SS Iscariot - Episode 1: New Beginnings

[Pele Kesher]

Location: Station Bar

Pele quickly sized up her target when he turned around. He was drunk alright, and young; if she had to describe him to somebody, she would definitely reach for the word 'boy' instead of 'man'. So yes, an infatuated party girl persona would definitely be the way to go. A little ditzy, but not cartoonishly so; hamming it up was for amateurs. Just someone warm and bubbly... and easy.

"Good evening. And pardon my belching like a gorram wazzock."

Pele just smiled and shook her head like it was no big deal. At least he had enough manners to apologize, although that was hardly enough to redeem his attractiveness in her eyes.

"The occasion, my enchanting new friend, is that I was the winner of a race today. I guess the term is champion."

"I knew it," she beamed. "I knew you looked like a pilot!"

The way she emphasized her words made it clear that pilot was just about the coolest thing he could be as far as she was concerned. The character she was playing had a thing for pilots, she decided. She thought they were sooo wild and free and brave or some juvenile gǒu shǐ like that.

The bartender interrupted them, handing Rocket Boy his drink and sneaking a side-eye at Pele. She pretended not to notice; Rocket Boy, on the other hand, seemed to be genuinely oblivious to the slight tension between the two, too focused on being smitten with her.

"Cheers, mate. Can you hold on a second I've got to order this work of art given mortal form a libation."

Pele suppressed the urge to join the bartender in the eye-rolling. A sloppy flyboy with a poetic streak? Wow, keeping her panties on was sure going to be a struggle.

"Name and drink of choice? Whatever you'd like."

This part was important. Pele had attended more than one casual soirée with stressed-out businessmen, both during and after her time as a Companion. These gatherings could feature generous amounts of alcohol, and if a woman of her size were to actually try and keep up with the drinking, she'd quickly find herself in a very compromising state. The trick was having something you could sip on slowly while keeping the other party busy and distracted with conversation. Pull that off with enough finesse, and your date will happily drink themselves to a stupor without noticing you've barely finished your first drink.

"I'll have a whiskey and cola," she said. That ought to be basic enough for a dump like this. Her gaze met the bartender's, and for a brief moment she wondered if he found the situation suspect and would say something. Fortunately, he clearly figured it wasn't worth his trouble, and just gave another roll of his eyes before heading off.

"Oh, and my name's Shiri," Pele turned back to Rocket Boy. "And yours?"

She brushed a stray lock of hair off her face, a gesture that seemed casual but was, in fact, extremely calculated.

"I like your accent, where's it from?" she asked.

He sounds like a gorram stevedore, she thought.

[Rev. Onyx Clark]

Location: Station Bar

Reverend Onyx walked inside the bar while his new acquaintance went his own way. Rev. Onyx watched the scene around him, noting the station security were blending in keeping an eye on things while the Reverend took a seat at a bar while everything was going on. Scene around him showed a group of people with their own agendas and their own priorities. Rev. Onyx couldn't have blended in if he tried. Everything about him placed him in the open, a position he had found himself in many times both with people trying to kill him and people trying to keep an eye on him. At that time though, Reverend Onyx was outside, and only Onyx, station Medic, remained. Only a fool would believe that those who sought the comforts of ale and wine would turn their hearts to Christ or Buddha. The unspoken agreement between the bar owner and himself was the Priest stays outside, and the Medic and the patron is more than welcome.

Ordering ginger ale, Rev. Onyx took a few sips as he already suspected who was going to need his services. The medic in him knew for a fact it wasn't his services the drunks would want, it was the vile of medication that he kept in his pack that helps those who haven't emptied their stomachs the quick way and decrease the chances of a hangover. There was a more natural means of sobering someone up without going into the pharmacy, yet the effects don't never end with someone screaming through the station demanding anything to cool them down, even if the milk which provides relief was still inside the cow.

[Xiǎodāo]

Location: Station Bar

Once they'd gotten situated by the bar, X turned her head and watched Trick meet and greet a few of the bar's patrons before she shook her head and grinned to herself, turning her head to watch Marty with her hands in her pockets, fingers toying with the last remaining keycard sitting at the bottom of her jacket pocket. "Got those papers delivered?" Trick murmured to her and she bumped her hip against his, replying with a "Just about," and spinning on her platformed heel to make her way away from the bar top, leaving Trick and Johann to discuss important Marty Matters.

The girl walked toward the karaoke machine, not seeming to pay any attention to the two standing by it. She yawned, a little bored, and lifted one hand to rub at her eyes, thinking about something, her expression miles away. As she neared Marty, X bumped against him purely on accident and turned to fiddle with the now unattended karaoke machine, eyeing the man as though she thought it quite rude that he was leaning all over it and half blocking her from getting at it comfortably. Feigning a defeated sigh, the girl shrugged to herself and gave up on singing, meandering her way back the way she'd come. She stopped a few times, swiping a 'cherry' from a distracted young woman's drink on her way back and popping it into her mouth, holding the 'stem' between her thumb and forefinger.

On her way back to the counter, she spotted the security man enter and offered him a playful wink, tilting her head toward Johann and Trick as she did so. Veering off course, X found herself standing beside the Reverend/Medic, her elbows on the surface of the bar and her chin resting on her palms. She turned her head a bit so she could stare up at the man's profile, grinning at him all the while. X reached into her pocket and pulled out her last borrowed candy, setting it in the cup of ginger ale Reggie brought the man, the sphere of sugar landing with a 'plink' at the bottom of the glass and coloring the liquid a florescent green.

[Rev. Onyx Clark]

The 'plink' was heard by Rev. Onyx, and it did not take long to figure out where it came from. Looking down at the glass, he saw with some amusement that a candy was now resting at the bottom of the glass, turning the liquid into an interesting shade of green. Looking to the source of the 'plink' he saw a young woman standing next to him. His eyes rested on her for a moment, and it did not take long for anyone to see that he was examining her both physically and from within. There was no fear in his eyes, perhaps some surprise, yet Onyx recognized her features from rumors he had heard about a young woman who had the friendship of a rather imposing figure who dared anyone to cross him. That did not stop the older man to behave the same way to her as he would to anyone else, including those who like to wear "trophies" around their necks.

Seeing the grin on her face, he gave a grin back at her.

"To your friendly face, and your unorthodox way of saying hello."

After his toast took a good sized sip of his drink. The taste of the candy was immediate on his tongue, and after a few gulps of the drink he placed it down on the bar as he maintained eye contact. Of course the nurse in him was screaming that he just might have been poisoned and will soon join his friends back at Serenity Valley. After a moment though, he knew that it was just an innocent piece of candy. Rev. Onyx had no idea if his toast would earn him a giggle, sarcastic or otherwise, yet he figured why not take the gamble. He also figured that she would already know who or at least what he was to warrant her to share her piece of candy with him, even if he hadn't gotten down that far yet.

"I believe you have the advantage of me, if only by my vocation. I am Reverend Onyx."

[Tricky]

"Hey now! Watch the drink." Patrick winked playfully in response to X's hip check. He raised his glass slightly as she spun away and sauntered away from the bar. Trick tracked her movement for a moment before his eyes stuck back on Marty the Mark and his Lady Lynd. He could only shake his head, reconsidering his recruitment standards as he listened to Johann's evaluation of the situation at hand.

"He may've, but all that bubbly's gone to his head." Patrick noticed a sparkle in Johann's eye as he poured the beer. Taking a sip from his own glass, the grifter's gaze drifted to Johann's free hand. From his own experience, that look of amusement in his former cellmate's eye preceded a knife to the gut as often as a dirty joke. "I admire the woman's derring-do, but her prize being what it is..." Patrick smiled beneath his mustache, relieved Johann's focus leveled on a subject not involving bodily harm - at least, for the moment. "...Well actually, he's bloody perfect for her!" Patrick laughed aloud, thinking Johann's assessment more than accurate. While someone with Marty's background really ought to know better, anybody could be a mark under the right circumstances. Particularly when those circumstances involved inebriation and a pretty face.

"You've got something for us." Johann stated firmly, cutting right to the heart of the matter. "You know I do. Take it our girl gave ya the time and place. Not our usual game, but I think you'll like it. Just give the man at the door your invitation. Gonna introduce myself to the dame. I'll see you at the High Rollers' Table."

Trick whipped around Johann and aimed to make his way down the bar to the pair. What's your game? he wanted to ask, but ol' Trick settled on something a little more cordial. "Pardon me, y'all. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. My name's Patrick - Patrick O'Doyle. I like to make it my business to know everyone who makes their way onto the Iscariot and make sure they're finding everything they came for. And then some, in the right cases. So, you two lovebirds having a good time?" Patrick put on a million credit grin, raising a hand toward the breast of his jacket to assure the security of his wallet.

Trick listened to the pair's responses with feigned interest and a practiced look of personal investment in their overall entertainment. "Reggie!" He called out, lifting his hand for the bartender to notice him. "Put whatever they're having on my personal tab! Good man!" Patrick looked between the two and smiled. "Okay! Great! So you two have a wonderful evening. No, no. It's my pleasure! Welcome to the Iscariot!" Patrick pulled himself away from the situation, stifling his laughter as he moved along.

Drifting down the bar, a peculiar stench filled his nostrils and threatened to stick in his whiskers. He glanced at the bar, catching the vision of a familiar, grizzled security specialist with a stony mug full of Mudder's Milk. "Woo boy. How can you drink that stuff? Or is it 'eat'? I don't know. Too thick for my tastes. And a might too sour. Then again, I've eaten an MRE or two in my time. Reckon you get used to those, you can stomach anything. Whatdya think, Ma - er, Mister Munck? You sure I can't get the kitchen staff to bring you something looks a little more like... food?"

[Martin Miller]

Location: Station Bar

"I knew you looked like a pilot!"

Marty somewhat smugly shrugged. The motorcycle jacket, and 1980s action hero vibe probably sold it. His smile still plastered to his face. Speaking of plastered, he barely noticed his crewmate Xiǎodāo approach and "accidentally" bump into him.

Bugger all... the crew is here...

While it was certainly kosher for him to be running side-jobs, he was just getting started on what he hoped would be a very promising evening. Or afternoon. Marty still wasn't one hundred percent on what exact time it was on the station. Xi buggered off after only a moment, Marty tried to subtly slide off the karaoke machine, realizing now he was totally blocking its use. His new friend ordered her drink and Marty tried to subtly look around the bar for the rest of his crew. Spotting Johann and Tricky he felt his stomach knot up somewhat.

Tā mā de they're practically having a staff meeting.

The wheelman barely snapped back to attention in time to catch "Shiri"'s name.

"And yours?"

"Lovely name. A touch more poetic than 'Mahhhteee'."

He prolonged and exaggerated his pronunciation, particularly emphasizing his accent.

"I like your accent, where's it from?"

That was a new one for Marty. Maybe she just didn't run into core-folk too often but pretty much everyone from Dyton sounded like him. This really should have been the first red flag. Luckily his captain just had to head their way. Letting Marty get more concerned about embarrassing himself in front of his captain, or god forbid, being asked to get behind the controls of a vessel of any kind right now. Martin Miller was born to fly but he also wasn't born to fly straight into the nearest star because he's eight tenths in the bag. Trying to answer "Shiri"'s question before the captain arrived he couldn't help but cringe slightly as he got close.

"Ahh well I'm just from Dyton city... we all inherited 'The King's English' alongside our mandarin. They sorta sound like us on Londinum too but their accents are bloody awful."

Tricky arrived and started in on giving Marty just a little bit of a hard time.

""Pardon me, y'all. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. My name's Patrick..."

Relaxing slightly, Marty saw the captain was putting on a sort of character to pop in and just give him a bit of a wink and a nudge. Rolling his eyes at him slighlty he smiled back and played into the character the Captain had given him. It was a character he was uniquely qualified to play right now. "Drunk pilot looking for fun."

"Oh, pleasure to meet you sir... Marty Miller, pilot, driver, stunt-man, drinker of bourbon. I am having an excellent time, thank you. "

About as suddenly as he'd wormed his way into the situation he departed, putting their drinks on his tab.

"Okay! Great! So you two have a wonderful evening. No, no. It's my pleasure! Welcome to the Iscariot!"

He quietly wondered to himself if Trick even had to pay his tabs here. Then he wondered if he even needed to. Stopping himself from going down this rabbit hole of a thought, he motioned towards an empty booth near the karaoke stage.

"Fancy having ourselves a seat? I'd love to hear all about you though. Where are you from, nice girl... dump like this nonsense, all that."

Not looking back to the barman who wasn't terribly far away.

"No offense, mate. It's positive reinforcement."

[Desmond Holt]

Desmond Holt felt eyes on him as he strode into the bar. Not that eyes on him in a bar was out of the ordinary, in fact it was quite the norm. At nearly six and a half feet tall he towered over most patrons. His mane of sun bleached brown hair, beard, and angular eyebrows gave him a bit of an intimidating visage. Devilishly handsome, but still intimidating. His walk managed to speak of vast amounts of confidence without seeming cocky. This was a man who knew exactly what he was good at, exactly how good he was at it, and was unafraid of judgement from the world at large. He was dressed well, sporting a leather jacket, a black vest, and a total of five rather large rings. His expression was a friendly smile that somehow failed to make him look the least bit less intimidating.

As he entered the bounds of the establishment his gaze swept over the room with practiced ease, his green eyes taking in the bar and its patrons. There were a few faces he vaguely recognized from around the station. The only one he could put a name to was Patrick O'Doyle, aka Tricky. The man was the reason Desmond was even on the Iscariot. Tricky had hired Des to come in and install some hidden compartments on his ship, The Empress. The Empress was a fine ship and no mistake. Sleek, fast, and luxurious. Hell, it even had a pool.

Des opted not to walk over and say hi to Tricky. He'd only been on the station a short while, and wasn't yet sure how things worked. Plus their only connection was the installation of compartments that, if found, would put the word "Smuggler" into the head of even the greenest Alliance Federal. Better to let Tricky initiate conversation... And anyways, Tricky was busy making the rounds.

So Desmond headed up to a vacant section of the bar. He only had to wait a moment for the bartender. "My man, shot of whiskey and a pint of whatever is on tap? Thanks." He reached into his pocket and pulled out payment... and to his surprise found something else nestled there with his cash. A Business card? No, an invitation. To the "HIgh Rollers Club". He stared at it for a second, shrugged, and paid the bartender.

He downed the shot as soon as it was brought, took a sip of the beer that accompanied it, and turned around to eye the rest of the bar. It wasn't every day that a pickpocket left something instead of taking it.

[Johann Krüger]

Between sips of his beer, Johann watched Tricky do what he did best: bullshit. The man was a natural at it in ways that Johann could only dream about. Sure, Johann knew his way around a lie. He had been spinning falsehoods since he'd learned to speak. But when it came to the schmoozing and making people like him even though they shouldn't? It was just never a knack that Johann could knick. Which is precisely why a man like Tricky was useful. And Johann rather liked him, despite that garish mustache.

Once O'Doyle moved on down the line, of which Johann now noticed consisted of several other members of the station he had made note of in the past as being potentially useful to their operation, it was time for a bit of fun to be had. He nudged Xiǎodāo and gave her a wink. "This will be fun." Picking up his beer, Johann went over to the karaoke machine and cycled through the songs until he found the one that he wanted. Then he adjusted the settings, slowed the tempo a bit to more match his timing and range, and pumped up the bass. He took a healthy gulp of his beer and set it on a nearby stool and raised the microphone to his lips as the pulsing music began.

"This is dedicated to all the girls out there." He said, his eyes meeting Pele's from across the room briefly before moving on to the rest of those gathered. "The girls who only want one thing." He paused for effect, his eyes again on Pele. They held for a moment longer this time. "All they really want to do is... have fun."

The house lights dimmed, the stage lights came up, and Johann sang.

I come home in the morning light my mother says
"When you gonna live your life right?"
Oh mother dear we're not fortunate ones
And girls, they wanna have fun
Oh girls, just wanna have fun"

[Xiǎodāo]

"To your friendly face, and your unorthodox way of saying hello," The Reverend greeted before taking a sip of his now green tinted drink. A brow rose at the maintained eye contact and she couldn't help but smile at just how awkward it was to stare at someone while drinking, laughter bouncing about in her dark eyes.

"I believe you have the advantage of me, if only by my vocation. I am Reverend Onyx," he introduced. X put her hands on the bar top and tilted her head to the side like a bird or a confused pup, her bangs shifting to the side a little as she stared at the man. Her expression was a mixture of about ten others, making it remarkably hard to discern what she could possibly be thinking about. Her gaze was intense only in the sense that it was unwavering and focused, although it was in no way intimidating unless the Reverend was made uncomfortable by such prolonged staring. After much longer than was polite or reasonable, she finally said, "I know," in response to his pleasantries, her own name not forthcoming.

"You know I do. Take it our girl gave ya the time and place..." she overheard Trick saying to Johann and for a moment, X turned her torso so her back was pressed against the corner of the counter, chin turning to face where her two superiors were chatting now that she'd heard herself mentioned lowly. She grinned in response, an indication that she had in fact delivered said time and place as she was meant to. Trick left without excising himself and X snorted, her smile ever present.

"My man, shot of whiskey and a pint of whatever is on tap? Thanks," the man further down the bar requested. X's shoulders relaxed and she leaned heavily back against the bar, staring unabashedly at the burly adonis gracing the bar with his godly beauty. Slipping that keycard into his pocket had been an absolute joy, and she'd have done it for free. Turning back around, now a body's width away from Reverend, X set her elbows on the bar top and placed her chin atop her palms, staring dreamily at the man in the leather jacket. That hair, those rings, that bod... X giggled to herself, ignoring Reggie's "Ex...please stop drooling on the bar...Do you want something to drink?"

A nudge pulled X free of the steamy romance novel day dream and she snorted in surprise, turning her head to stare at Johann just in time to catch his wink. "This will be fun," he told her before grabbing his drink and making his purposeful way toward the now unblocked karaoke machine. Laughing to herself, X set her hands on the counter, her back to it once more, and pulled herself up, sitting on it and ignoring the displeased 'Hrrrnnnnn'  droning on behind her as Reggie aggressively dried a glass, glaring holes into the back of her oversized bomber jacket.

"You should watch this, he's quite talented," she told the Reverend, not looking at him as she spoke.

"All they really want to do is... have fun," Johann announced, eyeing the pretty stranger playing with their Marty before the song began. X laughed, genuinely pleased with the shenanigans in the bar tonight. Slowly, her gaze drifted from the man back to the dreamy human incarnation of beauty, a little, 'hmmm' of enamored adoration humming from her lips.

[Aksel Munck]

Things were starting to pick up at the bar.  The various mish mash of Empress crew buzzing around the other patrons, soon to be booned by one of the few men on this station larger and broader than himself making an entrance and ordering himself a drink.  One of the keys to successful security was to be able to observe situations without watching them, despite having stared either down at his drink or straight ahead Aksel had made a point of keeping tabs of all that was going on.  From the girl working over the fly boy to the awkward exchange between his new-found friend the Reverend and one of his employers' employees X, all the way to the can't miss schmoozing of Tricky himself.  All of this done out of his peripheral while thoroughly not enjoying his milk.


"Woo boy. How can you drink that stuff? Or is it 'eat'? I don't know. Too thick for my tastes. And a might too sour. Then again, I've eaten an MRE or two in my time. Reckon you get used to those, you can stomach anything. Whatdya think, Ma - er, Mister Munck? You sure I can't get the kitchen staff to bring you something looks a little more like... food?"

The man sat next to him, polar opposites in appearance, demeanour and class.  About the only thing remotely similar was their age and Aksel had him there by a decade at least.  Patrick O'Doyle his given name but Tricky was what it seemed most people knew him by and it was an apt name.  The only thing more slick than his style was what was ticking behind his eyes.  There was a ruthlessness there that one shouldn't trust, not that anyone with a nickname like his had much reason to be trusted and with a criminal record like his it couldn't take much more convincing of this fact.

So why was a good old Alliance boy associating with such a venomous sort?  Why did anyone do anything in this crap-heel 'verse?  Money.

Sure he did okay with his business and his soldier's pension got by but there were rules to living in deep space that all had to abide by and that was currency was as much a language as any spoken words.  You run out of money you might as well be mute because ain't nobody have time to hear you.  Thus far though Aksel had only a few dealings with him and his crew and for the most part had remained legit.  Sure he'd helped move some packages along, get an inspection or two passed but it wasn't like those he greased up didn't already have their hands buried in dirt and when you have killed as many people as he had over a long military career good and bad wasn't so black and white as written in the law books.

The high road had left him a long time ago and Aksel knew his time on this planet was running out one way or another and wanted to leave something for his estranged daughter in his will.  You didn't always get to choose your dance partner and especially in a place like Iscariot if one came along, it'd be in the best interest of self-preservation to tread carefully with who one refused a dance.

"Suppose it's an acquired taste.  Better'n some MRE's I've had.  Plus it keeps me paying on time.  You got work?"  His voice a low and gruff, his lips pulled at his cigarette and blew the smoke in the opposite direction of Tricky out of a modicum of respect not for the man per-say but his reputation in the least.

[Pele Kesher]

Marty. The name was boyish and kind of basic; in other words, it suited him perfectly. Pele chuckled at the comment about Londinum accents being 'bloody awful'. She had to admit that much of the allure had worn off for her after being exposed to the planet's seedier underbelly, although if given a choice between Cecil's posh vernacular and Marty's boorish slang, she would still pick the former every time.

Before she had to decide whether Shiri had ever been to Londinum or not, they were approached by a man who, despite the somewhat dodgy mustache, Pele noted was rather handsome. Commanding presence, too; if Marty had stomped into the bar like he owned the place, this man acted like, well... the way people who actually own the place do. Although a certain slippery quality beneath his charisma did not go unnoticed by the Ex-Companion.

"Oh, pleasure to meet you sir... Marty Miller, pilot, driver, stunt-man, drinker of bourbon. I am having an excellent time, thank you. "

"So am I," she echoed, smiling and nodding along. Pele let her gaze follow Patrick for a while as he bid them farewell and moved on to mingling with the other patrons, but quickly moved her attention back to her mark. Eye on the prize, girl.

"Fancy having ourselves a seat? I'd love to hear all about you though. Where are you from, nice girl... dump like this nonsense, all that."

Pele was hoping Marty was one of those guys who said they wanted to hear 'all about' the pretty girl they were with, but actually meant they wanted the girl to share some rudimentary details about herself just to get them out of the way before devoting herself to listening her date go on and on and on about himself. Although she had already conjured up a sob story to loosen his purse strings, the less she had to delve into her fictional life story, the better. She didn't know how good she was at improv, but she was about to find out.

"Oh, don't even get me started," she sighed as they slid into the booth, pretending she had a long, lousy day behind her. "I'd rather just forget about the whole thing for a while and just have some-"

"This is dedicated to all the girls out there. The girls who only want one thing."

Pele was interrupted by the announcement made by the man by the karaoke machine. His eyes met hers, and she suddenly felt uncomfortable. She was used to men's gazes being drawn to her wherever she went, but this was different. In a funny way it almost felt like he was calling her out. She shrugged off the feeling. What she was doing was none of his business. He was just some old drunk who thought he was being all cute and coy, hoping to lure her away from her date. Fat chance.

"All they really want to do is...have fun."

"Oh, I love this song!" she said. She didn't. She really didn't, but it struck her as something Shiri would be into -- although even Shiri would probably find this droning arrangement sung by a rugged middle-aged crook a tad disturbing.

Reggie swung by with their drinks, fortunately too busy to stay and roll his eyes at them some more. Pele turned to Marty, happy to ignore the performance, and raised her glass.

"To your victory!" she said. "You've got to give me some details about the race. Did you pull any stunts?"

[Rev. Onyx Clark]

Location: Station Bar

"Girls, they wanna have fun."

The opening melody, the chords that rang through the facility, gave the Reverend a pause as he visibly looked like he was not there at that day in time. In fact, his mind was elsewhere, more like on someone who is elsewhere. His ears focused on the singer, whose reputation precedes him, though only the words rang through. So long a go, perhaps a lifetime away, he remembered the living embodiment of the song, whose life the Reverend had the honor and privilege of growing up with. Thinking about it, he was a different man, one ignorant of true slaughter on an unimaginable scale. No smile registered on his face, and his eyes calmed down as he lowered his drink, the friendly gesture resting silently in it's bubbly grave. The concoction of the candy and the ginger ale faded to bleached water and gunge, his ears only hearing the sounds of the damned to the sounds of silence.

Rev. Onyx did look, though there wasn't any good humor or pleasure all over the good priest's face. The outside casual observer would see a man focused on what was being presented to him. The careful observer would see that it was only out of respect that Rev. Onyx was paying attention at all. The inside observer would see someone who wished he could have fun and be merry and not have a single iota of misery or defeat. The Chaplain, who nurtured and cared and honored so many, could not bring himself to returning the favor to himself. The ginger ale was being absently drunk, getting closer and closer to the candy at the bottom.

His mind however defaulted back to his training, and he looked around the place and took inventory of everyone who was in there. The unnamed girl who was next to him, obviously ignoring the man of the cloth for a man Rev. Onyx was sure many ladies (or gentleman or other individuals, he didn't judge) would not want to ignore. Shifting his eyes, he saw a woman who was talking to a young man. Onyx recognized the face, but that was all he had going for him. There was another man who was making his rounds through the bar, who seemed like someone who would hunt his own mother down for a quick deal. While Rev. Onyx had an open door policy for all things medical and religious matters, personal or business matters were out of bounds with him. His acquaintance from the Chapel was also there, and the bartender knew that he was watching.

"Would you like another, Onyx?"

Onyx turned around and breathed deeply, getting out of his own head. If anyone was surprised Rev. Onyx would be called by his first name, they were clearly not familiar with the way the station handled the Chaplain's presence. There were many people who were wanted by the Alliance for any crime under the sun from petty to capital visited the station. Pirates, hackers, thugs, thieves, swindlers, and stone cold killers all called the Iscariot home, even if it was just for a little while.

"No thanks."

As he drank the last of his ginger ale, Rev. Onyx knew that every person on board only saw him, without drama, is one of four basic necessities every person of questionable legal standing deals with. G.K. Chesterton who lived centuries before on Earth-That-Was put it beautifully. "A stocked galley, if they should want to eat; loaded revolvers, if they should want to fight; a bottle of the good stuff, presumably in case they feel dry; and a priest, presumably in case they should die."

The fact that the local priest is also a trained medic professional is just a bonus.

Taking a look at the young woman next to him, still keeping her eyes on the more robust individual, the Reverend merely grinned and took one final swig of his drink. He stopped before the candy reached his lips and he set the glass down gently on the counter. He did not know if she wanted it back or not, so he left the option open for her. There was one thought that crossed his mind. What kind of fun did this young woman have in mind?

[Martin Miller]

Location: Station Bar


There is nothing as fun as talking about your accomplishments. Play coy, pledge humility, but at our core, each and every one of us loves to hear our victories given voice. Liberally apply alcohol and the effect is only compounded and even harder to suppress. Marty raised his glass to meet "Shiri's".

"Chin-chin!"

Beaming even more than he had before, he tried halfheartedly to suppress his smile when asked to recall the race. He ran his finger around the rim off his glass and foggily tried to parse what details he really should share. The nature of his work wasn't exactly the most legal but not the most objectionably illegal. He could only bite his tongue for a moment before beginning to extol his day's adventure.

"Well... I happened to hear of a little race being organized not far from here. Something proper old school. Wheeled vehicles only, mud track running 'round possibly one of the more unsafe looking quarries I've ever seen. I couldn't not race in it really."

He looked on at Johann's performance for a moment. Momentarily noting to himself how bloody mental he thought the chap was, but not necessarily in a bad way. Crazy like a fox as they'd have said back on Earth that was. Before his inebriated mind could wander to why they thought foxes were insane in a clever way he got back to his story, after raising his glass for another healthy sip of his bourbon. Miller wasn't a big guy and the drinks were starting to add up. The momentary urge to try and filter details was already forgotten.

"So I registered under my 'nomme de guerre' and honestly it wasn't that spectacular a show! Sadly! I should say."

Marty laughed to himself, again lifting the glass and finishing that bourbon a bit too quickly, but it was all going down just so smooth the more he had.

"I mean like really, half these jokers were cut-rate pilots who thought they'd just hop in a bloody steel death trap and figure it out. Shame really, couple of the chaps who tried to keep pace went to face first into the quarry and left arse up in a stretcher."

Miller shrugged. It had all just been so damn easy for him today. It all had just lined itself up and he knocked down every pin.

"They was muppets but they don't let too many former pros like me on these informal tracks. I told them who I really was they'd likely have told me to jog on."

[Johann Krüger]

"When the working
When the working day is done
Oh when the working day is done oh girl
Girls, they wanna have fun..."

Ironically, Krüeger's work had only just begun.

The music faded away and the lights dimmed to black as Johann finished his performance. He stood still up on the stage, savoring the moment and the scattered applause that drifted up to meet him. With a smile, he dropped the microphone to the ground with a clang, feedback filling the amplifier and putting a definite end to the moment. Cool as can be Johann retrieved his beer and took a healthy drink before descending from the stage.

A shared glance with Tricky. It was time. The brains behind their operation was in charge of making sure the brawn got the message that a meeting had been called. They didn't know Aksel so well, but Trick was convinced to the man's usefulness. Johann didn't see the point in arguing the matter. A man with a gun was always useful in their line of work.

A wink at Xiǎodāo. If she could get past Holt's masculine wiles long enough to pass along her own message, she would be recruiting... Johann wanted to call him muscle but knew that the man was much more than that. Awful shame to waste those arms on mere tinkering, but Johann was certain they'd come to use in other ways.

Johann finished his beer. "Ah, another, I think." He said to no one.

Returning to the bar, he set the empty glass on the counter and reordered with a look to Reggie. His wolf-like gaze fell upon the other predator in the room: Marty's date for the evening. She was distracting, to be sure. Charming. Beautiful. Noticeable. A bit sloppy, but then again the likes of Johann and co. were well versed in the art of confidence. They knew who and what to look for and Pele was it. His refill arrived, pulling him from his thoughts. "I'll have it in the back, Reg." Johann left the bottle and glass where it sat, expecting the bartender to deliver it to their meeting, and made a beeline for their young driver and his date.

"Excuse me, miss. He said to Pele, all apologies. And then it was business. "Time to go, lad." He casually but curtly nodded in a general direction away from the booth, though the destination should be obvious to the young Martin Miller. If he was sober enough, that is.

[Xiǎodāo]

During Reverends mental trip, X turned her head to watch him out of the corner of her eye, both brows raised and eyes half-lidded with barely present interest. He seemed to implode in upon himself for a couple minutes and while some tiny part of her wondered where he'd gone, the larger portion of herself told her that it really didn't matter to her in the big scheme of things. When he declined another drink, her dark eyes lowered to the candy sitting at the bottom of his now empty glass and she eyed it, then him, in that order. Either he didn't like it, and she could consider herself offended. Or, he was giving her a chance to take it back, and she could consider herself weirded out.

In the meantime, Johann had finished his song and was moving and looking around the bar, which, considering who he was, caught her attention immediately. The man didn't move or do anything at all without purpose, so she stared at him from the bar, head tilted curiously. Her spine straightened as a wink was sent her way, a little snort and giggle pushing free of her lips unbidden. Reaching out, X moved to ruffle the Reverend's hair before throwing him a pair of finger guns and walking away. Clearing her throat and reciting in her head what she'd say to the man, the girl moved step by deliberate step closer to the demi-god. Hey, my name is X, it's nice to meet you, time to go to work. Hey, it me, ya gurl. Let's go make some bank. Hey, I'm X, pleasure to meet you, we've been summoned for a job.

"Hi-lo. X. Job to meet you, pleasant summons for a work, bank us gurl money!" she told him, smiling proudly at the end of it, her chest lifting and falling rapidly as she tried not to hyperventilate in his presence, her eyes wide, grin far to big, and cheeks a bright bashful pink.

[Tricky]

Tricky watched Munck swallow down his Cup O' Slop, impressed with the older warhorse's gastronomical fortitude. Impressed, sure, but Ol' Trick hadn't sauntered on up to the bar just to watch the man eat. "Suppose it's an acquired taste.  Better'n some MRE's I've had.  Plus it keeps me paying on time.  You got work?"  Ceasing his grumbling, the retired soldier-cum-freelancer pulled at the cigarette in his mouth. He took his time, letting the smoke roll down his throat to fill his lungs, no doubt savoring the sensation. A habit many found crude and unsavory, even downright foolish, but a habit Tricky appreciated and shared despite his personal preference for small cigars. Moreover, he appreciated the fact that Aksel blew the smoke away from his own personal direction. Not that he expected to smell like roses after leaving the bar, but the less direct smoke absorbed by the suit the better.

"Work? You know I do, friend. Check your pockets for your invitation. Have another drink. Then head for the 'fresher, go through the double doors to the kitchen, and show your card to the boys outside the stock room door. Big fellas. If they get a little handsy and pat ya down, just humor 'em. They used to be the security around here before you arrived. I like to keep 'em on the payroll. Reckon it makes 'em feel important."

Something moved in Patrick's peripheral vision, reminding him of watching the occasional Alliance cruiser blocking out the red sun as it passed by Penal Colony Alpha. Turning casually, with a practiced look on his face as if he just expected that everyone else in the room stared jealously his way, Trick's eyes glazed slowly over to where X stumbled over her words like a toddler taking its first awkward steps. "Huh. How 'bout that..." He kept it moving, though in truth his curiosity at Desmond's apparent ability to turn one of the most disciplined and steely minds he knew into jelly without saying a word rose by greater and greater bounds.

Less impressive, however, is how quickly "Party Marty" rolled over for the honey pot. Not that he blamed the young buck from a strictly non-professional standpoint, but in their current line of work "embarrassing" barely began to describe it. Luckily the strangest guardian angel one ever hoped to find swooped in and took Marty under his wing. As Johann escorted young Martin to relative safety, Trick excused himself from the bar. "Be seeing you, Mister Munch. Tell Reginald your drink's on me. He'll believe you."

Patrick took his time passing back through the bar, tracing his previous footsteps and mockingly shooting X one of her trademark finger guns before disappearing into the kitchens in a fog of noodle broth steam.

[Tereza]

Location: Station Bar


Enter stage right a loud, angry man of eastern european descent followed quickly by a woman, also of eastern european descent. They spoke a quick back and forth, a tongue tangling verbal assault of Mandarin and a pidgin mix of Russian, Bosnian, and Chechen. The woman jabbed the larger man in the floating ribs as the moved into the bar proper. "We're in decent company Tolya, speak civilized, I don't care if it hurts your teeth. -- And no, I don't care if you think it's the timing on the engine, it won't matter unless you fix the gorram fuel pump. It can keep up with the Gs. Its fine through the first six turns but turn seven I hit nine Gs and I get fuel cuts, its why I keep going wide." Exasperated Tereza slumped her way onto stool and discarded a crumpled wad of money onto the bartop. It probably wasn't much, but enough to buy a beer, maybe two if she was lucky. To say that money had been tight over the last several months would be an understatement in the extreme. Tereza had even gone so far as to consider selling some of the precious gear. It had been a brief moment of weakness, and fortunately, she had been sitting in a stalled out TU-732 Skyhook, a short range freight hauler, that had been striped down and modified to hold engines with nearly double the thrust of the factory ones.

The thick ox of a man kept a low growl going from the point when Tereza struck him till when he spoke in reply. "I have better pump, just like have better ship. You just fly better next time." He shot a disgusted look at the money on the bar then at the woman waiting for her drink. "And no show up if drunk again." With that he turned and stomped his way back out of the bar leaving the blond woman to drink in relative peace.

Muttering a curse in her native Bosnian Tereza began to assess the current crowd and the bar itself. Dark brown eyes flit from face to face, searching the walls and shadows for hidden threats, real or perceived. She was dressed in a pair of loose slacks, a faded teal turtleneck, and a a pair of heels that were perhaps an inch too tall to be considered sensible.

[noseatbelts]

Reggie was the kind of bartender you loved. Always one step ahead of you as per requests.

For example: when he saw Tricky talking with the lovebirds, he knew the administrator would be taking care of their bill and made a mental note to chalk that one up to the ever growing tab that would most likely never be paid. But O'Doyle paid for the drinks, and for the man slinging them, so it wasn't a concern.

Another example: there was a tray and a napkin waiting for Johann's order so that it could be delivered. Reggie knew that with at least the three of them - Tricky, Johann, and Xiǎodāo - here in the bar at the same time, there would be a trip to the backroom.

Reggie had a sort of bartender's sixth sense where he knew where to be and when to be there. Everything that happened in his bar he was aware of. Onyx's empty glass? Gone before the preacher had a chance to wonder about the service in this place. "Lemme know if you need anything else, Preacher. Ginger ale's four-fifty not including gratuity. Whenever you're ready." Reggie liked an uncluttered bar.

A new face, both to the current ensemble and to Reggie, who prided himself on knowing most of the folks in or out of the Station, sidled up to the bar and dropped some rumpled bills on the counter. Without needing to be told, he dropped a fresh bottle of beer on the counter and collected the cash. "Ain't seen you here before." He said. "You new?"

[Rev. Onyx Clark]

There will come a day when Rev. Onyx will understand the female species of the human race. No matter how much he thought he would understand, people like his nameless acquaintance will most likely get him killed. The twin gun farewell was not lost on the padre, who had seen the business end of too many weapons and guns to count. For some such motivated Alliance soldiers, the fact that there was a red cross on his arm did nothing more than provide a target for himself. Seeing this as a token of a friendly farewell, Rev. Onyx simply nodded and blessed the woman's soul. Even if she didn't believe in a soul, he believed in it. As such, he would pray for her soul. It was not lost to him at all when some other people suddenly fell out and were lost in sight of the common patron. Seeing that his presence was no longer needed in an official capacity, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the eternal now and see what else was going to happen.

Of course, if nothing else was true about the station, it was colorful characters. They come more or less in two sizes. Those who blend in, and those who do not. Seasoned criminals, or those who live around them for a living, always have a special sense of those who want to be left alone and those who wished they were left alone. Rev. Onyx was not meant to fit in either category. It was his job to be seen by anyone, yet ignored by everyone. Companions only needed him when they felt ill, criminals only needed him when they felt wounds. Only those who fear God and their immortal soul's fate willingly came up to him, and that was exactly how he liked it. What he didn't like though was being called to a scene where it turned out to be a false alarm.

The thought had not escaped the breath of his mind when two rather loud individuals came and got his attention. Perhaps others would have noticed, yet the medic in him came to the forefront, already getting a base idea for treatment should anything happen. He caught their accents, and he knew that if there was a language barrier for the most part that could be not so fun. Listening to them talk though, Rev. Onyx felt slightly more at ease as he figured that they were not there to cause trouble. He came to that conclusion when the woman went straight to the bar and laid down her cash. He also heard the man talk about not getting drunk again. By instinct, he looked into his bag to see that his anti-nausea and anti-migraine medications were on standby. Seeing and hearing this, Onyx was himself distracted by the main bartender letting him know that there was no such thing as a 'Preacher Discount.' Going into his account, he saw that while he did not have much, he did have some money to treat himself. Another time perhaps.

At the moment, he would wait for a little bit longer before he would depart, just in case.

[Aksel Munck]

"Work? You know I do, friend. Check your pockets for your invitation. Have another drink. Then head for the 'fresher, go through the double doors to the kitchen, and show your card to the boys outside the stock room door. Big fellas. If they get a little handsy and pat ya down, just humor 'em. They used to be the security around here before you arrived. I like to keep 'em on the payroll. Reckon it makes 'em feel important.  Be seeing you, Mister Munch. Tell Reginald your drink's on me. He'll believe you."

The flashy man took his leave after the kind offer of paying for his drink.  Aksel pulled at his cigarette again, letting the smoke roll around in his lungs a spell before letting it escape past his lips, temporarily forming a cloud then dissipating into nothing like all things.  He watched as the last tendrils of exhaust faded and downed the rest of his drink.  His breath no doubt smelling wonderful.

He squashed the remainder of the cigarette in an ash tray then pulled the card out of his pocket and flipped it around, inspecting it.  An uninspiring piece of material, no inherent value or uniqueness but now so imbued by it's giver as a backstage pass.  More powerful in it's presence than all the words of one who did not possess it.  Aksel almost cracked a smirk as he returned it to his pocket and reaching into another pulled out his wad of cash.

"Boss says this one's paid for so I guess this is a tip.  Give me a double shot of..."  As he spoke he heard a couple arguing as they entered the bar, the man who was large -a common theme for men in these parts- spoke angrily towards the woman who dumped some crumpled money on the bartop reminding him of days gone past when he had little more than some crushed bills and nearly worthless coins scrounged together to buy a drink.  He watched her a moment from the corner of his eyes before turning back to his request only to find a double shot of whiskey in front of him and Reggie moved on.

"This is for the girl.  Looks like she might need more than one."  He muttered to the back of Reggie's head as he moved away before dumping a few more bills on the bar top.  The old man downed his drink and moved to stand up, getting a shock of pain in his lower back for the effort.  It passed quickly as he moved towards the back, giving the preacher a polite nod before pressing through the kitchen double doors where as promised he was met by yet two more large men, young with a mean and unimpressed look in their eyes.  Aksel himself wasn't much impressed by them and pulled out his hall pass flashing it for them before moving by the two into the stock room.  Time to go to work.