wanderingwolf

Art by Wanderingwolf

Firefly - Second 'Verse

When the Night Makes You Numb, Part 4 - (Day 3, Evening)

A collab between @Xandrya and @Wanderingwolf

The moon of Pelorum hung low in the sky, like a bird lazily carried by the tropical breeze. Cal's jaw was slack as he leaned against the mule; his silver case leapt into his hand. He watched far off as a couple of young folk carefully clutched a bundle of pink flesh to their chests in turn while waiting on the night bus. The lighter flipped on, he held out the cigarette. That yellow moon hung low and bright, he could almost see Alana's eyes there blinking back beneath those dark brows--"Da Shiong La Se La Ch’wohn Tian!" (trans. explosive diarrhea of an elephant)

Captain Strand's expletives played second fiddle to the show the man put on as he wildly beat out the fire that had engulfed the brim of his favorite hat. "Lio Coh Jwei Ji Neong Hur Ho Deh Yung Duh Buhn Jah J’wohn!" (trans. stupid son of a drooling whore and a monkey)

Eyes from the newly minted parents turned to the man who now held a smoldering hat and a defeated expression, "Shuh Muh?" He said, throwing up his hands at the pair who decided to forgo the bus in favor of walking. (trans. what?)

Cal leaned backward against the mule, before sliding to the ground. Propping his elbows on his knees, both hands held the still smoking hat by what remained of the brim. She was gone. She was really gone. He'd been trying to forget her--and now? He looked at the moon. And now he never could.

She waited, and then waited some more. Imani practically melted into her seat, finding herself being entertained by passerby and the occasional rush due to an emergency. But an undefined amount of time later, the doctor returned with a holyman in tow, the latter holding an urn with both hands. His expression was slightly apologetic, but mostly serious. Probably the very same face he presented whenever he dealt with a death, and given his profession, that must be quite often.

"Ms. Imani, I'm Father Francis. Here are Dr. Lysanger's ashes..." he stretched out his arms to offer her the urn. "If you're up to it, I can say a prayer from any faith you follow."

She took the urn, wanting to already be out of that place. "Mighty kind of you, and the effort is appreciated but I'm not too keen on religion." Imani then wished them a good day and turned on her heel, hoping to find Cal nearby and not be a stranded hitchhiker.

But as luck would have it, he was still in the area. Imani picked up the pace, settling in next to him once she was at his side. "I had her cremated...otherwise I believe her body would have been used for some students to poke around on, and I dunno, figured she deserved a better send-off than getting used as a lab rat." Imani waited for his reaction, whether that was an angry outburst or a simple acknowledgment devoid of emotion, he was completely within his right.

He let her words sink in while still staring at the skies. Not only was Alana gone, but she was dust. Breaking his brooding gaze for the simple, utilitarian urn in Imani’s hands, his mind cast backward–would she have wanted to be an experiment? As a medical professional, it weren’t out of the question. Selfishly, he didn’t want that for her. If he were in Imani’s boots, he probably would have done the same, and so he finally said, “I reckon you’re right.”

Cal stretched out a hand to touch the urn’s lid in Imani’s lap. The old adage was something like, ‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust.’ The saying had a finality to it, true, but what he got most from it was the insignificance of everything in between. One day you’re riding across the sky, the next, dust. He swallowed hard.

“It’s late,” he said, rising. Mounting the mule, he kicked it to life, tossing what was left of his hat into the gutter. He idled there a moment; waited for Imani to saddle up. Waited for something to touch him in the void he was swimming in. He’d had his anger already. When Alana left he was plenty furious. Now he was left with the hole left behind by anger, pain, and grief. The last words he said to her still tattooed his brain: ‘you do your gorram job and I’ll do mine.’ And now it’d keep playin’ for a spell, he wagered. Keep playin’ until he drowned it out with the usual suspects.

His face said it all; no words needed. Imani helped the captain secure the urn as they prepared for their return to the Doll. She could only ponder as to the many thoughts racing through his mind in that moment. Imani had never had a significant other whom she'd be devastated over losing, thus she didn't have many empathetic words of consolation to offer Cal, nothing really other than her company.

"Trade me?" she gently placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping he'd take her offer.

Cal didn’t have to think about it, feeling the tap on his shoulder. He threw his leg over the mule and stood, not making eye contact with Imani as she took the driver’s seat. Once she was settled, he saddled up behind her and placed one arm around her side for stability. Hours ago she had wrapped her hands around his waist to the beat of the music; sober yet sotted, and just plain sad, the Captain didn’t lose sight of the irony.

Imani glanced over her shoulder, confirming Cal had plopped down and readied up for the ride. She didn't further speak as she revved her up, and a moment later she welcomed the breeze making a slight mess of her hair.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

When the Night Makes You Numb, Part 3 - (Day 3, Evening)

A collab between @Xandrya and @Wanderingwolf

"Alana!" he barked, kneeling at her side, hands at her shoulders, "Alana! Somebody call a doctor!" His wide eyes didn't break from her pained face, even as her hair lay across her cheeks. He shook her, gently, "Alana, wake up!" But she didn't stir. He looked her over now, signs of an injury, some sort of wound to treat, but there weren't no hide nor hair of blood. "Alana," his voice was raising now. His gentle shakes rocked her shoulders, but her body only quaked in limp response. That pit in his stomach swallowed him whole. He felt like he needed to retch. His shaking hand sought out the vein at her neck, but in the seconds he took to read her pulse, the tears began to come. "No," he croaked, his throat collapsing. "No..."

I thought we had more time,
Time to get things right,
Some days the sun won't shine,
Some days we fuss and fight,

But still I thought of you,
Our picnic on the beach,
You watched the scenic view,
I watched you within reach,

Now I hold you, but I don't,
Come on back to me,
The kindness that you've sown,
By your love, I was free.

Heartbreaking. No other words to describe it. Imani watched as Cal poured himself over Alana, desperate to find any sign of life in her. She was gently shoved as someone's curiosity got the better of them.

"Back up, they need their space!" Imani turned to address the crowd, spreading out her arms in an attempt to keep them from suffocating the two. In response, someone slapped her hand away, and she wasn't having it. Imani's eye fell on the man as she forced her way in front of him. "I said stay back!" She placed an open palm on his chest and in a not-so-gentle way pushed him back into the crowd. When he gripped her wrist, Imani used her free hand to wind back before delivering a blow to his jaw, one that would catch him off balance, sending him into unsuspecting witnesses. She felt a tug, pulling her away from him. Imani then decided it was enough and she shook them off, barging her way to the captain's side.

"Is she gone?" she knelt down beside him, looking her over but failing to see any indicators of life.

Cal became stone in that moment, the tear streaks on his cheeks quickly wiped away. It wasn't lost on him, beside himself as he was, that Imani had made space for the trio, and pulled a punch to keep things from escalating. Now, he stood, eyes of the crowd glued to him, Alana, and Imani. Parting the bodies, they fell away as he made a b-line for his hat at the bar. Minutes before he had been trying to forget the woman lying on the floor, with some help from his companion; now, a new host of emotions ripped and pulled at him like a current. Strand returned to Imani and Alana, and knelt beside the motionless woman. "Dédào m zi," he said, looking down at Alana. With an arm gently placed beneath her neck and shoulders, the other at the fold of her knees, Cal lifted the lifeless Alana, her head lolling against his chest.

There were no words exchanged during the solemn trip to the hospital. Imani focused on the safe transport of her captain and his girlfriend. The great and almighty Buddha would ideally spare her from suffering through such misfortune in the future if she were to find an adequate man to settle down with. She'd faced plenty of death in her life, but to lose your partner had to hurt enough to crumble a soul. Whom else if not said partner to grow a family with?

Imani took a quick peek behind her to see Cal holding on to any last bit of hope that they were able to work some life into her. But if experience served her any, time was simply working against them.

Another notification chimed from the cortex, letting them they were arriving at their destination very soon. "We're almost there," she finally added, breaking the silence.

The hospital was the only place to go. Not the Doll; no doc there. He'd made sure of that. Her body was beginning to cool in his hands. His brows pulled down permanently. Somewhere deep inside, he clung to the threadbare hope that docs could work miracles. He looked down into Alana's face. This one had, afterall.

Upon their arrival, Imani hurriedly-near on desperately-exited the mule and rushed to get the nearest medical staff available, forgetting Cal was left behind with a limp body. She rushed through the entrance and flagged down who she assumed to be a nurse.

"We've got an emergency, our doctor has no pulse!" Imani could've waited for a response, but she gripped the man's arm and dragged him outside.

As Imani rushed in to find help, Cal carefully stood from the mule while holding the limp form of his medic. Her hair was disheveled from the break-neck pace they'd taken to get here, but her face fell almost restfully. She looked like she was sleeping; like he'd watch her sleep hundreds of times from their shared bunk. The pit in his stomach drew at his insides like a black hole.

The rest was a blur, from the man Imani brought out, to the hospital waiting room. Now he sat shoulder to shoulder with Imani, though he'd said very little throughout the whole ordeal. In the silence, he waged war against the phantasm army of memories: her smile and those striking brows of hers; the smell of her hair and the way her biting wit put him in his place more than a time or two. The minutes felt like hours, and what with all their fancy tech, they had all sorts of ways of imaging and scanning and processing Alana. But Cal knew that wasn't Alana any more. The black coffee clung to the paper cup in his hands, tilting its contents this way and that.

"Excuse me," the clear voice of a slight man in teal scrubs approached the pair. "For Alana Lysanger?"

Cal looked up at him without a word.

The man's brow lifted as he continued, "Ms. Lysanger suffered from a massive aneurysm caused by a tumor in her brain." He paused for a moment, gauging the reaction of both Cal and Imani, then added, "I'm sorry for your loss."

The Captain stood, put on his hat, and beat a trail through the buzzing medical staff back to the mule.

"Oh..."

Imani followed with a defeated sigh as she watched Cal disappear. She looked down then locked eyes with the uniformed man. "I reckon that's a best-case reaction from him given the news." Against her better judgment, the young woman then made a request which quite possibly would anger the captain to no end. She was overstepping into matters not of her concern, but in that moment, Imani saw it right to do what she did.

"You have a fairly quick cremation process, right?"

Firefly - Second 'Verse

When the Night Makes You Numb, Part 2 - (Day 3, Evening)

A collab between @Xandrya and @Wanderingwolf

The music slowly dulled. Alana found it odd but left it alone as she took another sip. Most likely, her already empty stomach would not see food prior to her ending her evening.

He finally let loose, she smiled as Cal made his approach, not wasting half a second closing the gap between them both. "I hope your feet do not tire easy," she leaned in close to his ear as to not yell over the music, her body still moving to the beat of the music with one arm off to the side as to avoid any spillage.

The way Imani moved near, his neck could feel the warmth of her skin; the way the rest of her flowed to the music, her admonition made him grin. “Honey,” he answered, sour face beginning to thin, “these boots were made for dancin’, and that’s just what they’ll do.” The beat set in deep and strong, now. “If you ain’t careful, Darlin’, reckon these boots’ll dance all over you.”

With another pull on his drink, Cal began to follow the way Imani’s body moved, keeping step but keeping space between them. With a glance over his shoulder, even in the strobing light, he swore he saw a familiar head of blonde hair near the bar. Shaking the thought from his mind, he returned his attention to his companion.

A sudden sharp pain caused her to drop her glass and instead reach for her head. Alana made a fist with one hand and pounded the bartop multiple times in response to the pain, but nonetheless it was persistent. Some of the patrons surrounded her to see if everything was alright, but they had to act quick when the young woman tried to get on her feet and instead dropped to the ground unconscious. They struggled to catch her at first, but then they were able to gently lower her onto the ground. Unbeknown to anyone there, however, Alana Lysanger had officially passed away that very moment from her brain tumor.

“Must be the alcohol talking!” She made a bold move and pushed her body to his while grabbing his drink off his hand. Their faces mere inches from each other, Imani turned to the side to take a sip, all the while she didn’t stop dancing. Since both hands were busy, once she gulped down the alcohol she returned his drink. At that point he didn’t stand a chance. Before he could possibly pull away, Imani snaked two fingers around his waist, eventually inserting them in one of the belt loops above his behind. And that’s exactly when she heard the commotion.

At first she thought nothing of it, but the alarming shouts became more obvious. The music was lowered and she stopped, looking in the direction of the huddled guests.

Here he was, trying his best to numb the sound of his last words to Alana--to the woman he cared for the most--but the whole scene, this bar, Imani, felt at arms length. He'd tempted fate when he showed her the door and dared her to walk through it. Stubborn as he was, he knew she was even more so. Call it pride or any other fancy Latin term, but it had bit Captain Cal Strand and sunk its teeth in deep. Once it let go, now he's stuck nursin' the wounds his own pride left behind.

Even now as the sound pulsed in his ears, he was still in the medbay, squared up with Alana. That look on her face, it made the bitterness well up inside him again. The sound of her dismissing him, all due to the thought that he fancied someone else on the ship... The kicker bein' Imani here.

And then that kicker leaned into him, pressin' every inch of their bodies together as they moved up and down to the music. He let her take his drink, transfixed for a moment at the abrupt closeness of someone filling the void. That's when he felt her intentions by way of a hand at the small of his back.

If he were honest with himself, the feelings of shame conjured by how he'd left things with Alana, and the scenario unfolding right now betixt him and Imani were two sides of the same coin. The intoxicating pull drug him down deeper, but the feeling of falling made him wary. That blonde head at the bar. Alana's lips. Then, that look in her eye when she told him to git.

Shouting brought him out of it, along with Imani extricating her hold of him, her eyes darting in the direction of the sound. They were yellin' for a doctor. Normally, Cal don't stick his nose into situations that don't concern him, but the pit in his stomach drove him forward through the crowd. When it parted, and he saw that phantasm before him, it drove him to frenzy.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

When the Night Makes You Numb, Part 1 - (Day 3, Evening)

A collab between @Xandrya and @Wanderingwolf

She sat by her lonesome self, the barstool to her left as empty as the barstool to her right. Idle hands cupped the tall glass of wine which had remained untouched for some time as thoughts of what could've been danced around in her head. Alana was still not over Cal, but that was her business and her business alone.

"Got a worry or two up in that noggin o' yours, don't ya?"

She looked up, the bartender was leaning on the edge of the counter with his back to her, but he'd turned his head to speak. He held a mug in one hand and a white dish towel in the other to remove some water stains.

"None of your concern if I do."

He shrugged off her response. "The safety and wellbeing of my customers kinda is my concern..." He fully turned to face her, slinging the rag over his shoulder as he set the mug down.

—

Pelorum ought to have been the vacation destination, even for working folk. There were all sorts of fun to get into, and if that weren’t your speed, the beach (what free beaches were left after the mega-resorts) offered some sun and the sound of gulls. All that in every corner of this town, and Cal still felt lower than la shi. Drunk would take his mind off his troubles, he conjured, and for once it weren’t the Doll or the job: it was his gorram heart.

The doors to this establishment proffered a tiki-themed, exotic island vibe, with bright and fruity drinks on display, but Strand found comfort in the line of amber bottles behind the bar. Since he and Alana had ended things, he’d felt more on edge, prone to anger, and less willing to stay sober, though that behavior hadn’t yet spilled out of his quarters. With Imani in tow, Cal made a b-line for the teak-looking bar and anchored an elbow while waiting for the keep to pay him mind.

Taking off his hat, he turned to his compatriot in an attempt to fill the silence, “You got any plans for leave this stop?” His tone was curious but offhanded. “Hard not to love a party town like this.” His face said he didn’t love it.

"No plans 'sides me enjoying ya company and leaving any trace of sobriety at the door."

That got a smirk from him, as he lifted his gaze to meet hers; there was a kindness, even a camaraderie behind those tough as steel eyes of hers.

Her statement was free of implications, though to Cal or another pair of listening ears such words could've easily been misconstrued. Any woman with half a brain could admit to his charming looks, but the fact that his personal life had taken a nosedive meant Imani would keep her distance from a man she'd otherwise pursue. In all earnest, she hoped he was okay.

"First round on me? We can't always abuse the rich," she smiled, waving over the bartender after briefly locking eyes.

“Hell, just the first?” Cal’s smile nearly reached his eyes. While his vivacious drinking partner conferred the particulars of their poison to the tender, he caught himself staring into his upturned hat. That nagging feeling gnawed at the back of his mind: regret. The rub of it, he reckoned: he was too blind to see it coming. Things with Alana had been hot and cool, sure, but never cold. Never, he surmised with a nod, was the wrong word.

The bartender poured Imani’s order in front of the pair, an amber swirling liquid Cal reckoned would dull the pain a mite after a few more. As he wrapped two fingers ‘round the rim, he lifted the glass, “To leavin’ sobriety at the door.” He held it aloft for Imani to clink her drink to his.

She toasted, and a moment later gulped down a mouthful. The strong, fruity taste burned as it traveled down her throat, her face contorting briefly from the aftertaste.

"This might just be the one drink I need for the night," Imani joked, setting the glass down in front of her. The bartender had been rather charitable with the serving portion, and Imani noted to give him extra coin for it.

Cal followed Imani’s lead, except he downed his drink and tapped the bar for another. He fully intended to embody his toast tonight. The China Doll was safely docked, they had a stretch of shore leave ahead of them, and Strand had no one to go home to tonight, even if the last made him a mite bitter.

Some lively music started playing. With her drink in hand once more, she started moving to the small dance floor which a few other patrons were currently occupying. "Join me!" she yelled over the music.

Strand shook his head but vacated his stool just the same, taking a little off the top of his new drink along the way. The dim lights accentuated the pulse of the music, some sort of electronic-Islander mix, with a choral arrangement to carry the melody. It wasn’t his usual cup of tea, but the alcohol was already making its way to his nerves, easing the senses in the warm embrace of a buzz brewing.

Imani, beautiful woman that she was, exuded both playfulness and spontaneity, which he found a mite alluring. His gaze took in the gentle curve of her cheek and the piercing set of those almost almond eyes. Perhaps against better judgment, the Captain joined her on the meager dance floor, bouncing to the beat, drink raised.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

It Can’t All Be Vacation - Shore Leave, Day 3 Morning

JP from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

Cal, enthroned in the Captain’s chair, had his feet up on the console while wearing a bright orange and red printed silk shirt embroidered with seagulls and palm trees. He gestured to the empty bridge, “Look, just ‘cause a body wears a brightly colored shirt don’t mean it’s a cry for help, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

The crystal clear voice of SAM echoed back, “What’s the phrase? ‘I call it how I see it’? According to known human history, this sort of change in behavior occurs when someone seeks attention to how they’re feeling, so if you want to tal–”

“Don’t get me wrong, Sam, I know you love your facts and figures, but I’m tellin’ ya, I just found this shirt in with the laundry–probably Rex’s–and I figured ‘when in Rome.’ That’s all.” His tone, despite it all, wasn’t deriding or dismissive, and the smirk he wore, had SAM been able to see it in her capture, would tell her she’d hit the nail on the head.

“Is that all? Well,” she continued after a moment, “I was going to say, if you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

“Appreciate the sentiment,” he replied, then changed the subject, “How many passengers we got lined up for this next leg?”

“It’s been a slow couple of days, but three have booked so far. Mr. Eleanor, Rev. McDermott, and Mrs. Hewitt have taken berths, but returned to town. I suspect they’re taking advantage of what’s left of the day before we leave this evening.

“I might have to take advantage, myself,” Strand said, thoughtfully touching his knuckles to his lips.

The sound of voices echoing down the corridor drew Yuri from the galley. He leaned through the cockpit hatch, a mug of coffee leading the way, before abruptly stopping. The man who lounged in the left seat had all the Captain’s mannerisms, right down to the timbre of his voice. But the floral explosion he wore was definitely the most ‘un-Cal’ thing the first mate had ever laid eyes upon. “Excuse me,” he buried the smile that threatened the corners of his mouth, “who are you and what have you done with our captain?”

“Et tu Yuri? I just got finished settin’ Sam straight and before you come up with any grandiose designs on my mental health, let me assure you: that’s a stupid question and don’t ask.” He righted himself in his chair, swiveling toward the first mate. “Heard we got scarce few stragglers for payin’ customers next hop.” Cal crossed his arms, “Ain’t Pelorum just a ray of sunshine.”

Seems to be in good spirits, Yuri thought as he leaned against the pilot’s railing. The captain’s absence had thusfar yielded an unusual taste in clothing and a moderately decrepit mule…but no doctor returned to the fold. Cal hadn’t mentioned Alana, and Yuri wasn’t about to broach the subject. “Gorram stupid question, you ask me,” he nodded amiably. “A ship’s Cap’n is wise as a sage, brave of heart, and clear of eye and mind. So say we all who want to keep drawing pay,” he chuckled. “Have to admit that I’m surprised we have any passengers rostered, what with our ace lawn chair girl off skylarking.” After pausing for a sip from his mug, the first mate spoke again. “We do have a job offer, though, sir.”

“Cortex books, way Sam tells it. She’s been experimentin’ with her own digital lawn chair, and apparently with a few captures and fake reviews, folk are liable to bite.” Strand chuckled. When he’d swiped the AI those months ago with designs to offload it as soon as possible, he had no idea how things would pan out. Now, much as he was loath to admit it, SAM was wearing him down; especially since she didn’t draw a share...

“Music to my ears,” Cal said, rising from the Captain’s chair. “Did you catch it or did it fall in your lap?” From where his duster hung on the back of the chair, he sought out the silver case in the breast pocket. His fingers worked the mechanics of lighting the cigarette at his lips while he said through the side of his mouth, “You haggle the price like I told you?”

Yuri was shaping up into quite the first mate. Having been drug from a life of ships and sea-faring, he acknowledged the chain of command and was keen to listen. He had a stubborn streak, but Cal had to admit he acted much the same a decade ago. What with Edina having appeared on the scene, he’d watched a transformation of that stubbornness into an easy-going, and somewhat goofy, nature. Women did the strangest things to men, he conjured. That thought pursed his lips a little too tightly around his cigarette, as he surveyed his first mate.

“Repeat customer,” Yuri shifted, his palms landing on the rail. “The museum we hauled those artifacts for? The Curator has a recovery job she pitched to Edina and me last night. There’s an asteroid she thinks might have some cargo containers ditched from one of the original colony ships. Its’ elliptical orbit puts it back within reach of the ‘verse for the first time in over three hundred years.” He paused a beat as Cal touched fire to a cigarette. “She wants us to head out and get what can be got.”

During a long draw on his smoke, Strand calculated the ship and crew specifics behind Yuri’s words. To check his work, he replied, “Haul like that means scaffolding and belly tanks; orbit like that means a narrow window to get the goods…” Cal let out a jet of smoke, eyebrow prompting Yuri to continue.

The mate nodded, his gestures more emphatic as the captain ticked boxes of a mental checklist. “All true…all true,” he agreed. “We’d need a truss exoskeleton bolted to hard points on the boat, extra fuel, extra oh-two, extra water. Pretty heavy prep that’d have to be done in the black somewhere off the beaten path.” He straightened his posture, the expression deepening as he delivered the next bit. “Not to mention a pretty wide berth we’d need to cut out past Miranda.”

The Captain nodded as Yuri confirmed the particulars. “Miranda?” Cal didn’t like that one bit. “Does Mrs. Museum conjure what she’s askin’?” Cal drew on his cigarette, considering. “When does this rock see this side of the ‘Verse?” Yuri was right: they’d need time to prepare, and more importantly, to find a pilot what could maneuver through asteroid fields. Cal’s hand was steady at the yoke, but he had to admit his reflexes weren’t honed for guiding the Doll. The wheels started turning on the latter subject.

“We felt her out as much as was do-able in a room full of folk,” Yuri replied. “She conjures the prep to be done, and our want to tiptoe the entire job to avoid pirates and claim jumpers, not to mention Reavers. I’m guessing she wants this just as quiet as we do to steer clear of the Alliance making their own claim.” He set the empty mug down beside the pilot’s console. “We didn’t talk coin. I told her that was for you and her to work out. But she did make it clear she’d have our charter for three months to get the job done.”

Cal nodded, “Three months of honest work is no joke. You did good. Maybe I oughta attend more hoity parties like you. I’ll wave her down and walk her toward a figure that’ll put us right.” He moved to the ashtray on the captain’s console. “I got an inklin’ on how to find us a pilot, but I need to suss a few things. And we’ll need one for this gig.” Cal looked out the nose view pane, “You know Abby’s gonna be over the moon for this job.” He shook his head, “Girl loves the black more than white on rice. Didja see the chalk picture she drew on the hull before Osiris? Gigantic butterfly. ‘Mariposa,’ excuse me.” Cal sighed and ground his cigarette in the tray.

To that, Yuri responded with a slow nod. Hope she’s got her ‘surprised’ face ready, he mused briefly before lifting a mild smirk toward Cal. “Think we should add a bucket of chalk to our bid?”

“Reckon I might just.” Cal hooked his duster on a finger as he made way toward the corridor. “Though, I oughtta inspect Edina’s cookin’, first. Man alive, woman’s got a way with spices, don’t she?”

“She’ll be pleased to hear that, sir.” Yuri collected the coffee mug as Cal made for the corridor hatch. “Museum’s expecting us today. I’ll set the meeting.”

“Shiny,” Cal replied, then hesitated half-way through the hatch, “And Sam?”

“Yes, Cal?”

“Don’t tell nobody you saw me in this getup,” he said, gesturing to his shirt. “Goes for you, too,” he said, pointing to Yuri.

“Saw you in what?” the first mate asked.

“My lips are sealed,” her lilting accent punctuated the digital smirk.

“Uh-huh,” Cal replied before disappearing, shortly before the sound of his bunk ladder clapping shut behind him.

Reassured by the heavy clang of the ladder hatch, Yuri cast an eye toward the video capture pickup. “So…Sam?” he said easily, “did you get pretty pictures?”

“High resolution color,” the AI responded crisply.

“Good.” A smile touched his feetures as he strode toward the hatch. “Please add ‘em to the ‘Blackmail’ folder, along with Abby’s new nickname…Cornflakes.”

“Already done.”

Art by Wanderingwolf

The last post I wrote had the captain on his way to rock bottom. His lady friend just ended things with him in a pretty explosive manner, and he’s just spent the night gambling and partaking in other pleasures in a tiki-themed brothel to try to lift his spirits. Unfortunately, he still needed to take care of business, namely, getting a new mule since the last had been abandoned in a quick get away.

Here, the captain is flat on his back in the street having paid through the ass for a new mule that barely runs because he mentioned to the mechanic that he’d just met the man’s sister at the whore house.

Any critiques are welcome. I tried to get through this image as quickly as possible through assembling lots and lots of pre-made (pre-paid) assets (thanks Ian Hubert). It was more about story telling for me with this one. I’m sure none if the above comes through in this shot, but it was fun to make. Thanks for reading.

All done in Blender from modeling to comp.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Look Out Rock Bottom

Pelorum, Day 2

Cal's world began to come into view through sleepy, blinking eyes. The sprays of brown and blonde hair in his arms and on his chest began to clear the cobwebs, then the headache struck with each beat of his heart. Harsh light from the Pelroum sun sliced through the askew slats of the bedroom window. Two forms began to shift and sigh in soprano as he extricated his limbs from the curves of their pillowy, soft flesh.

He slipped into his trousers and buttoned his shirt, not looking back at the two sleeping, naked shapes sprawled over the bed. As he laced one boot, and then the other, he considered whether he ought to check in with SAM and Yuri, but decided against it, having nothing to show for his trip into town but a lighter purse. As he stood in the doorway, Cal permitted himself one look at last night's escapade. The brown-haired woman was petite yet buxom, her beautiful breasts moved in sleepy breaths, her face hidden in a pillow. The blonde woman was resting peacefully, curves completely uncovered by the clinging sheet, her relaxed face adorned with such pronounced brows that he had to swallow and rub his eye to banish the phantasm. No, it wasn't her. He knew it wasn't her.

Taking the stairs of the brothel two at a time, Cal took in the sight of the place in the light. The whole thing was a solid wooden structure, with a tacky bar carved with tiki men stacked on each other's heads. Accenting the bar were brightly colored leis hung and sagging over each tiki head which parroted the 'hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil' trope, but with a hand filled with cards here, or a peeking eye there, each tiki naked and hung as the day was long. Above the bar and around the place woven palm fronds created a canopy from the accommodations above where patrons retired to sample the primary service of the establishment.

Mid-day, he judged by the sun through the windows, meant that he would need to make up for lost time. For his galavanting on the main floor, dedicated to gambling as was custom, he'd earned a tip by keeping his ears open, part and parcel to a good hand of Tall Card last night--one of his only good hands. By name, it was Duke's Junk Yard, and by rumor it had a mule or two to spare. 'Course the tip was followed up with 'My brother works there, sugar! Tell him Tina says hullo,' from the woman at his elbow, pressing her cleavage up against him. Cal considered if it weren't unwise to out Tina as his source; whore houses might complicate family dynamics, he reckoned.

Cal tucked his hat onto his head and strode out into the street. Duke's was only a click from the spot and he was hoofing it to the sound of seagulls crying in paradise. True to form, the junk yard showed all the signs of disrepair he'd expected. Weeds wound in and among the chain link fence that lead to the arch which read "Duke's Junk," the sign pinned to the spot with rusted nails and covered in bird droppings. The double gate was open on one side, a hung sign read 'Open' on the other.

"Hullo," announced Cal to the burned out vehicles and parts of ships that lay spread among the weeds. The building wound around back where a dirt path had been worn. Once he rounded the corner to the garage he spied a man on his back beneath a jacked mule, decked in overalls and saturated in oil from knee to chest.

"I say hullo," he repeated to the man who pushed back from his work and regarded him with a wary look. He rose, wiping his soiled hands on his thighs. Cal couldn't tell if his hands got cleaner or dirtier.

"Afternoon," the middle-aged stranger replied, "I don't do deliveries, only haul-a-ways and scrap parts." His eyes measured Cal's expression, "Now, what brings you in?"

Pointing, Cal drew attention to the man's work, "That one there, does it run?"

The stranger turned to survey the mule. "It runs, the drive shaft needs replacing; shudders like an Quaker."

"How much as-is?" Cal removed his hat and approached the mule. It was in considerable condition, plenty of life in the chasis. The tires needed turning, by his eye, edgewear indicated it had been driven in the city, mostly. Shocks looked suitable, but the drive shaft enclosure was exposed as the man had been in the process of replacing it.

The man watched Cal appraise the mule while he produced a semi-white handkerchief and blew his nose. "Six hundred, once I button up the casing."

Strand fought the urge to balk and bit his tongue. "Six hundred, huh? Looks like it needs new tires and replacement shocks. Four-fifty and I'll take it off your hands."

Scratching his neck, the mechanic eyed the mule, then Cal. "Four-fifty..." the man hawked and spit. "For true, five-fifty is the lowest I'll go."

"Five-fifty," he wore his poker face to keep his smile at bay, the man went down now, he'd go down even further with a little push. "You know," Cal placed his hat on the mule, "I was told to say hullo for a little woman called Tina." He turned away from the man, looking again at the prize he'd soon secure.

The color drained from the mechanic's face and his mouth drew tight. "You saw Tina last night?"

"We talked while I played a hand or two," Strand said, turning his back to the man.

"Uh-huh, played a hand or two, didja?" He slapped his handkerchief on his thigh and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Indeed, so what do you say to five-hundred even?" Cal turned back to him wearing his most charming smile.

"I say you can go fuck yourself for five-hundred, just like you did my sister."

"Hold on now," Cal raised his hands, "No such thing happened, she just mentioned your name during cards--that's all. I ain't laid a hand on your sister. I swear on my mother's grave."

"That so?" the man, probably called Duke, eyed Cal from stem to stern. He chewed his cheek and spat. "Seven-hundred and no less. If not? Get out."

Cal picked up his hat and spat, too. He needed a mule. Couldn't go back to the Doll empty handed. "Twist my arm."

"I'd like to," came the reply as he abruptly lowered the mule from its jack.

"Hold on, what about the casing?"

"I'll throw in a wrench, but you go on the street."

Cal threw off his jacket one arm at a time, casting it over the seat of the mule. Set to neutral, he wheeled the thing out of Duke's and into the weed-ridden street. Unceremoniously, the Captain crawled under the mule armed with a wrench and bolts to fasten the casing over the exposed rod.

"Oughtta known, with my ruttin' luck," the casing fit into place without a fuss. "Buddha-forsaken place like Pelorum, society of inbred yīngōu shǔ," he turned the wrench which banged against the casing. "Core planet la shi," casing fastened, he wriggled his way back out from under the mule. "Thing oughtta be made of solid gold for seven-hundred."

Tossing the wrench in the short bed, Cal mounted the mule and gave it a kick. It belched carbon and roared to life, a high-pitched idle to follow. From his meager knowledge, it told him he'd need the likes of Elias or Yuri to take a look and make sure the choke was situated. Thrown into gear, the mule eased forward with great vibration, and Strand tucked his hat around his ears. The waning sun lit the pot-hole ridden road back to the China Doll.

As he'd given Abby shore leave, not a soul greeted him as he rode the new mule up onto the ramp. He parked it where its counterpart had been and killed the gas, home sweet home, he thought. Sans a medic and a pilot, this boat felt less like a home and more like those strapped years where his lonely needle and yoke respectively filled those posts aboard the shell of a ship. His left pinky never had set right from his own splinting as reigning medic. A captain without crew weren't captain of much. He scratched his chin and pursed his lips.

After his bout with the nun, he was wary of finding her in the galley, but the smell from Edina's cooking drew him in, in spite of himself. He'd have a bite and chalk up meandering from vice to vice these last hours to the win column, seein' as he came back with something to show for it, leastwise. Finally, his silver case of little white soldiers had been reinforced, and he lit a smoke as he took the stairs to the galley.

"How we lookin'?" he asked of the empty cargo bay, hand covering the flame at his lip.

"Welcome back, Cal," came Sam's unprompted response from a wall speaker to his left. "Most of the crew is townside. Enjoying the sun, I imagine. Fuel reserves have been repleneshed, and the waste resevoirs have been drained."

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, but didn't reply.

"Feeling any better?" her lilting tone sounded hopeful.

"I'm fine, was fine. Will be... fine," came the response, ignoring her subtext. That machine was becoming more insightful each time it spoke. She spoke.

"Glad to hear it," Sam replied, unconvincingly, as her voice followed him through the aft opening to the galley.

The Captain added, "Send a wave to Yuri. Tell 'im I'm back with a new mule, but the choke needs lookin' at and the drive shaft needs replacin'. Have Elias take a gander."

"Consider it done. Any word from Alana?"

"No," he hesitated, arms planted on the counter, smoke curling from his cigarette. "No word."

In his debauchery the night before, he hazily remembered sending a wave, three-quarters-pissed, to the late medic. It weren't a beg or a plea, weren't no words at all, actually. Just static. Just empty static.

Art by Wanderingwolf

I’m learning how to use Blender’s grease pencil and this is the first result. I’m beginning work with a friend on a cute mouse knight game, and I traced and cleaned up this as a first pass to imagine the character.

Art by Wanderingwolf

I made this image for a Blender Artists competition last week. I didn’t win, so I took some more time to play with composition and coloring on this image. I’ve never used Blender’s real time compositor before, so this was a fun experiment.