she insisted upon having her crucifix and one of her short swords, both consecrated items, when she attempted such a feat. Had the child come close enough to true death? Or did Adam's brush with divinity allow him to return with greater insight that he did not quite understand, himself? Her journey over the past couple of days had led her along a path to this boy, the Grand Duchess, and this temporary village out in Regent's Park. It was Providence speaking, the Hand of God urging her along to the cadence of His will. She was supposed to meet these people, quite possibly for the purpose of introducing them to one another. That thought was a little bittersweet. Mary would have greatly appreciated the opportunity to train him as a Page, perhaps submit him to the Vatican for Training one day if it was his wish.

Meanwhile, the next few minutes had Vladimir busying himself with the water bottles he had procured. They were steaming lightly but not quite simmering. Perfect. The normally dramatic Russian stoppered the bottles, wrapped them tightly with chamber linen, and (carefully) placed them in the bed, underneath the upper blankets, near Elizaveta and Myshka. In a rare point of quiet, Vlad placed two more bottles atop the tent stove and spoke with lowered voice, "You know vhat to do. Not too hot, da? Don't want to burn."

The tent opening fluttered, revealing two women of venerable age carrying cloth-wrapped bundles. A lingering inquisitive glance was shot in the direction of Vladimir. As the current Great Bazhooli, he was the person of authority in this place, second only to The Baron Alexandrov himself. They said nothing, merely looking to the experienced Impalement Artist with a hopeful, expectant expression. Vlad stared at them for a second or two, looked over to Elizaveta in her bed, and tugged on Mary's robe. "Old Mothers, they vill help Veta now. I have tried my Krasnoye, you have done your... eh, vhatever Vatican teaches you for healing. She lives for now. Let us give Mothers room to vork, eh? Old vays, things of and not of Training. Ve go. I show you Circus."

Mary nodded, eyes still fixed on Adam and his dangerously close proximity to Myshka, the great, white tiger. Vladimir seemed to understand her concern, saying, "Little boy is safe as any in tent. Myshka vanted to eat, boy vould be eaten. Come now, for please, da?"

"Adam?" intoned Mary in a matronly voice, one beyond her seemingly tender years, "Please stay here. Find me the moment anything changes." With that, she nodded a quick affirmation to Vladimir, recovered her halberd, and followed him out of the tent. The two older women scurried in after they had vacated, busying themselves with setting up folding tables and various items of the herbalist's and healer's trades. Hopefully there wouldn't be too much of a language barrier among the women and the boy as the young one seemed somewhat attached to the Grand Duchess, likely unwilling to move without considerable explanation or restraint otherwise.

The pair of them, Vlad and Mary, had barely taken a few steps away from Elizaveta's tent when a familiar face appeared jogging toward them. A more slender, youthful version of The Great Bazhooli, possessing the odd feature or two that was obviously from his mother, as they were not reflected in Vladimir himself. Out of respect for their guest, he spoke in English.

"Ve have recovered your knives, Father." he said, handing over two largish, one handed blades. Vladimir accepted them, smiling broadly. "Спасибо₁, Коnstantin!" he half roared, snatching the knives from his son and pulling him into a great bear hug. "You are good son, Konstantin! Best kind of son! Finding for things his papa forgets! Ha HA!" It was true, The Great Bazhooli had quite forgotten about the two blades he had lost during the altercation with that mysterious, flying foe. When he finally let go of his son, the younger man looked to Mary with color in his cheeks and an awkward look on his face. It seemed no matter the culture, parents were going to embarrass their children in public.

"Vhat? You cannot hug papa in front of pretty red-hair girl? Come come, is ok. Is married to God anyway. Too good for peoples like us. This is Страшная католическая девушка₂ I vas telling you about! You already meet her, da?"

Still somewhat red-faced, Konstantin replied, "Da, papa. Is good to seeing you, Sister-Knight Mary. You are not so scary as Father says."

Mary smiled politely and gave a light curtsy to the young man, probably a couple of years younger than herself. Her polite smile turned to Vladimir, who had obviously just been caught speaking in an ungraceful manner about the Vatican's knightly representation here in London. "It is a pleasure to speak with you formally, Young Master Konstantin. Do not worry yourself on account of breach of etiquette, sir; if I took vorpal offense to persons discussing my reputation in this part of the world, the bodies would be stacked like cord wood."

"You see!" exclaimed Vladimir, waving his hands in the direction of the young Apostolic and seeming exceedingly pleased with himself. Mary's polite smile remained untouched, the very vision of serenity poised for battle.

Vladimir's own smile was broad and genuine, beaming as he tucked the two knives his son had recovered into his boots. He never could have too many in a pinch, especially considering his occupation. When his son continued to address the other reason he was present, he straightened up and took on a more serious aspect.

"Grandfather, um, The Baron desires presence of yourself and Sister Hale in his tent immediately. He knows everything that has happened, and wants to talk. Sent Old Mothers to help heal Elizaveta."

In the Russian Grand Circus, when The Baron summons you, you come. The urgency with which Vladimir's persona changed told Mary everything she needed to know about the situation and how imperative it was. To this end, she slipped back to her great grey warhorse, Cassius, and relieved him of some of his burden. Specifically, a couple of those strawberry pies which St. Etheldreda's was so known for. One never arrives formally without a token gift. Konstantin was bid to return to Elizaveta's tent and act as translator if necessary, and given the same protocol as Adam: Seek them out if something changes, good or ill.

The next couple of minutes saw the unlikely pair gaining entrance to the largest tent in the Sem'ya, alternating with dark and sanguine colors and partially attached to a great, lumbering vardo. It was the tent of the Master of the Russian Empire's Premier Circus, Lord of an ancient (albeit diminished) line of nobility stretching back centuries and commander of the largest single recognized group of individuals of Rusyn Training: Baron Dmitri Alexandrov

Per Vlad's instruction, the two of them waited in the vestibule, a smaller square room of cloth walls serving as an antechamber between the main tent and the outside, allowing themselves to be seen before allowed entrance. The tent itself was moderately lit with oil lamps and strategic skylights, large areas walled off by folds of canvas, silk, and woven tapestry. A commanding, elder voice issued from inside, seated upon a grand chair of masterfully worked and expertly carved wood. "Вы можете подойти."₃

Though initially confused by the request, Vladimir consented to act as translator between the three of them; The Baron, The Great Bazhooli, and Sister Mary. The conversation promised to be long, covering a rage of topics related to Mary's history, their own, the events in London, and the true purpose of the Circus's presence in the British Empire. They were interrupted only as it came to mealtimes, with The Baron promising to ensure that their guests, including the strange orphan boy, would be very well cared for in this regard and that Konstantin would see to it.

The Baron spoke Russian the entire time, but seemed to understand more than he let on. Translating between the two of them, Mary and Dmitri, became a little tedious after a while, but Vladimir kept it up admirably. After the initial meal was served and removed, The Baron brought out one of Mary's pies that she had presented him as an offering and divided it for the three of them. It elicited a satisfied grunt from the elder Russian, who actually kept a smile for a minute or two while enjoying it. He too had heard of the strawberries and saffron of St. Etheldreda's, and was very pleased at sampling the former.

When the conversation resumed, it was about their plan for the future. Advice from an established ruler to a novice one. Counsel. He was more subdued than his son, the present Great Bazhooli, more intimidating. But he was hospitable. Gracious even, if singularly gruff. He acted in the manner of an avuncularly Ambassador for his people, trying not to insult the intelligence of the less experienced Catholic lady while simultaneously attempting to explain his position and concerns in easily understandable detail. The talk continued for a very long while, each party contributing openly and honestly, until the light outside began to change to the richer hues of early evening.

Mary needed to check on Adam. Vladimir needed to check on Veta. No news is good news, of a sort. But they had things to accomplish that evening. Important things that could impact the course of humanity. Mary needed to get to work.

Translations

1 - Thank you (Spasibo)
2 - Scary Catholic Girl (Strashnaya Katolicheskaya Devushka)
3 - You may approach. (Vy mozhete podoyti.)

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

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Foy Coiffeur

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Location: Prometheus - Newhope (Docks)

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The fervently organized Foy Coiffeur wasted zero time in getting his parlor together, starting with his very fine, vintage Earth-That-Was replica barber's chair. It was the centerpiece of his setup, designed to draw the eye and inspire trust in his abilities. Such things were useful to first-time clients only; those who had sat in his chair before may very well trust the man to do a masterful job while sitting on a wet tree stump, if they could see their way around his peculiarities. In fairness, the man's irritable... Foyness found a good home with the family's ancestral occupation. The role of Gentleman Barber came with certain expectations, which Foy leapt into boldly and snatched up with both hands. The fact that he was a trained killer was something to keep under his hat when pursuing clients, a thing which he may have to commence in the near future, if only as a well portrayed and respectable cover.

The good news was that, given the proficiency with which he handled his craft and his workspace, setup was a trivial affair. His cases were set up in such a way that they could be opened, the interior drawers and shelves already holding his necessary materials. The water hookup told him that this room was originally designed to be a dwelling; access to the resource was adequate but less fancy than he preferred. He was ready for business in about a half hour, including time to set up and ship-stabilize his equipment, including a smallish table with reading materials and a bowl of wrapped candies. There were a few luxury items that Foy would prefer to pick up for the new location. Sadly, that could not happen right then as the Captain had ordered a total lockdown of the ship. Maybe tomorrow, as places that sold life's little luxuries generally closed at nighttime.

He could do with another coffee brewer. The last one that he used technically belonged to the Alliance by way of the I.A.V. Retribution and had to be left behind. And some additional seating, though Foy supposed that the Lounge would have to suffice as it was close by. For now. Priority was establishing himself.

Given the long stretch of time that he still had available to him, Foy began feeling a bit pent up. There was a whole, shiny world out there (or at least a merchant area) for him to peruse. He had seen part of it during his little professional debacle earlier and was anxious to check out a couple of those shops now that he wasn't spattered with filth and torn clothing, one shoe missing somewhere underneath their feet on a long and winding journey through the Newhope Docks drainage system. He needed a little something to occupy his time. Then a thought occurred to him. A memory from earlier. He had mentioned aloud his intent to organize the remaining weaponry from the fallen, former crewmembers into an armory of sorts. There wouldn't be much to start off with, granted, but if anything was true in thie 'Verse, it was an old adage that went "To The Victor Goes The Spoils". The more conflicts they survived, the greater the size and complexity of their Armory.

With this in mind, he began gathering and cataloguing the unclaimed weapons still unceremoniously stored in the Cargo Hold and moving them into the series of supply lockers between the Lounge and the Engine Room. The haul was what one might expect from individuals traversing the Black; pistols and rifles mainly, as suitable for personal defense as they were hunting supper. Nothing of modern military quality with two expections - submachine guns previously owned by the Browncoat mercenary lady whose name escaped him at the moment. They each seemed to pack a load of ammunition with them, almost to a level of paranoia. No matter, it just made things easier to store and organize. There did seem to be a shortage of 9mm rounds, however. Ordinarily one of the more common ammunition types to locate, Foy assumed that some degenerate or another had run off with the bulk of it, lining their personal stores. More would have to be located.

Come to think of it, that lovely, older model sniper rifle he had claimed for himself would need a few things to make it more suitable for contemporary extreme-range splattering. Yes, the dapper gentleman would have to visit a more or less decent gunsmith, or at least munitions vendor. The things he wanted were standard and inexpensive. Well, that and ammo. A later conversation with Anisa would have to include petitioning her for a financial allotment to shore up their needs in that regard. He could not simply toss his own money around anymore.

With the impromptu "Armory" secure, Foy felt a mild sense of accomplishment. There was still a good amount of time until the lockdown was done and they could engage in frivolity, and he meant to dress for it. This would perhaps take the most time of all his self-appointed tasks. Suffice it to say, after setting up his own relatively spacious private quarters, checking and servicing his personal weaponry and selecting juuust the right pocket square to tie his shoes/waistcoat combination together (it was paisley), he heard the ship's PA announce that it was time to gather outside of the ship in preparation of attending their bit of R & R.

"Splendid!" he mused aloud, throwing on a breathable wool suit-coat and one of his better bowler hats, both classic black. He counted out a decent amount of scrip and pocketed it, careful to keep it divided into two amounts and fastened tightly. He rather wished he had a more or less decent walking cane to carry with him for outings like this, preferably with a narrow, nasty blade concealed within. Another purchase for another time. A spring in his step, Foy descended the stairs nearest his room and exited the ship by means of the main Cargo door.

"Oh I say, Captain, that is a particularly fetching ensemble you with which you adorn yourself. Though, if I may hazard a gentleman's opinion, a lady as singular as yourself requires not gaudy decorations. Heaven forfend, though I declare that you do give the dress a sense of purpose, to wit."

He focused his attention on her escort, "And you, my homeworld sibling! Might but I have guessed that you should ensconce yourself into the graces of the dear lady with offered arm. You are truly a Man About Town, sir! If I may request, do remember to reserve a morsel of time in our shared jocularity for a brandy or two amongst ourselves; catch up a bit while breathing more casual air, as it sits."

"Now, wherever is our intended locale?"

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William Harper

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Location: Prometheus - Newhope (Docks)

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In contrast to the multiple accomplishments of the resident Robber Baron, Harper kept himself busy dedicated to a single task, that being the overview inspection of the engine. It was a more contemporary version of the same engine types common to the "-fly" class vessels; a shiny and new (or gently used, anyway) Camdon TX4 Drive with a Garrett A4 Plasmadrive, suitable for extended range hyperspeed. Not quite as flashy on the outside as its predecessor ship but just as fast, just as maneuverable, and exactly as reliable. Not to mention that it was as easy to repair. If Harper wasn't flying this vessel, he might have thrown a hammock up in here and claimed the Engineer job for himself.

The engine casing was different, but that was to be expected. Proper shielding had to be arranged with ergonomic entry points for ease of servicing, and in the days since the first 'Fly rolled out of the shipyards, the manufacturers had learned a thing or two. Shaving precious seconds off of a repair could mean the difference between living and dying out in the Black.

The first part of the engine, the Camdon TX4, did not overly interest him. It was a fine piece of machinery, no doubt, but he had gotten a good read on it while he took his test drive earlier. It was easy to feel for anything rattling or loose when you're skipping the ship off of a planet's lower atmosphere or gunning it toward a rock face and changing direction at the last possible moment. Nope, the cruising engine was stellar. What brought him visiting the Engine Room was the Plasma Drive, the second part of the great, spinning cylinder that kept the boat moving. The Garrett A4 was not something that he could run a field test on immediately. But he could initiate a site diagnostic.

Harper's tech skills as came into play as his fingers danced over the controls, his eyes took in the readout on the small screen present, dedicated to engine function. He nodded, finding the readings acceptable, and stepped away to let the machine compile and uncompile lines of internal tests, sorting through them in rapid succession and spitting out affirmation after affirmation that yes, the machine was indeed running within acceptable parameters. The experienced engineer could have set these tests up and come back later on for the results, maybe get some quiet time in his private room. But if Harper had taken that route, he would have missed his opportunity to hear the startup hum and quietly winding shutdown of the various mechanics that made up their plasma drive. If a mishap occurred with that particular part of the engines in the middle of the Black, they had problems. Big ones.

A cursory sight check accompanied the technical readout. It was one thing to trust a series of digital letters and numbers, and it was quite another to visually inspect the inner workings as they warmed up and began moving. After an indeterminate amount of time, Harper was satisfied enough with the engines to extend his trust. He could, and would, pilot this bird into the open possibilities of an uncertain universe, content that the Prometheus would reliably keep them aloft.

Harper wiped his brow on his sleeve. How long had he been back here? It couldn't have been too long; such a diagnostic on board the I.A.V. Retribution took a matter of minutes. Then again, that particular vessel was chock to the brim with the most modern electronics with redundancies on top of redundancies and a full staff to speed the process along. And to be fair, he was taking his own sweet time, enjoying the slightly retro feel of this powerplant setup. Then he looked at the readout again and realized that he had run the diagnostic at minimal output. Yeah, this could have gone faster. Still, for the first time in a great while, Harper felt at ease. Not quite happy, really. Few things could make Harper show any form of "happy" that wasn't also a little "unhinged", but he did try his best to effect a warm, winning smile. He was headed to his quarters, trying hard not to transfer grease and graphite from his hands onto his coveralls.

Grudgingly, he had decided to go along with the rest of the group. Initially, he would have appreciated the opportunity to have the ship to himself for a couple of hours, but the uncertainty of the day colored his thoughts. Their unwanted visitor from earlier could have been a coincidence. Or it could be a warning of things to come. Harper cleaned up and changed into a fitting pair of workman's pants, paired almost apologetically with a decent black button down shirt. Perhaps this wasn't the occasion to be seen hauling around a massive adjustable wrench, though, as it might draw more attention than a sidearm. Besides, if he attends a bar setting, Harper reasoned, there would be plenty of impromptu blunt objects to use to get his point across to others. If needed, of course. When the announcement was made over the P.A., he made his way out to the front of the ship with the growing group of his new crewmates, quietly nodding to them. He could't help but feel a little out of place.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: La Hacienda

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The small, blue-eyed life in Caesar's arms looked content, just being supported by his abuelo and grabbing a handful of hair. Caesar could comfort himself with the fact that his line did not die with his daughter; would not die with him. He did notice a trend in his family as of late, evident in the features of his grandson and niece. Apparently, lighter skin and higher cheekbones was becoming the norm. He viewed the situation with more objectivity than he thought he might, though in all honesty it wasn't exactly a thing that took up any meaningful amount of his consideration. Add to it that it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he had illegitimate sons and daughters out there somewhere, being that he had a well-founded history containing acts of promiscuity. Epic promiscuity, and he payed little mind to ethnicity. It made sense that his progeny wouldn't care, either. So long as the spirit of La Familia Gonzalez remained, everything else was mere detail. The little boy that he cradled was a truly adorable little guy. That was all that mattered.

But he was still going to kick much Limey ass when he got back to California. Then welcome him into La Familia.

The response from Maria was noted with surprise. Caesar had dumped a formidable amount of information on her. It was a lot to take in at once, and were this anyone else, he would not have been as quick to open up. Despite how they ended their marriage, years ago, he did trust the woman enough with something this important. He knew that Maria wouldn't screw him over out of revenge for a petty squabble. He knew that she wasn't going to steal from him or his company. What he didn't know was that she would accept his offer to take over as the Director of the Justice branch of MSS immediately. And her terms? He remembered why he married her, so long ago. ”I will bring the person responsible to you, damaged but not broken, if I at all can. When we’re done here in Monterrey, we can all fly back to Justice. Really get to work. You just let me know what you’re going to need. I’ll have it waiting when we get there.”

”Gracias, Maria. Just know, what we do is very dangerous.”

Meanwhile, one floor up...

The young lady halted her egress from Cecily and Natasha's room following Cecily's statement about not knowing "what that means", amid the unceasing laughter of Natasha. They had only been involved in a marginal conversation at best, so not a whole lot of ground had been covered. With a hint of confusion, the priest's daughter cautiously began to respond, "Oh! Oh girl, umm... That's kinda sheltered, isn't it?" She seemed nervous, but determined to explain for the good of her new acquaintance. The open mirth admittedly made it a little difficult. "Okay, well. Fucking means, specifically ah... Okay, it's like this: When a man and a woman love each other very much, or at least have some measure of drunk attraction for each other,”

She stuck out one finger and began slowly moving it toward a circle made from the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, continuing, "they have this Special Hug, that feels really ni... Wait a minute." She stopped, clapping her hands down at her sides and taking on a "deer in headlights" appearance. Natasha had stopped giggling (for the most part), and was answering Cecily’s question in a way that made so much more sense than what she was doing. "You really meant the worm thing, didn't you? Shit. Okay, yeah. Sorry. Means we have a private bar up here, and I'm going to have a few shots of mescal. It's an exaggeration. Take a look at one of those bottles with me and you'll know what we’re talking about. It’s a cultural imperative."

Taking a glance over to Natasha, she nodded, asking, "Hey, you sure you’re okay? No shame in resting after a long flight." She had been witness to the fatigue that Natasha displayed in the limousine and had noticed a few details. While she didn't know exactly what was up, she did admire the woman's snark in the face of whatever troubled her.

---

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J. Keystone

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Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, Security Hub

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Every single sharpened pencil in Keystone's office had found its way into a single rectangle of drop ceiling conveniently located directly over his desk chair. They were individually hurled up there by the painfully schoolboyish lout, victims of his growing boredom at having been on hold for what seemed like eternity. Still listening to classic rock over the office phone, he hit the "speaker" button and leaned back in his chair, staring at the inverted, miniature forest of pink-tipped octagonal yellow cylinders. He wondered absently if gravity defying, tiny little pencil-forest gnomes would make a home of it. And why not? They deserved a spot to call their own. Then he got the idea that squatters were expressly forbidden by contract in the secure facility. Sighing, Keystone picked up a notepad and made ready to whack the ceiling tile, hoping that the pencils would dislodge without putting one of his eyes out.

Just before he made his valiant effort to recover his pencils, someone picked up the other end of the phone line and answered with a brisk, "Hello?", waylaying his writing utensil recovery plans but getting him back on track to conduct actual business. "Ello ello, 'bout soddin' time. Right then, whatcha got for me?"

"Yes, Mr. Keystone. Legal has looked over your request, and we all are in agreement."

"Yeah, and?"

"And we have all agreed that you, Johnathon Keystone, are the interim Director of the branch in Justice, California."

"Yeah, you lot suck. What about my question?" The level of annoyance was rising in his voice.

"Of course. We have also agreed that this is a question for Marketing. Legal sees no issue in conflict here. Transferring you now."

"I bloody 'ate you all." But it was too late. The hold music was beginning to take his soul again.

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

@Lady Amalthea

Post for Keystone is up. And who's the next contestant? <in game show host voice>

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

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Keystone

Location: Deymins Tower

Interacting With: A3, vigorously

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Kyra's sarcasm caused the tiniest fleck of annoyance sprang up in the back of Keystone's mind. Make them vomit, indeed. Hell, maybe it was just the sort of challenge to test the intestinal fortitude of the lowborn Pugilist, making a zombie puke. That's the kind of thing that Bards write epic poetry about. But no, Keystone wasn't going to be distracted right then. He had a job to do, and he'd be damned if another group was going to meet a screaming, bloody end. Not on his watch. Keystone let Kyra's quips wash off of him as quickly as they hit, giving a low growl and steadying his mind to his surroundings.

Keystone focused his growing aggression onto the enemy before him. His stance was that of a Shou disciple; he brought it low and charged inward, silvered knuckles leading in the form of a flurry of punishing forefist and verted strikes, inflicting harrowing damage upon the protective steel itself. Its armor bent and buckled, succumbing to the kinetic trauma inflicted upon it by the grim, determined man; if not a Monk in the truest sense, his performance would have earned him their respect and consideration.

The creature slammed into the wall behind it and then rebounded, flailing out of control back into Keystone's circle of controlled violence. The broad man dipped low and executed a crippling downward ridgehand strike, bending the thing's helmet into its rotting casaba and laying it out horizontal before it dropped to the ground in a sad, dented heap. Dead, not dead - it didn't matter. The precious time and talents of a proficient blacksmith would be necessary just to peel the remains from the armor. Keystone's previous growl turned into a territorial roar as he stood over the mangled form of the undead thing, a sneer of contempt coloring his face as he searched for the next thing he could destroy.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Agriculture: Storage (West Side between Inner and Outer Wall)

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Hello darkness, my old friend...

It's funny what goes through one's mind when concepts like "Reality" take a nosedive. For Ash, it was Simon & Garfunkel. Which was odd, considering he was really more of a Rolling Stones kind of guy. But there it was. ...I've come to talk to you again... But it wasn't darkness that seemed to call him.

Thana was doing an excellent job of being coy, even playful. He even had to stop himself from reaching out to her once or twice. He just smiled quietly and shook his head. Oh, they would definitely be continuing the conversation later. It was a new beginning for Ash, and he didn't want to miss a minute of it. It wasn't just the fact that he had met someone with exquisitely striking looks, nor that she was fairly like-minded in her sense of professionalism. Nor was it the shared military background (even if she was NAVY). Well, all of it helped immensely, but the greatest portion was that he had progressed so profoundly as to allow someone else near to his heart, and in such a short time. When it feels right, it just feels right, though. And it did.

Then the vision of Alicia came again. But closer, more vivid. Right in the room with them, taunting him. Sowing doubt. Trying to create fear and distrust. This was advice that she might have given a man who was having the wool pulled over his eyes, caught up in some honeytrap. His eyes hardened. A tiny flame of anger flickered through him, and for two opposing reasons: First, he hadn't even considered this. Even though he pursued her as much as she him, as he remembered it. But Second, he didn't consciously believe that. However, if he was hallucinating all of this, and this was not some kind of haunting, then part of him did. Part of him was paranoid, jealous, angry, still bitter. Part of him did not trust. That bothered him. Was he trying to keep himself from being happy? Or was his brain trying to tell him something? All he knew for certain was that he didn't want to know.

When Thana came nearer to him, he heard something about the Distillery. "Yeah, distillery..." he spoke absently. Then he looked up at her. "Sorry. Um, yes." He shook off the moment as best he could. At least he knew he was seeing things, and that those things weren't actually there. It would have to do. Ash took in a breath and slowly let it back out. In a steady voice, he responded further. "Thana, when we're done with this, it's best if I speak with Doc. Don't worry, I'm all here." He gave a warm smile. "I'd just feel better if I did. Come on, as soon as I load up these bricks, I'll show you to the Distillery. One of my personal happy places."

Ash really hoped this wasn't getting worse.

---

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Black James(!)

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Location: Near 545 Corinth Rd, Newnan: In the woods. (Not far from the Coweta County Water Authority)

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---

James felt a sense of pride sweeping over him. It wasn't self-aggrandizing hubris more than a feeling that his little know of people, even if they all were jogging headlong into their own, immediate deaths, they were a unit acting for the interest of the group. They were coming together. He smiled a little more as he heard Beatrice's words, and offered some advice of his own.

"Fair 'nuff, Queen Bea. We all got a little dark in us, or we wouldn't still be breathin'. Understand, we gotta use it like a tool, okay? Take out that darkness when you need it, put that shit back on a shelf an' walk away when you don't. Can't let it eat ya, girl." He held out his hand to her. "Thanks, huh?"

Ryan and Gavin both got themselves ready in their own ways, Irish by making a light quip and Tex by assembling Alica's sniper rifle with gusto. It was the continuation of them getting settled in as a team. Four survivors that never would have been grouped together if the world hadn't turned itself inside-out, now setting off to a spot very nearby, greeting the unknown. It was at that moment that James heard the voice of a certain old man, growling out a warning. It intoned a sentiment about Alicia's rifle that James himself repeated out loud, agreeing with the seemingly spectral presence of Caesar, "Better be good to that gun, hombre!" he nearly verbatim repeated. Though it was creepy as hell to have both seen and heard the massively respected Mexican, James oddly took the whole incident remarkably well. It was like the veteran of a thousand battles was riding with them, lending moral support and filling James's spirit. So what if he was threatening? It's not like he was particularly cuddly when he was alive. And they were going to meet his niece. At least, that's what he figured, seeing as this mystery woman identified herself as the cousin of his daughter. Made sense.

At the sound of two thumps, James shifted the truck into drive and rolled slowly out of the warehouse. He stopped, giving Gavin a moment to secure the loading door behind them, and was off again as soon as he righted himself back in he truck bed. He didn't want to move too quickly, owing to the tall Texan standing in the back, though he did have a mind to get to this meet just up the road before the other party arrived. That little detail would be dependent upon a couple of factors, namely their means of transportation and how well they could navigate the little roadblocks that occurred naturally when there wasn't a thriving population to tend to the streets. The path that James & Gang took brought them around to the front of the warehouse, past the building containing the associated offices, and around to the private street in front of the complex. It was a mix of grey-topped road and packed gravel, level, steady, and even (for the most part).

The moment they cleared the treeline, James spotted their meeting place. It was the three-way intersection nearest the old Water Plant, chosen for its visibility to incoming traffic, multiple escape points by vehicle or by foot, and an arm of low evergreen foliage that jutted out from the main woods, providing both secrecy and soft cover while giving plenty of things underfoot to tip one off in case indelicate feet shambled nearby. Gavin might find a nice, cozy nook from which to give them cover in there. He brought the vehicle to a halt, speaking out of the window, "We gonna be over there, where the roads meet, 'kay? You got this!"

Grim reality set in with James as he slowly pulled into the intersection. With a smile, he proceeded to drive farther up and them back the truck down the street so that it appeared he came in from the southernmost roadway, just to throw them off a little in case they had to run. James reached for his Barret rifle, and pulled it out with him as he exited the Silverado's cab. He inspected the safety and chambered a round, then leaned it against his door, ready for easy use if necessary. He hoped not. He hoped this would all go smoothly and this lady was on the up-and-up. He dearly would have liked to meet more of Alicia's family. For the moment, he stood and waited.

---

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Location: Closer to The Meet - IN A TANK

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---

"Was that some kind of lesbian thing, Lola? Cause "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice..." Um... Well, you're not going to fool me twice, damnit." Thalia's end of the exchange was a joke, despite her general poor delivery. Her face didn't seem well suited for humor that didn't involve violence or extreme sarcasm. The attempt surprised even her, a little bit. Probably just nerves talking. Of course, what Lola proposed wasn't entirely out of left field. Her sexuality was a touch toward the fluid side, even though she was the type to check off "Hetero" when the census came around. It didn't stop her from extending a one-finger salute to her Kiwi friend before popping her seat back up to check the tank's optics.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence as Alexander blurted his own touch of humor. The situation was obviously tense, ad everyone seemed to be attempting some form of joviality to combat the tension. Thalia herself wasn't well suited for humor. "I wouldn't get my hopes up yet, Gramps. Between now and mealtime, lots can fuck up. Lots." It was the best she could muster at the moment. Thalia didn't know this guy; she had met him just a little bit ago and was now forced to deal with someone she wasn't sure about in what was going to be a very stressful, very unsure situation. If gunfire broke out, would he panic? Freeze? Would he turn on the two of them while she was out of the tank? "Fond is a stretch, Mugsy. I'll go for tolerate right now. Don't let us down, huh?"

She had wanted to say more to the man, mostly about dropping him off at Newnan like he was initially planning or something equally dismissive, but the changing terrain outside of the tank snatched her attention. "Keep going straight. Road's going to wind a little through trees, but from what I understand, you cannot miss the meet site. Three-way stop across from a Water Treatment Plant."

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

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Foy & Harper

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Location: Prometheus (Newhope Docks)

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The order came from Anisa; as such was as good as law. Harper officially signed on with her crew a very short time previously, and he was ever the dutiful officer. Rather, he used to be, once upon a time. Falling back into it wasn't a particularly difficult transition, and in fact gave a bit of comfort. "Right away, ma'am." he responded in a neutral tone, moving from his position at the cargo bay door. This was his crew now. Working in this manner would give him a fair amount of time to brood in his own, private quarters, to plan his plans and get his affairs in order.

Even if it did mean toting Foy's bags.

Meanwhile, Foy and Dorothy had just arrived. The Farradayan aristocrat smiled a polite but hollow smile. It was not the sudden joy at coming to a new home (he had a few of those already far from this place), but the words of Captain Crowe. It was highly presumptuous of her to assume that he was going to just fall in line and accept some paltry position on board what appeared to be a barely funded bulk transport vessel. The only upside to the arrangement at the moment was that he had a place to store his belongings until he could trade up for more fitting accommodations. He recalled Anisa saying something about staying on Newhope for the next couple of days, which should give him ample time to associate with his dear, childhood friend Jahosafat for an evening of frivolity, then take his leave. "Indubitably, madame!" answered Foy with some enthusiasm, sauntering up the loading ramp, "Though I must confess a working unfamiliarity with this particular class of spacecraft, you understand."

Harper felt it would be best to keep Foy's maddeningly dapper mannerisms from further irritating Anisa. There was no small amount of tension already among the crew as it stood. He decided to nip this in the bud. He stepped in front of the slim gentleman and directly intoned, "I am familiar, Mr. Coiffeur. Just follow me." With that, he began heading back down to the storage dock, or very near to it where the Farradayan had deposited the last of his belongings, along with the present grav dolly. The latter item he activated, turning it around to load Foy's cases into the Prometheus. Harper noted the disheveled appearance of the man, ripped shirt and stained coat (though remarkably shiny shoes), even went so far as to give him a visual once-over, but said nothing. That was his business, and it probably galled him to no end.

Shaking his head, Foy did as instructed and fell into step behind the enigmatic pilot. His smile remained, taking on a more sarcastic bent. "Quite. You remain ever the quandary, Lieutenant Harper." he retorted, straightening himself and walking with as much dignity as he could muster. "Though it would be improper to call you "Lieutenant", now wouldn't it? I mean to say, you haven't actually resigned your commission, now have you? Yet you obviously have no intention of returning to service." Harper flashed a dangerous look back to the moustached gentleman, to see him shaking his head dismissively. "Ah, let not the perils of anxiety disturb your supper later on, old boy. You've no impending dread from this dashingly handsome source. I simply find myself awash with curiosity about a man with position, rank; an Officer, given the affirmative to safely vacate, even be bought off (if such vulgar concepts as Money pique your interests). And yet here you are, cheerfully taking on the role of bush pilot to a crew that already has someone to steer their boat for them. Curious indeed..."

The pilot presently known as Harper gave serious consideration to shooting the man as soon as they got behind closed doors.

As it turned out, there was no elevator, cargo or otherwise, to handle large cases of gear and personal effects. This meant that they could not load everything up and make it at a single trip. It also meant that the grav dolly would have to negotiate stairs. They were wide and plentiful, the stairways, and even though it was an inconvenience it was just a mild one. It took a few minutes longer than expected, especially with Foy insisting upon handling his Earth-That-Was replica barber's chair personally, but they got everything where it needed to go in relatively short order. With the exception of his wardrobe, Foy didn't bother cracking open or unpacking anything, resolute as he was that he would find better accommodations for himself later.

Foy wasted no time cleaning up and changing into fresh clothing. He kept the Oxfords that he procured that day, though they were sprayed out with something disinfecting prior to putting them back onto his feet. The soiled and torn clothing quickly found their way into a small washer in the Lounge. He could get the shirt repaired or replaced later on, but he refused to present a respectable tailor with dirty attire. He had a few minutes to wait as his clothes were processed by compact machines that he didn't fully trust, and so leaned against the counter in the kitchen area, honing his personal razor to a level of sharpness generally only described in neo-samurai publications. His six-guns, hat, and coat had found their way back in his quarters. After all, he was indoors, and a gentleman only packed heat if going out and about, if then.

The stropping ceased as soon as he caught sight of the pilot, Harper, again, which prompted him to remember something important. "I say, Mr. Harper; a word please, if you would? Harper had almost decided to exit the Lounge as soon as he saw Foy, but thought better of it. Foy wanted something from him. This might be good. Harper said nothing, but stopped, turning to face him.

"Capital, sir! I have certain recollections of the Captain mentioning that, if a communicative fellow such as myself felt the necessity to engage in a ranged conversation, we were to do so through you. What makes you so irreplaceable, and why can I not simply issue a message along with my room's cortex terminal?"

Harper sighed, and responded flatly. "I can remove traces of your entry point and ongoing footprints in the Cortex in advance if you know where you're going and in real time if you don't. We're supposed to be keeping zero profile in case they're watching the Cortex."

Foy smiled genuinely. My my, but you are full of surprises for a turncoat pilot, now aren't you? No matter. I must discuss the family business in Farraday; arrangements, securing funds, and so forth. I hesitate to call upon live communications as a simple burst message is sufficient. I even have it prepared."

"Yeah. This way." said Harper, beckoning Foy to himself and exiting the room.

The unlikely pair found themselves in Foy's quarters after retrieving some equipment from Harper's bunk. Standard datajack cords spanned the short distance from the terminal to Harper's, which was in turn attached to a Black Box terminal. "Ok, Mr. Coiffeur... I'm in now. The entry point is obscured, and I have access to your comm service." He scanned the terminal's screen, checking numbers with a surprised look on his face. "Ah, Foy? That ident you wanted me to contact has left you a message already. Very recently."

"Hesitate not, Pilot. Let us hear what the old man has to say."

"This could be personal." reminded Harper, not really wanting to know anything about the man right then.

"That, my good sir, is a chance that warrants pursuit. Why, possibilities might place us at going into unfamiliar territory in the Cortex, and who shall pull our collective bacons from the fire if you prove too far starboard to cover our tracks, hmm? Besides, if something amiss or important is gleaned from said communication, I shall simply bribe you. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

Harper sighed again. He really didn't want to be there just then. Nonetheless, it was his responsibility until they hit open Black. Probably even then. "Fine. Turn on your terminal, I'll bring it up."

They were greeted by the image of an obvious representative of Farradayan Business Aristocracy:

Unquestionably Meritorious Greetings and Salutations, Mr. Coiffeur! I am so dearly hoping that this finds you in good spirits, or at all really in the current political and socioeconomic climes we find ourselves mired within. I've not the barest mention as to how this may have occurred, but there are concerns of pressure from Londinium. Our receivers in the Core have been leaned upon by the Powers That Be concerning reasons unknown to us, and we wish to maintain such plausible deniability. Moreover, questions most furtive have been placed surreptitiously concerning any operations in certain sectors, some of which you have been contracted for employment within. We do not believe that anything is adamantly established as of yet, and endeavor to maintain this state of ignorance until such time as unwanted eyes are elsewhere.

The bottom line, dear boy, is that your family and the Board have initiated certain business protocols to ensure continued financial success and for your protection. You have previously been under said protocols and, I assume, understand the full breadth of what it entails. The standard Per Diem has been transferred into your personal accounts, plus the expected balance from your last contract; use it wisely as deposited funds cannot be repeated with assured regularity. Otherwise, you are restricted from family finances.

The best we can do is as follows: Monies, personals, and equipment must be shipped as hard stock. Designate a receiving site. Shipping does take time, but it shall be couriered to the postmaster as possible to do so. Further, you can still purchase Moustachery supplies wherever they are sold at total cost discount. Continue the family's ancient profession with this advantage. Take contracts as they arise. Stay the course, dearest sir! This shall all go away the instant we find out who we must pay off, or in the event that the "heat", as it were, abates.

We shall be in touch.

The screen remained blank for several seconds, during which time Foy cleared his throat and readjusted his very fine tie. The expression on his face said enough to Harper, even if he did not fully comprehend the meaning of the Coiffeur business protocols, a sentiment echoed by Foy himself as he stated with quieter voice, "I am adrift in the winds, Mr. Harper." Quickly, he cleared his throat and continued in bolder tone, "I would have preferred the opportunity to reacquire my full arsenal, set aside a portion of money for proper expenses, but this... I had hoped to get my affairs in order first. Damn and bebother that Board of Directors! ...I suppose I haven't need to send my message after all."

Harper said nothing, eyeing the man over in the quiet of his private quarters.

"It cannot be helped now. I am removed from the bulk of my fortune, yes; however it is always thusly as occasion calls me into the 'Verse for matters clandestine. I am a gentleman of training and experience, and shall have to ...adjust... to circumstances on the interim." He had been in worse situations, without doubt. Foy still possessed more advantages than most in similar predicament. But it did mean one thing, and it was a big one. "I shall have to accept Captain Crowe's offer... Dear heavens, I'm part of a Dragonfly crew."

Meanwhile, Harper was packing up his electronics. He still said nothing, but his face slowly formed into an unsettling grin.

---

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Foy/Anisa

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---

A short time later, after taking a moment to let his situation sink in, Foy found himself looking for Anisa. Seeing as the Captain's quarters and the Bridge were right next to each other, it seemed the logical place to start. He checked the bridge first, followed by her private rooms. An inquisitive look here, a quiet knock there. When at last he located the grim, authoritative woman, he approached her with respectful and genteel charm. "Madame? Oh sorry, courtesy dictates that a Lady of your position in this fine and worthy vessel be referred to by the rightful title of Captain, does it not? My apologies. Captain Crowe, I have come to call upon you concerning a matter of business, if you would indulge me.

Anisa turned around and eyed Foy for a moment. Could this man say anything in under five words? She seriously doubted it. Crossing her arms she tapped the tip of her boot a few times. "Do I have a choice?" she said in a bit of a huff. She knew she did, she could send him straight back out of her room and tell him she would speak to him later but then that would mean starting the hello's all over again and even though she was not old, she would probably die of age before he finished. In her mind she might as well get it over with. "What is it?"

Foy cleared his throat and clasped is hands in front of himself. "To begin, I wish to extend my fondest appreciation for the preferential room assignment, plus the additional space to continue my more mundane but artistic work. Those would have been fixed points in contract negotiation, you see."

"Yeah, I don't negotiate. Not with crew I don't know. Maybe one day if you earn your place," she said in a curt voice. She had given him a place to take care of his business but it wasn't out of generosity. It was better to assign him a place than to have him set up somewhere in the way.

He was on a roll that day, letting the excess verbage flow from him. In truth, I have come to accept your offer. I recently find a certain willingness to travel the Black in a Bulk Transport Vessel, doing clandestine work under the command of a firm but fair lady of experience. Points established, I would petition another request?

"What the gorham damn is it?"

Foy nodded toward the Cargo area, "Captain Quinn was a man of considerable faults. One of them was not taste in small arms. I am unable to dip into my private armory, and so, with the most grandiose of humble intonations, request permission to plunder through his sundries. He has a sniper rifle; charming piece of vintage craftsmanship that is compatible with modern systems called a "91/30", that would round out my usefulness to the crew, and a few incidentals for my own amusement."

Anisa quirked a brow. She had gone through the items from the crew of the Retribution and taken what she needed already. She really hadn't had much of an interest in Quinns shit other than his personal stuff in case there was something she might be able to use later. As far as his weapons went she had just planned to toss them into the general storage in case they needed them later. Thinking for a moment she made a decision. "Go for it, no use to me." was all she said before turning on her heels and going back to stowing her gear and setting up her room. If it got him out of her room and to where she didn't have to hear his ramblings, that was perfectly fine.

Foy moved his hand as if to tip the hat he was not wearing at the moment, and backed out of Anisa's immediate area. "Heartfelt gratitude, my Captain." The sound of new Oxfords tapping along the ship's flooring could be heard retreating out and down to Cargo.

Locating and claiming the weapon took all of a minute, and most of that time was simply walking over to it. He slung the classic, powerful rifle over his shoulder, and procured any ammunition that was present from among The Late Captain Quinn's belongings. One item did give him pause that had zero connection to weapons whatsoever; Quinn owned an earpiece communication device. From the looks of it, the item was not an Alliance issued thing. This was personal. And now, it was his. He did very clearly mention that he was also going to get a few incidentals for his own amusement. And a personal comm device would be very amusing indeed.

"Excellent!" he said aloud, alone in Cargo. "Or at least tolerable. Perhaps I'll do the good Captain a token of goodwill and organize the remaining firearms into a moderately respectable armory, but for now... I know a certain Gentleman from Farraday that needs to set up his new Foy-er! Huzzah!" A little unnecessarily dramatic, but it did serve to outline his plans for the next hours: Getting his little barbershop into place and opening for business.

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Harper/Atticus

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Harper had returned to his quarters for the purpose of replacing his electronics. It was a small matter, but he had to suppress a touch of mirth from his face as he exited Foy's room. What he had just witnessed appeared to put the arrogant dandy on similar footing with himself. Not totally, granted. The man had a support network with money and influence, but in that briefest of moments they were both equal in their isolation and standing. It was glorious.

A short few steps away from his room found him on the Bridge, where he quietly checked the status of all exterior portals, including the shuttle hatch and cargo. Just as Anisa had ordered, everything looked locked down. Short of a Port Authority Override (which he could probably hardwire against if they were desperate), those doors were indeed locked down.

He had noticed a certain smell wafting through the ship, cutting through background scents of thermosetting polymers and cut machine parts common to new vessels or those recently worked on. To him, it was like coming home. But the odor that threatened to overpower this was interesting enough to pique his attention. It was, in a word, food. Harper had considered walking around the ship, taking a head count and seeing if anyone else needed to send or check for messages. Considering the siren's song of edibles, it was a reasonable enough assumption that others would be found in the Lounge/Galley area soon enough. Harper made his way aft, taking in more of the admirable vessel on his way.

When Harper reached the Galley, the source of the enamoring smell, he noticed the man preparing it. He had not had the opportunity for an exploratory conversation with Atticus as of yet. He was part of the crew, now. It stood to reason that they have some sort of rapport. Judging by the Preacher's highly styled facial hair, he assumed that the an already had some sort of rapport with Foy.

Neutrally, Harper spoke up, "Do you need some help, Shepherd?"

Atticus looked up to Harper as he heard him speak and shrugged. "Not really much to do since it is just a snack but hey, idle hands are the devil's workshop," he chuckled before pointing over to a small stack of protein sandwich's. They had been heated and toasted, nothing bit. A slight burn to a few of them let others know that the kitchen was not the Preachers forte. "Can set those out as well as the fruit I managed to scrounge up. Guess you could use the voice of God and let people know there are edibles," he added as he pointed over to one of the coms for the ship.

Harper looked quizzically at the Preacher, for a moment unsure what he meant by "Voice of God" and wondering exactly what kind of man he was accepting food from. Then his eyes followed the line of his finger to the ship's PA wall unit. He gave a nod of understanding and stepped over to it, then thumbed on the control general announcement. "Attention crew, this is Harper speaking. Light refreshments are available in the Galley, courtesy of Shepherd Pearson. Repeat, light refreshments are available in the Galley, courtesy of Shepherd Pearson. That is all." His background with the Fleet was apparent in that moment, but the message got passed along readily enough.

It was at that moment that he had a change of heart concerning waiting around for the rest of the crew. If they needed him to get on the Cortex anonymously, they had an open means of communication around the ship to page him. Not to deny himself any minor luxury, Harper grabbed a toasted protein sandwich from the stack, palmed a piece of fruit, and waved curtly at Atticus while headed toward the aft exit of the Lounge.

Through that aperture and down a short corridor lay the engine room, a place he had been meaning to inspect personally. Taking the ship out into the Black for a little bit and gunning the engines was a good start, as he did earlier that day, but the Engineer in him wanted to give Prometheus's beating heart a thorough look-over. They had a few hours left to go before the rest of the crew departed; he had overheard talk of a place in town where they could blow off some steam. He was never personally asked along and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to go someplace so public. Harper decided that he'd make a decision closer to time. For right now, the man was content to spend the next couple of hours inspecting the hardware that kept the new ship aloft.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks

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Qasr El Nil Barracks

"Yes, quite an excitable fellow." agreed Reginald, in response to Peter's assessment of their most recent guest. "Prone to interesting fits, that Corporal, but loyal to a fault. A glaring, massive fault... But what ho? I'll have none of this "apologies" claptrap, Mr. Benaszewski. The Corporal's own bit of momentary weakness served to mirror my own, I'd surmise sir, and that was certainly not anything slanderous to your character." The Lord Major peered thoughtfully into whatever distance the walls of his office would allow, thinking out loud, "Strange, really: The Corporal and myself both are no strangers to injuries of open warfare, yet the circumstance left us both momentarily shaken. Curiosity abounds as to whether there is some bit of psychology over and above the obvious at play... Hmm..." He shook the idea off, unsure as to whether such a bent in the conversation would be uncomfortable to their guest or genuinely be a thing of interest. "But do forgive the ramblings of an old man."

He listened to the story that Peter prompted from George, one concerning the present vocation of their disfigured guest. A paid speak at a local University, no less, concerning a subject to which he was woefully overqualified to discuss. "I doff my cap to you, sir. Finding some measure of goodness and giving hope to others after enduring more than... Oh?" A knock sounded from behind Reginald's office door, interrupting his sentence.

"Tea service, Lord Major!" called a respectful voice from just outside.

"Ah yes! Very good. Please do come in." A thought of propriety occurred to him, "Actually, if you would, please just push the cart inside of the room. We shall see to ourselves, thank you." The Lord Major rose from his seat and quickly moved over to the door to take over. Propriety aside, he did not desire yet another outburst from his staff. "Lemon, you say?"