S1: Ep1- The Most Dangerous Aim

Started by noseatbelts, September 18, 2019, 08:44:28 am

Rory Mayfield

Location: The Courtesan, Galley

Rory, for one, was relieved that they hadn't been able to find any alcohol on board. He was trapped on the ship with two of the scariest members of the crew -- both scary for different reasons, but scary nonetheless -- and booze would not help the situation at all, based on his (admittedly limited) experience. And on top of all that, Sparrow was the pilot, so surely it would be a bad idea for him to get drunk, right? Rory still didn't know what, exactly, the shirtless giant's plans for the evening entailed, expect that it wasn't Battleship, and he was actually, legitimately a little disappointed about that. He liked Battleship. It was one of the few things he could beat Shay at on a consistent basis.

But Shay was not here, so Rory had to turn to his second best friend in the world for company.

"You like that, bǎo bèi? Feels good, huh?"

He ran the toothbrush gently along Annie's shell, and the tortoise wiggled her butt happily in response. Her bath was long overdue on account of all the recent excitement and re-locating, and since the bathrooms were a little too cramped for comfort and Rory hadn't been able to find a wash bowl on board, he'd decided to take advantage of the mostly empty ship situation and take the operation to the galley.

Now Rory was hunched over the sink where Annie waded in knee-deep (for her tiny tortoise knees) water, leaving a faint trail of dirt in her wake. His mother certainly wouldn't approve of him bathing  his pet in the kitchen sink, but he supposed -- and hoped -- that the Miller clan might be a little less fussy about that. Besides, he would carefully scrub down the sink and counters after he was done -- with bleach if it came down to that. So... no harm done, right?

Despite telling himself this, Rory sure hoped nobody walked in on him right now.


December 03, 2019, 02:10:03 pm #21 Last Edit: December 03, 2019, 02:16:43 pm by noseatbelts
Location: Courtesan Galley

As the old saying goes, if you wish in one hand, and hold a tortoise in the other, see which fills up first. Or something like that. Rory was soon met with company, despite his fond hopes for privacy. Sparrow, still sans shirt and shoes, but with his hair now in a messy bun tied up atop his head, not so much entered the galley as floated. His well-toned body had an unnatural grace that belied his size and if Rory hadn't been keeping an eye on the door, Sparrow might have snuck on him, though that wasn't his intention. "Hey there, little mate. What you-" The hippie stopped when he saw Annie. His eyes went wide. A finger, outstretched at the end of his muscular arm, pointed. "Agrionemys horsfieldii." He said in a barely contained whisper. "She's a ripper, mate. A real beaut'." Sparrow set his chin on the edge of the sink and stared down at Annie for what felt like a long time. "You wanna get high?"

Mason Miller

Team Bravo
Location: Practice Hunt - 5km from The Party and Team Alpha

Bert Surname.

Mason rolled it through his mind once again and tossed a sideways glance at his youngest brother. As nom de guerres went he wasn't sure that he had ever heard a worse one. Aside from perhaps John Smith, which was more boring than bad. Though he had known a John Smith when he was in the Ministry of Defense. He had been a terribly boring fellow. An analyst with bad teeth and even worse field instincts. Mason remembered the look of surprise on his face when John had been shot.

Bert Surname.

It was writ large at the top of his invitation and the security guard had looked at him strangely. "Sur-nam-ay." Mason had said, over pronouncing the word. "Italian." The guard had shrugged like he didn't care either way. An invitation was an invitation and he wasn't paid enough to parse out all of these rich folks' crazy names.

Bert Surnamé and Worthington Birtwistle of Buckhamshire were both let in without issue and allowed to mingle with this most elite of exclusivity.

Once inside the party, Mason clocked three things. The monstrosities that they were meant to be shooting (and Mason suspected it would be a service to the 'verse at large to put these things out of their miseries), their target, plain as day and clearly not going anywhere, and the bar, which was a site for sore eyes. Mason had no interest in game hunting, human or otherwise, and so he bee-lined for the booze. "Scotch. Double. Neat. Quickly." As he waited for his drink, Mason opened up a comm-link to his siblings at the estate. "Rutledge is down here, ladies." He said with a droll smile, nodding his thanks to the bartender once his drink arrived. He took a big drink and motioned he'd like another before continuing. "So enjoy yourselves up there while Tatters and I wrap this up."

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