Foy Coiffeur
Location: Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Galley/Lounge)
Skills: N/A
True to his declaration earlier, Foy made his way into the ship following Jahosafat and Mei. That little lady was an entertaining quarry earlier, and all the more interesting because of the lack of knowledge he had about her. Generally, he liked to keep his Tracker/Trackee relationship very straightforward. This unexpected recruitment came as a surprise, but considering it, this had been a week for surprises. One of the biggest surprises was that he was still in these people's company, himself. Foy's contract with the Alliance had been closed, The
I.A.V. Retribution lost, end of story. Yet here he was, by necessity. He found it quite curious. Nevertheless, he maintained a respectful distance behind Dr. Moreau and the injured lady, not wishing to do something as impolite as rush them. Such an act would be unseemly and boorish.
As they entered the ship proper through the cargo doors, Foy took Dorothy's words as her playing at tour guide until he remembered that there were newcomers, most of which had likely never been inside of a Dragonfly class vessel. Then he also remembered that they required room assignments, including the lady on his arm, Jacqueline.
"Miss Croix, if you would be as decent as to allow my leave, I have matters that require my attention, as do you at the moment. I shall find myself in the Galley before long, should you wish to continue dialogue; otherwise I bid you a pleasant evening." He tipped his very fine hat toward Jacqueline, complete with a little bow, and stepped lively toward the back of the cargo area. He had to make it to the upper deck himself, but the most direct route took him aft first. Foy took the stairs nearest the skiff and within a moment, found himself within his private quarters.
It was spacious for a transport vessel, and all of his stuff was here. Not quite everything was unpacked, granted, Foy had used the majority of his time to set up the "Foyer". This was home, for a while yet. The very standard bed would also have to do until he could import something more to his standards. But in the meantime, it was time for supper. When at all possible, a Coiffeur dressed for the occasion. Nimble fingers removed the tie pin from his cravat and untied the elaborate neckpiece, before unfastening the buttons to his dress shirt in rapid succession. In the process of disrobing, Foy hung up his charcoal suit coat and matching slacks, giving the both of them a light brushing before moving on. There was no need for his bowler hat indoors at that hour, so manners dictated that he put it away. Foy inspected his second-favorite hat, gave it a smart tap against the palm of his hand, and tucked it away with the rest of his collection. He swiftly dressed himself in a pair of pinstripe slacks with matching vest and a crisp, white linen shirt, and a black on black brocaded silk tie. His end-of-day, "dressed down" appearance achieved, Foy oiled the tip of his moustache, gathered his food back up, and made his way the short few steps to the Lounge area. He truly did have a centrally located place of repose, just across from his new parlor.
It appeared that he was the first one to enter the room for the evening, a thing which he took for a boon; it allowed him free reign and quiet to set up his meal, wooden chopsticks and all, and sit carefully down as a gentleman might without disturbance. He had skipped a meal or two that day, and believe it or not he was really looking forward to whatever Harper had ordered. Foy had to give the Pilot his due; his taste was adequate for a military fellow. Moreover, he knew the cuisine of the more workaday locales better than himself. He might not trust the man fully, but Foy did trust his judgement in this arena, which is why he had insisted upon just getting what Harper had ordered for himself.
Smug and optimistic about the last hour of the day before he turned in, Foy began to eat his meal with the utmost of table manners and in the rarity of Farradayan silence.
William Harper
Location: Newhope Docks (On board Prometheus, Quarters and Lounge)
Skills: N/A
Harper seemed to mirror the path that Anisa took to get to her quarters, utilizing the stairs on the other side of the boat to reach the upper deck. His room was across from hers and right next to Dorothy's, mere feet from the Bridge. It was the ideal setup for the pilot who wanted to be on top of things constantly, from a professional standpoint. Squeezed in between the two ship's Officers and his station? Yeah, he'd better want to work. Still, it was better then his last permanent placement. Much better. Harper was no stranger to physical work, that was for certain. On an irregular schedule, as well. At least here he could fly. Really fly, not deal with those industrial shuttles that were good for one or two straight shots from asteroid to asteroid for multiple hours of manually turning large rocks into small rocks and analyzing the contents before clunkily turning back around and returning to hell, only to fend off the more aggressive of his neighbors while attempting to consume something designed purely to maintain a life of drudgery, affectionately referred to by the local population as "Loaf". Baozi and basil infused nuts on board
Prometheus were heaven in comparison.
He could hear and feel the mechanics of the ship initiate as the last of their group entered the ship. When the cargo doors finally closed fully, Harper breathed an open sigh of relief. Somehow being locked inside of this spaceworthy metal can held a feeling of safety and freedom. The irony of feeling free while behind a lock was not lost on him. At any rate, he was at the door to his quarters in very short order, slipped inside, and took stock of his situation.
Harper was the pilot of a boat that was destined for illegal, clandestine activities. He had even sat in on the negotiations for the first such job of this nature, and had to come to grips with the fact that, while he was never a criminal in the classical sense before, he most certainly was now. Perhaps the lessons he learned in the more recent years of his life, the desperation, loss, pain, were exactly the kind of training he required to live this sort of life now. The thing which mad it necessary also gave him the psychological tools to do what must be done to survive. Unfortunately, it had also left its mark in other ways. Less wholesome ones. He shook away those thoughts for now. They would come unbidden soon enough anyway, like a cold crack of infection throbbing in an otherwise solid psyche.
Setting the food down for a moment, Harper took the time to lay down in his bunk. It was fairly standard, even comfortable for a spacefaring vessel. Or it would have been. The soft, artificial fabric and foam mattress padding just didn't seem to set right with him. It was too... soft. Pliable. He hadn't had the option of sleeping upon a mattress in years, and now that he attempted to rest upon one, it just seemed off. He had tried aboard the
Retribution with similar results, too. This would be a hard habit to break, but he would not do it tonight. Sighing, Harper removed the mattress from his bunk, exposing the hard metal and plastic shelf beneath and laid a sheet upon it. Yeah, that would have to do. He stood the mattress up in the corner of the room and prepared to leave.
First things first: Harper grabbed up his massive wrench and slid it down to its shortest setting. The tool loop and pocket on the leg of his coveralls fit it absolutely perfectly, as he found out with some glee. It made sense, a tool in a pocket designed to holster tools without jostling. With a sense of positivity, Harper drew his wrench, twirled it between his fingers, and actuated the device to its full length and span. It made a formidable blunt weapon; the modern Engineer's replacement for a mace or morningstar of ancient Earth-That-Was. Harper was very fond of his wrench. His new firearm and knife he kept upon him. There were new people on board the boat and he didn't even fully trust the existing crew yet, let alone the guests. A rarely seen mischievous grin spread across his face that paired nicely with the faraway gleam in his intelligent, green eyes. He readjusted the wrench to its most compact setting and slid it safely away in his coveralls.
Harper quickly located the pull-out sink, splashed some water in his face and washed his hands, then snatched up the bags of food from Lady Luck and strode out of his quarters. Anisa had not yet emerged from hers, and he seemed to remember her saying something about "Food in the Galley", a decent enough idea. Knocking on her door and inviting himself into her quarters for a meal sounded downright suicidal in comparison; jettisoning him from an airlock wouldn't be quite as fatal, being as they were on a habitable planet at the moment, but chemically propelled lead from point blank range would suffice nicely. Instead, he deftly made his way aft down the length of the ship to the Galley and began setting up what amounted to supper for himself and the Captain, including the tray of appetizers and dipping sauces that no one seemed to have touched back at the establishment. There was still a bit of warmth to everything, he noted positively.
It had barely registered to him that the galley was occupied. This was probably because it was occupied by Foy, who sat with uncharacteristic quiet, slowly eating his own meal. The esteemed Mr. Coiffeur gave a little throat clear to officially announce his presence, and gave him a polite,
"Lieutenant Harper." before returning to his meal. To give him credit, he did not speak his rank within the Fleet around any outside ears. It did annoy Harper, however.
"Mr. Coiffeur." he responded.
"I don't remember, what was your rank within the Alliance? Before you were a Contractor, I mean." Point taken.
"Never you mind, my good sir. William, then? Liam? It is how you prefer people address you, I seem to recall from the other vessel." Foy flashed a quick smile, though it was difficult to tell if he was trying to be warm or sarcastic.
If only the dandy man knew. But Harper didn't want a light shone into that aspect of himself for a long time yet.
"Harper works just fine." He glanced around to see if anyone else was approaching just yet, and continued,
"You understand that we're going to have to work together, right? That will be difficult if we keep trying to antagonize each other." "Indubitably." responded Foy.
"You intrigue me, Lieutenant Harper. That is all. A curiosity that I cannot suss out on the immediate, and if I do sound the horn of my own accomplishment, I consider myself an astute assessor of a man's disposition. But in the instance of yourself, Harper, I can objectively sense that I cannot trust initial impressions or guttural instinct about the nature or your character and background, sir. Core world, certainly. Military, obviously. Yet I remain curious. Perhaps in time, Master Harper. But worry not! We are bound by contract to the same cause. Upon the golden shores of Farraday, that statement possesses meaning." He gave a salute to the pilot with his chopsticks, as a fencer might, and returned to his meal.
"Yes. Enjoy your dumplings. Briefing soon." Harper seemed to grow more terse, even as Foy became more garrulous. This was not over yet.
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