Caesar looked around the cab of Keystone's restored and luxury fitted Dodge Ramcharger. The convenience of the armored means of conveyance aside, Caesar was really more interested in the people around him. They were his closest allies now, in the dark reality of Justice, California. More than that, they were family. Even Maria, who had the good sense to divorce him some time ago. Why she agreed to get back into business with him was beyond him, Alicia's death or no. In the end, what else would a mother do for her daughter if not at least help to avenge her?
There was Keystone himself, a large man birthed of a culture that varied differently from his own. Some things would always unite certain people from across the globe, and one of those things was poverty. Caesar knew the circumstances of this man's childhood, knew what kind of people came from that sort of environment. The fact that he was a good person seemed miraculous. Rough around the edges, crude at times, intimidating as all hell, but a decent guy with protective instincts solid enough to land a plane on.
Then his little niece. Baby niece. Protected, shy, introverted, and other blatant lies. The girl had such potential as a runaway freight train chock full of badassery, but seemed content to shelve her knowledge of shooting and stabbing in lieu of her own tech projects. But right at that moment, she was busy on her company cell phone, having punched in a number that she caught on the window of a Chinese restaurant that promised free delivery. "Lo Mein and fried rice, both. No no, in addition to the other. Thanks. Address? Umm, you guys know where Queensguard... Uh huh, I know 'Director Keystone'. Yeah! Same place. Ask for Angel. Awesome."
"Right, mealtimes aside," began Keystone in his Cockney brogue, curious as to how the young lady in the back of his ride got so damned comfortable with her position even before arriving on site, "I got bossman's trike back in the Motor Pool, likewise there's another addition that looks like it don't belong fully. Assumin' it belongs to the 'ungry ragamuffin in back, yeah? Might want to give it a once-over 'fore we get fully to it."
Caesar wasn't completely certain what a "ragamuffin" was, but was moderately sure it was a lesser form of insulting descriptor of some kind. He was highly fluent in the English language, though sometimes English English could still throw him a surprise. "Watch how you speak about my niece, Johnathon. She's part of your team now, too. And part of your family."
"My 'pologies. Nothin' by it, Boss." He nodded up the road a piece, "Right then, almost to it." And indeed they were, time had funny ways of speeding up and slowing down to human perception as the situation modified things, but sure enough, less than a minute later the boxy black security vehicle was pulling into the first checkpoint, allowing entry to the Queensguard Industries R&D Industrial Complex, and by extension, the Justice Offices of Machete Security Solutions.
The entire exchange with Bridgette was expected. Even welcomed, as it meant that her persona over the wave was genuine. No matter how off or offputting someone might be, continuity of personality meant that the person could be read, given enough time and study. Harper had seen people sort of like her before. Maybe not in theme, but in swagger and potential for violence. Something like it was common among veteran soldiers he'd seen back when he actually was an Alliance officer. These soldiers usually had brutal deployment histories. It made him very glad that he was a flier and didn't see but a part of the Unification War. But the thing was, despite her obviously glaring difficulty with polite discourse, Harper didn't immediately dislike the woman like he thought he might.
Perhaps that had something to do with the huge guy with the sock on his hand accompanying her. Obviously the little brother that she described briefly, earlier, but the description didn't quite to him justice. Especially when he gave Harper's shoulder a little "pat" that seemed more like a minor assault, causing him to wonder how much damage Cyril could do if he really wanted to hurt someone. He seemed exactly as Bridgette said he would be; very much like a kid. His own lack of experience with children aside, he did have an idea that they generally did not want to be treated like children. He kept his phrasing simple with the man. "Hello Cyril. Ah... Jericho. I don't know what a 'Fluffernutter' is exactly. Maybe you can show me another time. Right now, I have orders to see you aboard. Please follow me." A little stiff perhaps, but he meant it with reserved professionalism.
The trip to aft cargo was pretty straightforward. They were in fore, and a short walk had them in aft. Straight line, even. Thus was the journey when you had a mid bulk transport ship that was presently without cargo, aside from the personal effects of fallen crewmembers. As they came to the rear of the cargo area, Harper motioned toward the door to their left and intoned, "Quarters are through here. You can leave your things on the landing, there." Stepping through the door, he motioned to an open area, "Over here we have Med Bay, guest Bath, quarters down the corridor. The Galley and Lounge are up the spiral staircase. If you would please?"
"If I would please what?" asked Bridgette, clearly showing some concern but speaking in a tone that was damn near sweet. "Oh hell no, Harper-William-Pilot," she continued, voice shifting from dulcet to loud and obstinate. She dropped her trunk to the ground with a reaching, hollow thud that reverberated across the lower deck, "You and me are in this for the long haul, yesfuckingsir! When someone says they're taking a Lady to the Galley, they're sure as dick gonna take a Lady to the Galley. Or that Lady's gonna staple his lungs to his forehead and make him look like a cartoon fucking rabbit. Are we clear, Man-Meat?"
It wasn't clear whether the look on the Pilot's face was one of confusion or the result of being impressed. His eyes just kept getting wider and wider until he composed himself against the wind tunnel of threats and vulgarities. He responded, "I was suggesting that you and your brother to go first, Miss Vinters." remaining as neutral of tone as possible. "The meeting is taking place right up those stairs."
Bridgette gazed at Harper as if she hadn't considered the possibility that he was attempting to be polite. "Oh. Well shit. Sorry there, new friend." She picked up the takeaway container that had fallen on its side from the top of her trunk, offering, "Pudding?" Her eyes were bright and she nodded vigorously, the earlier flash of anger fully erased from her demeanor.
Harper tried hard not to smirk. He wasn't sure if she was trying to be funny or sincere, and felt it was best not to react. Bridgette was still heavily armed and (quite possibly) even crazier than he was. "No, but thank you." he said politely, waving it off.
Rice pudding still in hand, the tall, blonde Shieldmaiden gave Harper a wink and a big, warm smile, then saw herself up the stairwell. It was a little tricky at first with a three-foot shield on her back, but she was accustomed to maneuvering in full Berserker gear by means of her nonstandard military training. She emerged to a pretty cut-and-dry Galley; large for a ship of this type. Then again, that pilot following her up did mention that the Galley was merged with the Lounge area. Not a bed setup, in her estimation. She could call it home. But first, there was the business with Atticus. Questions upon questions.
The sneer of derision was almost physically palpable, emanating from underneath Foy's very fine moustache. "What a question, Miss Croix. 'Maid', indeed. Chores to a domestic flavor are better suited for person of likewise more domestic affinity." He reeled in the expression somewhat and set himself to task, this one being the fairly mundane job of inspecting the available mattress (which looked no better than military surplus to his eyes) and applying a set of basic, fitted sheets.
He ignored the latest in a line of interesting nicknames that Jacqueline had picked out for him, this one better suited to a chiefly ornamental French dog. He could not call out the lady on the application of the ancient origin of his family's surname, though the intent was more than a little derogatory, obviously. "And as for laundry, madame, unless circumstances become extenuating to the extreme, and/or an order comes down from my contract holder, I shall only see to my own needs concerning a proficient Fluff & Fold. One cannot trust tailored and bespoke finery to inexperienced hands; the result is chaos - pure chaos. Similarly, the others' drab garments are their concern." Though unspoken, he did not count Jahosafat among that number.
One bed down, one to go. His lack of enthusiasm in handling chores like this was not a reflection on his ability to do so. Years ago, he was a stalwart if colorful member of the Alliance Military, later an Agent. He could pass a full press inspection like a professional. It didn't mean that he enjoyed it. Foy reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small handful of Farradayan Wrapped Candies, placing them upon the plain, white pillows on the bed. "Do be a lamb and confirm the electronics in the sitting room are functional, if you would please, Miss Croix."
Foy was just about to move along to the next room when he heard a loud sort of crash coming from just up the corridor outside of the room, followed by swearing in an unfamiliar accent; unfamiliar at least to its precise origin. "...hmm... a soupçon of Himinbjorg aboard our dear vessel. They have such charming formal wear. Bunad, you see, if traditional..." The verbiage-heavy Barber peeked his head out of the door for just long enough to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. One eyebrow immediately shot up as if trying to achieve orbit and Foy pulled himself back into the room, a most complex look upon his face. "I've heard of these people..." he half whispered, continuing, "Jacqueline, dearest, if you would please indulge me, I suggest we make haste with the second room. Our reinforcements have arrived."
Hell of a day, all around. Hell of a day. There was light and fresh air and bits of tower flying about him; choking dust swirling around, making breathing slightly more perilous that is otherwise would. Granted, the fact that he was breathing at all was something of a miracle in and of itself, considering the nature of the structure he had just exited. The moment he got free of the collapsing tower, he set his sights on locating the rest of the group. His first concern in that regard was finding Sana. A quiet sigh to himself seemed to bookend the thought that, out here in the world, that pushy, arrow-flinging Gypsy was the closest friend that he had. Maybe even a little more. It would pain him greatly if something had happened to her. So definitely, finding Sana.
Luck seemed to be with her, and also with Keystone, as the first thing that he heard upon reaching freedom was her voice, barking an urgent question at him concerning the location of Thomas and Satilla. He had just began to shrug; he had no idea where Satilla was and Thomas, well... is presence made itself known as he unceremoniously plowed into the big Pugilist's posterior. All things being equal, he wasn't going to fault the guy for a tiny mishap while trying to save his own ass, but nor would he give him any reassurance. He took a step or two forward so as not to block the way out for anyone else behind them, an addressed Sana with a voice struggling not to cough on tower dust, "Found Thom!" He jerked a thumb backward to indicate the spellcaster's presence, then turned to him as he moved farther away from the decrepit building, "Oh, you don't want nothin' from that end, lad."
Location: Anglo American Hospital -> Streets of Cairo Skills: N/A
A pine box, like a common soldier. It was a piece of quiet dignity, really. Without regard to what his position of birth afforded him, or what would become of his remains after they arrived in England, he was given the same honors that were given to any low-born enlisted man who fulfilled his pledge to give his life for the British Empire. They were all equals in death, and in that regard, Reginald was a jealous man. Quietly, he picked up the box of Peter's effects and filed in behind the plain, wooden coffin as it was carried out to the vehicle.
He kept silent until both he and George were in the Rolls-Royce, choosing that moment to respond to the soft spoken, disfigured man. "Ah yes, so the irregular bit of metal does bear some significance. Indeed, Mr. Benaszewski, I would like to learn more about it. Too many things of seeming unimportance have been proving themselves to be anything but. I know not what this little adventure is supposed to accomplish sir, but I do have a feeling that it is a thing greater than myself. To commit one's mortality to such a purpose is a noble passing indeed, possibly balancing the scales for a lifetime of mistakes." He eyed George intently for a moment, continuing, "I cannot believe that this is mere coincidence, and as such must follow the path put before us. I know it must seem an old man's folly, but do you understand, at least in part, to what I refer?"
The car continued down the streets of Cairo, laden with its living and formerly living cargo. It made its way in the direction of the Qasr El Nil Barracks, where imbibable spirits and hopefully useful answers resided within the Officers' Club.
Location: Exiting London (By means of Northwest Inner Wall) Skills:Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), Brivaldi, English
The jumbled talk of Ludwig doing what Ludwig did was enough to make Vladimir want to bang his head against a hard, flat surface. Were it not for the wondrous sight of the Wall parting to allow his Circus to pass through, he may very well have. It was something magnificent. Unfortunately, it was not a thing which would work out too horribly well for the people of London. Ok, so it wasn't a more familiar city with languages that made sense like Piatra Neamt or Kiev, but it was still a place worthy of not being overrun by hordes of slobbering, skin-chewing Soulless.
From atop his great, black horse, Vladimir heard the objections of their "guest", Thalken. In truth, he agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment expressed by the Londoner, even going so far as to mention something to that effect to Ludwig just earlier. Fortunately, he had gotten the answer. He thought. Vlad reared his horse around, clopping after Thalken with conversation in mind. "Talink! Da, Mr. Talink... Fortunate it is that ve are having the agreement about Vall, Yes? Vall cannot stay like Vall is, da?" He emphasized his point by waving toward the gaping aperture with a dramatic flourish. Leaning down just a little from his saddle, he spoke with but a hair less volume, "Playing the Chess, are you Mr. Talink?" A sly narrowing of his eyes accompanied his words, "Maybe you and Master Ludvig reset. Like Chessboard! I go with Circus. Organize. Plot mapping course. Naughty Ham, da? Ve go for ...The Naughty Ham!"
It occurred to Vlad that England folk had very strange names for places.
Sister Mary Ignatia Hale
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” -Psalm 19:105 Location: Nottingham Skills: Horseback Riding
It was an interesting time in the world, indeed, when a Grand Duchess from atop a likewise grand white tiger insists upon handing the reins, so to speak, over to someone like Mary. She considered the honor of the situation, indeed and the rationale behind it. They were traveling fairly incognito. Giving extra accords or honors to the woman would make them stand out almost as much as riding a white tiger through the English countryside would, even if it was merely the period at the end of the very long sentence describing the unbridled sense of confusion their overt presence would serve to create. That would be bad.
Mary ascended her dapple grey stallion, Cassius, and held a hand down for Virginia to likewise climb up. She looked into the Lady Crypt's eyes briefly, giving consideration to the knowledge imparted by her out-of-body experience. Truly, her belief in coincidence was not strong for incidents such as this, and most especially when there are sick and injured children (or child, as the case may be) that could benefit from their assistance. The second that everyone was settled and ready to move, Mary quietly asked Virginia, "The road to Manchester, correct?" as a means of letting her know that she did indeed intend to help the people witnessed in her astral journey. Mary guided her horse to the marked trade roads, searching for the signs indicating the correct route to the city of Manchester; it shouldn't be too amazingly difficult considering the line of people escaping the Soulless attack's aftermath. And posing the occasional question never hurt anyone.
North to Manchester. "Please let me know if you see those people again, Virginia. I would hate to miss them in our haste."
Sleep. Ash could really use some sleep. As much as he wanted to and as much as his damaged psyche needed it, he was pretty damned sure that he couldn't. That nap he had gotten in the distressed recliner was going to have to be enough. The occasional glimpse into his rearview mirrors made him quietly wonder if he was paranoid, or could he actually see the shambling movement of a wall of the Dead, ever out of clear view but always back there, waiting to catch up? The Hordebuster was as secure as any vehicle could be; if swarmed all they would have to do was turn everything off and wait them out. It was a tactic that he had used many times over, back before the Newnan Safe Zone was established. But if the Dead surrounded the Hordebuster and forced them to stop until morning, then Moreland might be lost. Ash did not hold much hope that Newnan's wreckage would divert them all.
Speaking of Newnan, circumstance forced Ash to head directly toward it. This was not ideal. Getting boxed in against a split in the earth that contained the charred corpses of most of the people he knew up until that morning was not the manner in which he wanted to die. Ash listened closely as Tiffany rattled off a series of directions which matched up with his own memory of the area; a area he would likely never see again after this night. "Alright... Witcher Station is right up here. And there's the turnaround. We look clear." He wasn't sure if he was speaking aloud to reassure the passengers in the 'Buster, or himself.
The next landmark in the painfully optimistic set of directions was a grocery that they had long cleared out. It was damn near a full backtrack to Arnco Mills, but it still looked clear enough to navagate. Giving it thought, Ash really wished he didn't have to drive at night. Too many things could go wrong, and there was absolutely no one that he could turn to for help if the situation turned ugly. But he did have people in the general vicinity. Miles out, but friendlies nonetheless. "Jack. Jack! Come on guy, we need you. Get on the horn, see if you can raise our safehouse in Moreland. Hell, either of them. They need to know what's going on." He risked a glance back to his Second, "We're going to get her. It'll be okay. I didn't feel like waiting anyway."
Ash wasn't sure how much be believed the optimism coming from himself, but he fully intended to follow up on it. In the distance, he could see the next landmark, just a bit further southwest. "Okay, coming up on the Chapel. Where to from there?" He did wish for honest rest, but he wanted to get his people together a lot more.
Thalia Carmichael
Location: Eden, Coming to Adamm's Wing -> Doors to Elev Equip Skills: Stealth, Survival, Pistol
Oh, the expression about the Kid in the Candy Store most certainly came to mind. This is what she was looking for. It they could find and hold their Armory, the rest of the place would go down like a drunken prom date. Worst case, they could hold up with this area to their backs and make those fuckers pay until they ran out of ammo. Thalia still had two full mags in her weapons, and didn't really need to re-up immediately. Between the two of them, that was thirty-four 9mm NATO rounds at her disposal. She quickly sheathed her machete and gave the room a cursory examination. She kind of wished she hadn't.
Stuck among the 9mm pistols was a damn near carbon copy of her old company's basic sidearm. Not so special, considering that it was the most popular handgun of its type for law enforcement and security personnel worldwide; one of the more popular handguns period. Even in the Apocalypse she had a good shot at finding ammunition for it. What got her was the holster setup. It was exactly the same as hers. Exactly. Down to the occupied pouch for an additional magazine, cordura webbing material, and optional open muzzle. Possibilities ran through her head - either this was pulled from the corpse of a fellow Security Agent, looted from one of their caches (maybe taken from those who did, being fair), or former MSS people were with Eden. She dared not think about it too long. There were enough convoluted emotions going around, far too much to make things even more complicated.
Thalia snatched up the gun and holster like she was taking something away from a tantruming three year old, looking very cross at its presence among these other ill-gotten weapons and clipped it onto her tac belt. Of course it fit perfectly. They were designed to. The mag was full, and it looked in good repair at a glance. Oh, she had business with this room. Business indeed. But it would have to wait. From back in the previous area, she heard a gunshot ring out. This party had gatecrashers. Thalia took to Thana's lead, admiring her pragmatic approach to the shooting deaths which were to occur shortly.
"That suppressor theah also would have been great outside. Dunno what you got planned for that rope, but I got yah back." She drew her original sidearm, once again going Guns Akimbo. "And dibs on those SpaghettiOs, Navy. Let's clean house."
Mentioning Alicia did wonders to kill the mood in the Ramcharger. Granted, the mood wasn't really all that bright and cheery to begin with, but discussion of the young lady, family, they had just interred made things very quiet for a few long moments. The sound of tires gripping blacktop remained the dominant noise inside of the vehicle for an uneasy amount of time until Keystone finally broke the tense silence, musing over the words, "Associate Director, eh?" Having been an Interim Director, this was a touch of a step down but had more of a feeling of permanence. Something to put on a resume (if he ever thought to seek employment elsewhere) and hopefully with a more clearly articulated set of duties for him to adhere to.
Caesar had initially planned on making him Assistant Director. The change of that first word was important, redefining the role he was to play within the company. One made him essentially the guy who handles the runoff responsibilities of the new Director and takes over in the absence of, the other narrowed the field in which he operated and allowed for higher scrutiny and autonomy. They paid about the same. Whichever job description was selected, Maria would still be able to give a direct order that could only be overruled by the Owner (in this instance). She was still the lady in charge of the Justice branch of MSS.
The venerable Mexican turned to Keystone and spoke in his usual gravelly voice, "Yes. Associate Director in charge of the same duties I hired you for in the first place. Personnel, training, managing staff and situations on the ground. You will continue to operate as the go-to Security Agent for Special Projects and private assignments. For affairs of site business, you answer to Maria. That is, Miss Santiago." The words out, Caesar fell silent again.
After a couple more minutes of blacktop and silence, Angelita's voice piped up from the back of the vehicle. "Hey Tio, do I get my own office like in Boston?" It was more of a formality than anything else, the lady telecommuted half of the time, and days that she had to come in she usually spent time wherever struck her fancy with her suite of personal electronics around company grounds. Caesar growled once, but responded, "We will work something out. Until we do, you are in the Hub with the rest of your team. Should be a day or so."
"Right, comin' up on familiar streets n' such, ain't gonna be long now. We pickin' up eats on the way?" Thalia leaned forward upon hearing this, intently curious as to how the discussion was going to play out. She was a bit peckish herself. Caesar answered, "On Site. Hub. Behind closed doors. Lots of different places deliver to the Diamond District." The sooner they got to business, the better.
It appeared that whether or not Foy accepted Jacqueline's assistance, it was being conscripted by their new Captain anyway. Foy didn't mind the company, and was in fact going to take up the young Miss on her offer of help. Granted, he questioned her motivations, though he figured any opportunity to get some breathing room from most of these people, if even for a few moments, was preferable. Likewise preferable was the company of the immaculately dressed and generally pleasant-smelling Mr. Coiffeur, as he would say himself.
"Indubitably, Miss Croix." he responded, answering her question despite the fact that Anisa's words had made her offer an order, "There should never be an occasion wherein a gentleman would spurn the aid nor attentions of a lady with the fine taste to offer such." He began a purposeful stride toward the nearest stairwell in the aft of the Galley. Fine speech and platitude aside, he continued speaking as he descended the stairs, "Understand however, Miss Croix, that we engage in a chore most domestic in nature; the only positive note to this task being its respectably short duration. New crew ushered to an unused dormitory generally means spartan conditions to an extreme, particularly in a vessel such as this. Sundries and personal effects are not our concern..."
This point in his little rundown (without bothering to ask if she was familiar with the process in the first place) brought him to the door to the first room in question, a bit of quartering that was listed as a double despite Foy's own silent objections to the room's classification. He opened the door and peered inside to note precisely what he expected, a small sitting room with a distinct lack of anything resembling decor or style. It was sparsely furnished with the bare minimum of items, including a light source, table, chair, and fixed terminal. Another doorway was set within the far wall, presumably leading to a small bedroom, and a simple desk was attached to the wall. In general, the room had the feel of a motel, albeit highly generic in nature. It was clean, which made his job a lot easier. "...for as you can clearly observe, madame, this is much like a naval vessel. That is to say, we need only ensure that the linen is fresh (generally stored beneath the bed, if anything like my experiences shipbound), the terminal functions properly, and there is nothing in the way of dust. Touches of home are the responsibility of those acquiring the room, not those providing. To force one's sense of upright style upon newcomers, regardless of propriety and social standing, would be ungentlemanly at best."
Foy smiled and turned to Jacqueline, twisting the end of his moustache with a smile on his face. "I might adorn their pillows with a wrapped candy or two, if I may trust you with my disclosure. Come along now, let us get started. The sooner we find ourselves done, the sooner I might divest myself of these pedestrian labors."
And so it came to pass that William Harper, Pilot and apparently "Slim Piece of Man-Meat" was sent to welcome in people who he was not only warned about, but who expressed an interest in borrowing him from Anisa for horizontal stress relief without so much as inquiring as to whether he'd be okay with it. She was a pretty enough woman, but there was a touch of violent instability about her, not to mention that he couldn't just dismiss what he had shared with Anisa the night before. Not the first shred of humane, personal contact he'd had in years. He didn't know if it would be considered a betrayal, but he wasn't going to risk the appearance of betrayal until he could hammer down exactly what it meant, if anything at all. Hopefully, the Captain's assertion would be enough to quell further difficulties.
The thought suddenly hit Harper: He was imprisoned for years without exchanging sexual favors for protection. Lord knew it was tempting after a while and probably would have spared him some awful scarring, but easily led to other problems. Now that he was free, Harper was relying on a person of reputation to avoid a potential "dropped soap scenario" with another person of reputation. Even if this Vinters lady was kidding, and he figured it was probably just the equivalent of soldiers' talk between two hardasses who hadn't seen each other in a while, it had been established that (in the context of this exchange) Harper was Anisa's bitch.
The thought stopped him in his tracks, halfway to the main Cargo doors. Then he began to laugh. It was sputtering at first, but grew in volume and clarity. He bit down on his knuckle, wiped a tear or two away, and otherwise did his best to shove it back down, but damage done. Exhaling a final bit of mirth, he said aloud in breathy voice, "Oh Harper, you dumbass, this could be so much worse." Indeed it could. He was in a much better position than he was a few days ago, and a significantly better position than he was a couple of weeks ago. He attached himself to this woman and this ship for a reason, a damned good one, and she had been kind to him, in her own way. Whatever she needed of him over the next couple of years was just fine by his reckoning, and whatever she didn't want from him was a-ok too, at her preference. Harper was perfectly fine with being her Pilot With Benefits. Life was too short and he'd already wasted part of it. Moral flexibility was his forte these days anyway.
The completed journey aft toward the main cargo doors was completed with a swifter pace, seeing as they had crew waiting patiently on him. Well, on Anisa, but he was serving as welcome wagon on this occasion. Either way, he needed to get them inside. Harper jogged over to the controls and hit the main button, opening the cargo bay to the sights and sounds of the Newhope Docks. The first such sight and/or sound experienced was the duo of heavily muscled blonde siblings standing just beyond the reach of the loading ramp. Somehow, the groggy conversation over the Cortex didn't do justice to the sight of these people. The woman in particular looked goddamned painful, attired and armed as she was, with the visible parts of her arms showing cords of lean muscle that promised awful, awful things to those who crossed her. The man... okay, not what he was expecting, but still a powerhouse of a human being, whatever else he might be. Unbidden, a thought escaped his brain in the form of a misplaced vocalization:
"Shèng Lā Shǐ1, you're a Viking."
1 = Holy Shit
Bridgette Vinters
Location: Newhope Docks (In front of Prometheus) -> Prometheus (Cargo) Skills: N/A
Bridgette disliked impatient people, even if the occasion happened that she found herself being impatient. She disliked pushy people too, again making her something close to hypocritical. Like Cyril, she was awash with mixed feelings. Some of it was a little scary, changing up one's life even if it meant a better one. It was certainly exciting; no matter how many times she moved around there was always a sense of wonder, bordering on optimism. The chance to experience something new that the 'Verse had to offer was something to look forward to. Working on a ship like this would provide many such opportunities. So yes, Bridgette was a little anxious and yes, that translated into a moment of impatience.
Her brother's response was admittedly not the most ideal, given the circumstances. "Frost your shit, Cyril." she said in a concerned tone of voice, "These people are getting ready for a funeral. Show some restraint. You want your own bunk, right? Safe place to sleep? They need to see the strong, kind Cyril that helps out his big sister. They can meet the Cyril that drop-kicks fuckers and wears their ass for a hat another day. Okay bro?"
At that moment, the cargo doors began to open. Just a crack at first, but as the mechanisms kicked in properly the front end of the vessel parted to allow them sight and access into Prometheus. Bridgette lifted the handle on her big utility trunk and rolled it over to the ramp as it settled upon the paved surface of the docks. A devious grin split her face as she looked up to hopefully greet her friend Anisa, only to catch a second of disappointment to view Harper instead.
She responded to his observation of her decidedly Nordic influence with a flat, sarcastic, "Yeah, and what, Anisa changed her mind and you're my 'welcome aboard' gift? Cause I got a few minutes to fuck through some mixed emotions there, man-meat." She was a little annoyed that the Captain couldn't be there to meet her, but generally accepted Harper's coming explanation of the situation:
"Hardly." he answered, remaining stoic. "Unexpected things hit us recently, including Shepherd Pearson's passing. The Captain is taking care of something important, otherwise she'd be here herself, but she will be meeting us all in the Galley in a half hour." He gave a curt wave, intoning, "Permission to come aboard granted."
Bridgette blinked for a second, eyeing the fairly straightlaced man in tac coveralls in front of her. He was armed and comfortable with it, had decent posture, and didn't react to her barbs. He was military. Judging by his Core accent, he was Alliance military, or used to be. Not that she could judge, her paycheck was once-upon-a-time funded by Alliance credit. Plus, there was no way in hell that Anisa would get in bed with, literally or figuratively, anything having to do with them. Shrugging, she hefted her trunk and pulled it along behind her, making her way up the ramp and into Cargo proper.
"Quarters are being prepared for the both of you. In the meantime, you may store your belongings in aft Cargo and I will show the both of you to the Galley."
"Whoa there, Cruise Director - you got a fucking name or do I have to guess it?" It didn't seem fair that this guy overheard her and her brother's names while sitting in on a wave with Anisa. The man seemed to get it, acquiescing to her rudely put request.
"Harper, William. I am your pilot, Miss Vinters."
"Okay then 'Harper, William'," she replied with a sarcastic smile etched into her features, "we can be friends now."
The items up for Reginald's inspection gave him no solace, no sense of immediate closure. It was the appearance of finality at the end of a tunnel, giving him a sense that maybe, sometime in the future, he would be able to fully accept the reality of his situation. Peter was indeed dead. This time.
He briefly considered claiming the watch and other personal effects for himself, citing his relation to the man and the fact that they were both military officers. It was protocol to go over these items before passing them along to the family, anyway. "No, thank you. This shall be sufficient to identify." he said quietly but clearly, "If I might have a moment with his things before I claim his remains?" It was less of a question, more of a statement of what was to occur next.
Careful hands picked up and inspected every piece of Peter's charred belongings. Cufflinks, wallet, watch, the handle of his cane, even the irregular piece of something that was embedded in his leg. Especially the irregular piece of something that was embedded in his leg. A foreign object that may or may not have contributed to his death, be it directly or indirectly? It deserved his scrutiny before he moved on.
Without context or prompting, Reginald looked to George as the inspection continued, saying, "I appreciate your assistance with this difficult task, Mr. Benaszewski. You seem a decent and loyal fellow. As we finish things here, I should wish to buy you a drink. A bit of spirits among Men of Honor to tribute our dear and fallen."
Location: London (Northwest Inner Wall) -> Exiting London (By means of Northwest Inner Wall) Skills:Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), Brivaldi, English
Part of being a Bazhooli, or indeed any member of the Circus, meant that you lived a rather active life. Especially if you were a Bazhooli, and Vladimir was quite literally the Bazhooli'est Bazhooli living. This active life and constant training gave him certain physical advantages over more average working men, laborers, etc., reflected in the strength of his arm and nimbleness of movement. He used these attributes solidly to carry out Ludwig's directions as they played the most memorable game of Chess of the talented Rusyn's life. Just as memorable was the result of that game.
The movement of the Wall of Jericho was a truly impressive thing indeed. Vladimir, standing directly in front of the spectacle as the gap continued to widen, accompanied by the mechanical shake of the ground around them. This was not a thing that happened generally, seeing as walls were usually designed to stay solid and maintain a sense of security. Logically this had to have been constructed for a specific reason; The Great Bazhooli doubted that reason was to assist the Russian Imperial Circus in their unplanned escape from London. Ideas of philosophy or the motivation of long departed engineers aside, it was one amazing sight.
The Baron seemed to agree with Vlad's unspoken awe. His expression mirrored his son's, complete with the eyes sparkling with childlike wonder. Such was a sight never seen by the traveling folk, and they had seen much in their lifetimes. It was inspiring. Back in the procession, Konstantin Alexandrov stood atop his father's vardo, likewise highly interested in seeing an entire section of city fortification part before them.
The Great Bazhooli viewed the wonder of the sudden opening and looked to his father. He swept off his grand, tall hat and bowed low, drawing his hand to one side in a dramatic gesture. "Honor of first steps to you, my Baron." he said through a broad, gratified smile. The elder Alexandrov nodded his head and acted upon the insistence of his eldest son, leading his Circus out of London by means of a path not used in an age, if ever. As the Circus recovered from the event and pressed forward, Vlad put his fingers to his lips and blew out a whistle, following it up with a rather melodious call of, "Tolstoy!"
Within the matter of a quarter minute, a great black horse bred of Old Don stock came trotting up from the animal handler's mobile menagerie, fitted with full tack. It whinnied and snorted, then nuzzled up to Vladimir like they were old friends. The zealous Russian man leapt upon the noble beast, gently urging him ahead with promises of brushings and good, cold vodka. Upon rejoining the lead carts, Vladimir voiced a bit of a concern to Ludwig: "Vall? ...closes back, da? Vall closed, peoples feeling safe. Vall open, not feel as safe. Angry, scared peoples. Closes, da?"
Sister Mary Ignatia Hale
"Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit." -Isaiah 17:9 Location: Nottingham (Stables) Skills: The Sacrament
The notion that Virginia had some interest in a section of Catholic lore, however small a slice of it, was heartwarming. Of course, Mary figured only about half of the written history on the works of St. Gertrude would hold her interest. She was not a solemn death goddess in her own right; it was fairer to describe her as a representative of Christ who bore mercy for the dead and dying faithful. Though there were some accounts of her earlier life that painted a risque, occasionally sinful image of her. "I daresay you may find the teachings of the old Christian Gnostics worth a read, as well. Far less organized than the present incarnation of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, nonetheless their views on death and the veneration of Saints are..." She searched for the proper word to describe what she had been taught about the origins of her faith, settling on, "Provocative." Much of it now considered heretical, but yes, also provocative.
Mary listened patiently as Virginia explained directly to Veta the details of her spirit's trip outside of her earthly constraints. Occasionally, she looked over the big, white tiger, Myshka. The beast did not seem to want to go anywhere. After the previous night, Mary could not blame the poor animal any more than she could blame her own horse for needing to rest after the same journey. Fortunately for her horse, Elizaveta used one of her people's abilities to help it recover. It was now her time to return the favor.
Kneeling down near Myshka as Veta petted his fur, Mary called upon her Trained skill of Timyne and fueled it as best she could with mercy and the urgency of their mission. "Loving Father, exhale a breath of compassion upon Your noble beast; be it Thy will, let him rise to our aid, nourished and refreshed by Your mercy. Amen." She made the motions of a cross before her, ending by kissing the crucifix at the end of her rosary. The prayer wasn't actually necessary for the invocation of the skill, but it helped to center her. Carefully. Mary lay a hand upon Myshka's flank and allowed the blissful, healing energy of Timyne to sweep over the great, white tiger.
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[hider=Death Scenes]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266]Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944]The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657]Malfunctioning Space Toilet[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122]Rube Goldberg Decapitation[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229]Shitter's Full[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115]Dirigible (warning, SAD)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295]After "The Last Barbecue"[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699]Detoxing Pilot[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239]Girls Stick Together[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807]Oops[/url]
[/hider]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659]"Character Flaw"[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914]Keystone's Daydream[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161]Checking for Mental Intrusion[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115]The Power Of Pain Compels You[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484]The Greater Good[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610]Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady[/url]
[hider=Signature Images]
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<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Lady Absinthia's GM Awards">Lady Absinthia's GM Awards [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><ul class="bb-list" style="white-space: normal;"><li></li><li>Save Another from LLA Card</li><li>Kill Any NPC in LAU Card</li><li>Plot Insight Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li></li></ul></div></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Death Scenes">Death Scenes [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266">Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944">The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657">Malfunctioning Space Toilet</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122">Rube Goldberg Decapitation</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229">Shitter's Full</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115">Dirigible (warning, SAD)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295">After "The Last Barbecue"</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699">Detoxing Pilot</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239">Girls Stick Together</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807">Oops</a></div></div><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659">"Character Flaw"</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914">Keystone's Daydream</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161">Checking for Mental Intrusion</a> <br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115">The Power Of Pain Compels You</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484">The Greater Good</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610">Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady</a><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Signature Images">Signature Images [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/xT0GqpswuzhOqHP6gM/giphy-downsized-large.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/iMnyx7HWjZgPu/giphy.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/wUTjLTf.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K04tQV9pRE8/UCFQiE8aoVI/AAAAAAAATJk/hIK7mzvvYpk/s430/99.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/rigeWJc.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://uproxx.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/throughthedoor.gif?w=650" /></div></div></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://image.ibb.co/jVrOhp/Scythefalling.gif" /></div></div>
Zman
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