[FT/TG]Journey of a Thousand Lightyears

[New Dornalia]

McClintock nodded, and shook himself back to life as Priss left the room. Evidently, he had come off as being a bit of a cowpoke--naive, just out off of the range, and trapped in a different time and place. McClintock was used to the assessment. The thing that kept him calm about all that was the fact his dad had told him many times before, McClintock was no cowpoke--but a cow baron. Well, the scion of a cow baron at any rate. Those kosher butchers in Ft. Casimir Pulaski wouldn't have their meats without the work of guys like Big Joe McClintock and Rabbi Schneidermann at the Lazy K Ranch.

Then again, McClintock stopped himself. Maybe Priss was just as confused as he was. So, he shrugged, and put the thought aside. Looking over at the coffee pot, he poured himself another mug and sipped. Not bad, a bit cooler than it was before.

At this, McClintock decided to proceed to his room, and get set up. He also took the time to move the cleaning supplies to the rec room, and then did inventory. Some chamois's there, some cleaning chemicals there. So on, so forth. So far so good, although he would need to note the cleaning supplies need for later on when they got to Marston.

All that work and psychic power had left him somewhat peckish, though. McClintock cursed the fact Dornalian Empowered biology demanded more calories than anything else. Reaching into his knapsack, McClintock pulled out a Gregson's Enhanced Chocolate bar. Nibbling on it out of habit, he felt the dark chocolate bar's reenergizing qualities prove to be quite refreshing. As he did so, Paul recognized that Maein might want to try some for herself. She seemed to really like chocolate after all.

Finding a spare bar, he then proceeded to approach Maein--after wandering about the ship for a bit--and then went, "Oh! Maein. Just wanted to discuss some business with y'all." He then held out the bar of Gregson's Chocolate, adding, "Oh! I've got a spare bar of Gregson's Enhanced Chocolate if yer interested. Dunno if you like dark chocolate or not. It's got a bit of caffiene and nutrients in, and tastes okay. But I think it's pretty good."

[Roania]

Whatever Maein had been doing (mentally calculating prices and resupply costs) it vanished from her attention. Not even from McClintock's questions. She had been smelling the chocolate, and it had been slowly driving her mad, even as Paul wandered the ship looking for her.

And then he walked inside, and she could see the chocolate, and... and... and... her expression changed from anything Paul may have seen on a woman, or indeed an intelligent being, before. She wanted that bar, that entire bar, and she was going to have it, and that hunger washed through her. She didn't even listen as the orderman spoke, instead crossing the space between them almost faster than he could see, her hands bunching up tightly as she tackled him to the ground, almost as though she were a pouncing tiger. In a moment, she tore the chocolate from his hand. That he gave it to her didn't even register. One bite, two bite, three bites... and the entire bar was gone.

From there, things progressed quickly. For a moment, she lay down on his chest, a soft hum leaving her lips. Now, she was warmth and softness, her earlier burst of animality gone. Or was it gone? She soon began rubbing her head against him, in a very catlike fashion indeed. Her ears, normally tightly cropped to her head, splayed out. Words seemed beyond her. Indeed, conscious thought seemed beyond her. Her 'purring' grew increasingly loud, and her hands moved in aimless circles on his chest.

And then, suddenly, something changed. Her eyes, which had been wide and empty, became half-lidded, and Maein moved, a pleased little sigh on her lips. "Paul..." It was the first word she said, and as she said it she slipped back down his body, her hips now locked on either side of the orderman's waist. Her lips seemed moister as she licked them. "Mmm... I knew you liked me..." Her slender vest seemed to fall down her arms, and she tossed it aside with some force, her fingers now playing over the clasp of her small top, which seemed to struggle more than before to contain her breasts. "And I like you..."

[New Dornalia]

Things had started as amusing--McClintock admitted he hadn't seen someone gobble a chocolate bar that quickly since he danced with Janet Schnidermann at the senior prom, and he snickered a bit at the act. Then, they got into very awkward territory. First, Maein began to nuzzle her head on McClintock. He was taken aback and grinned nervously, wondering if perhaps he had done something to warrant this reaction. Maybe the chocolate had something to do with it--improbable as it seemed to outsiders, McClintock could sense that the chocolate had some sort of intoxicating effect on her (as if the sudden lack of inhibitions and odd behavior didn't make that obvious enough). Then, came her attempt to start stripping.

At that, McClintock started to panic. He sensed Maein wanted to do something more. McClintock also sensed Maein was not in her right mind in the moment. To do anything else struck McClintock as not only wrong because the Order, his own father, and every sex-ed class in school had told him that informed consent by everyone involved was the fundamental thing to have before engaging in the old horizontal limbo, but because of a more visceral reaction. This just wasn't kosher. None of this was.

Quickly, McClintock decided to take control of the situation. He then said, shaking his head, "Sorry, Maein, I can't do this. Not now, no way. Ain't right."

First, he would gently push Maein back using a mild Force Shove to the shoulders, before using his abilities to bring the vest back to her to cover her up by gently draping the vest over her person. Lifting her up telekinetically with all of his might, he then quickly and diligently walked to the entrance to her quarters, and whilst maintaining his telekinetic lift opened the entrance. He then gently placed her into her quarters, and closed the door.

At that, McClintock ran back to his room, going "Fuck fuck fuck!" and shutting and locking the door. To be safe, he also found a chair, and did an old trick to prop the chair against the door. He then sat down, and breathed a sigh of relief.

[Enso and Mu]

Ultimately, though it was a bit of a hack, and not remotely the way the system was intended to be used, Vega would manage to get his status report. Satisfied that the period in storage and subsequent handling had not damaged his precious vehicle, he cleared the file, and the subequent access log, and rose from the terminal to carry on in his rounds.

He realized he should probably help with preparing the dinner, but owing to both the relative blandness of his cooking abilities, and the fact he had neither said he would nor been asked to, he decided instead to retire, briefly, to his quarters. He reasoned that if Maein was starting the process of preparing a meal now, it wasn't the best time for meditation (which had been his plan, in moving). Instead, he changed back into his Sohei's robes, and decided on a second tour of the ship - this one, of course, would bring him back to the Bridge.

At first, upon entering, he said nothing to Priscilla. He had, up until now, been taking her brusque attitude as rudeness and, therefore, taking it personally. However, Sohei, as much as any member of the Red Enso Society, were expected to be keepers of the peace first, and warriors second. His training had been under monastic conditions - in such a close environment, with such hot heads, it was impossible not to learn to become a mediator.

He realized that much of her attitude came from the accidents of her birth - the curious illusions samsara had thrust upon her. She was a woman in what was, in many places, still a man's profession. And a smaller woman at that, even by human standards.

"It occurs to me," he said, into her preparations for the FTL jump - he knew most races did not require meditation to make the requisite calculations, and ZMI ships practically flew themselves, "That what passes for formality in the Sphere might seem, to you, to be aloofness. I hope I haven't offended you."

It was, in his experience, sometimes easy to appologize for the other's sin. An unexpected appology could cut through the tension in a room better than any blade.

[Achesia]

It had been a short walk and a tense climb as the balanced her coffee cup in one hand while climbing the ladder to the flight deck. As her head crested the deck of the hatch, she was forced to avert her eyes as they adjusted to the bright light of the Miur star that beamed in front of them. The funny thing about transit drives is that it relied on the gravity well of the stars to travel from system to system, Priscilla found this both annoying (as they could not make a jump at any time like a standard FTL drive) but at the same time it was beautiful as the bright lights of the sun shown through the canopy window.

Settling herself down in the pilot’s chair she took another sip of coffee as her fingers danced on the control panel in front of her, checking last readouts and flight patterns to ensure when they arrived it was not in the Marston star. It was about this time she could hear the clicking of talons on the metal deck behind her as Vega entered.

Her short and more rugged nails still danced along the green and cyan symbols on he screen. Priscilla while being a rather pretty girl for human standards did not often participate in many of the human cultural quirks and beauty standards when she was on a job. Part of her cringed as she looked at the bitten and unmanicured nails, there was a time when she painstakingly kept up her appearance, but she also was glad that some things didn’t matter on this job, and she could focus on the stars in front of her.

It was about this time that Vega had finished his apology, which Priscilla thought somewhat strange and out of the blue, as she did not take any offense to anything that had happen, but she perceived that perhaps her brashness that she exhibited on the station may have given offense to the Sohei.

“Oh.” Her fingers hit a few last buttons before she turned her chair to face Vega. The computer behind her giving an audible countdown in a digital sounding female voice. “No, uh, no offense taken at all.” She shook her head and leaned forward from her chair. Still sipping her coffee she looked up at the towering Sohei as she thought of their short time in acquaintance. “I hope my briskness on the station did not off-put you. I uh… was sort of in survival mode at that point. Living off of vita-rations and sleeping on the deck for a few weeks will sometimes put you through a loop. So uh, likewise.” She drew her mug up to her pink lips as she let the warm brown liquid flow into her. The computer came down to the final numbers in its countdown, and as it reached 1, Priscilla casually reached over and hit the red selector on the station in front of her, sending the engines into a humming overdrive.

Outside the ship, through the canopy window the Miur star and the stars around them became extended and warped, before finally the ship almost felt like the lurching inertia would violently throw it forward, yet instead it crept into FTL with nothing but a smooth nudge.

Hitting the intercoms button, Priscilla gave everyone the good news. “Ship’s mistress…” It was everything she could do not to roll her eyes at the title. “…we have entered FTL. Time to Marston system about fourteen hours.” She let go of the comms button and looked towards Vega again.

“So, I hope we are cool then, I appreciate you working with me to get us all on this ship.”

[Enso and Mu]

"It's nice, once in a while, when one's goals and the needs of others align. I'm not much for handling a ship of this size, but if you need anything, I'll be in my quarters. Unless I'm not, but then the ship-mistress would know where to find me."

After a beat, he would turn to leave, returning back down the corridors and companionways to his quarters. He did not travel with much - cargo container notwithstanding. As he unpacked his bag - necessary to get to the item at the bottom of it - it became clear how little that was. One additional set of the inner layers of his robes (the outer layer got dirty through wear rather than wearing), some undergarments, the work clothes from earlier, three nested bowls wrapped in a cloth, and his data scroll. At the bottom was a heavy canvas cushion, whose filling was dense, as it should have been, given that it was buckwheat hulls.

He knelt, propping the cushion up between and across his ankles to both support them and the rest of his body as he settled in for the meditation of the day. Selecting a spot on the floor about a meter a head of him, he focused upon it, and from there, the breathing. Meditation didn't come easy, anymore. Not since the incident which had lead to the extensive damage to his pilot module, and spurred this quest in the process. It was too full of contradictory ideas, of thoughts on the matter of travellers he met, and whether or not he should be out here looking for Shibata, or whether he even deserved the role anymore.

But, if undesturbed, several hours deeper into the evening, he would once again find the deeper Satori he sought. Most Sohei took their meditations only as seriously as cultivating the pilot's mind was required, but Vega was a scion of the Satoshi clan, and like most of his kin, namesake of their branch of the Carbourne race, he was a true believer.

[New Dornalia]

--post moved--

[Achesia]

Flipping through a few diagnostics she wanted to run as they were in FTL, Priscilla looked up at the large bird like alien and smiled politely for a swift moment. “Of course, sure thing.” She was not sure how to take the whole Maein comment of her knowing where he would be at all times, but it was the least of the weird things about this crew that Priscilla had observed. The strange kiss between the Ship’s Mistress and McClintthingy, the over domineering personality of Maein, Vega’s strange uppity nature. It was all quite stuffy to the rather laid back and casual Prsicilla, yet another interesting experience to put in her belt and recollect with fellow pilots in far off seedy bars someday. She chuckled to herself at the thought, out of the many experiences she had she always cherished the odd, painful, and stress ridden ones. They made her stronger.

Priscilla ran her hand down the back of her head and across her neck, pressing on her aching neck muscles to try and ease the tension. She was excited to finally have a real bed to sleep in that night, perhaps even a shower to wash her grungy little body. Though in the grand comparison of persons in the galaxy, Priscilla was probably amongst the cleaner bunch. Yet the girl who prided herself on being practically hygienic felt absolutely filthy, not having washed her blonde locks for some egregious length of time.

She stared passively at the streaking stars flying by the canopy window. She truly was weary, something in the last moments of her waking mind knew that it was almost time to let go and rest. Decidedly before she fell asleep at the helm, while not such a problem in a ZMI ship, Priscilla finished a few of the running tests and double checked a few of the ships instruments. Once all checked out as normal, she swung her chair around and grabbed her empty coffee mug. Striding across the flight deck as the lights dimmed, and slid down the ladder to the cabin deck.

All was eerily quite in the corridor of the Dok-Shifa, almost in a strange awkward way. Priscilla knew she didn’t need to be an ESPR to tell that things got quite down here earlier than usual, but frankly as the bags under her eyes began to droop further, she rather didn’t care. Coming up to her cabin door she walked in and swiftly shut her barrier to the outside world. A deep breath came from her lungs as she closed her eyes and leaned back against the bulkhead. It had been quite a long time since she had a room to herself, perhaps dealing with the difficult and rather strict personalities on the Dok-Shifa was worth it for such quarters.

Throwing off her leather jacket, it landing on the bed across the room, Priscilla undid her blonde bun, her hair now free to elegantly fall down her back. She ran her fingers through it for a moment, but grimaced as she felt how greasy it was. Thankfully as she looked across her room, the welcome sight of a shower gave some hope of a return to dignity. The thought of the warm water dribbling across her body had the girl excited, her white tank top and utility pants quickly finding a place on the deck. Only her blue sports underwear clenched her flesh, but as her bare feet tip toed across the metal floor, those too would be unwrapped from her chest and rear. It was an odd feeling being totally naked there in the middle of what felt like a massive room, Priscilla couldn’t even think of the last time she had been totally naked out in the open of a room, usually taking quick baths with chemical wipes behind a curtain or changing quickly under a blanket of her bunk. She almost felt as if she was home, in her old room, totally secluded from the eyes of hungry mechanics from Zuuwanook asking for lewd favors in the back of the engine room, or dancing on the stage on Hoslwin Prime for extra cash. Maybe, just maybe she was making it in the galaxy.

Turning on the water, Priscilla waved her hand to test its heat, she almost giggled with excitement as the warm water trickled between her fingers. Her first foot soon lifted in, and then the second, the water enveloping her white ivory colored body while she let out an elongated sigh accompanied by a truly joyful smile. Finally, a slice of paradise after endless black starry desert.

Once she had spent what surely would surely be classified by Maein as an inappropriate use of ship’s water sources, Priscilla reluctantly turned the knobs of the shower, ending her momentary slice of heaven. Her naked body was soaking wet and her hair extending to the dimples just above her butt cheeks even more so. Leaning as far as she could bare from the shower, she grabbed a green towel and wrapped it around her small breasts and under her armpits. The trickle of water from her golden mane ending as she sealed it too in a towel.
A long day had finally ended, and now by her calculations she had about 9 hours of sleep time to use before she needed to tend to the flight controls once more. She counted her blessings that the Dok-Shifa had a good auto-pilot that she could actually sleep in her cabin, else she would be stuck in the pilot’s chair snoozing in greasy hair just like she had for countless hours before on others ships. Instead she had nice clean hair, that while may be wet, was soothing as she laid her toweled head on the pillow. Hardly did she have time to dress in any sort of night gown or cast aside her towels before the darkness of her galaxy of dreams took her, a firm grasp it kept on for nearly the entire 9 hours.

As Priscilla’s eye lids opened, her hair now partially dry and bare body shivering under a small towel, she could hear the chime of the ship’s computer on her wrist AI. They had finally arrived in the Marston System…

[New Dornalia]

Marston City
Marston System
New Kazakhstan
Colonial Republic of Earth

When the Dok-Shifa exited FTL and arrived in system, it would be greeted by a sight common to many Dornalian ports.

Traffic.

Oh, it wasn't oppressive traffic like one would find around Earth, or even somewhere like New Sapporo, or New Kazakhstan's capital of New Almaty. But ever since the Evenstar Gateway Network between the United Star Commonwealth and the Colonial Republic of Earth was founded, traffic had increased exponentially in what was previously FTL-Over Country. It was as if a narcoleptic had been given six cans of foul tasting, but caffeine rich energy drink in those 20oz cans. What this meant for Priscilla May and her piloting skills was that there would be plenty of traffic to navigate around in regards to getting to Marston. There were ships of all sorts as well--everything from smaller shuttles and ships like C'tani Space RVs to bigger ships such as YT-2400s and even the odd Númerrámar cargo ship--both Dornalian made models bearing the Mitsubishi diamond mark and original models--lumbering about. There were buoys. On the off chance the Dok-Shifa had windows the buoys would be seen to have signs welcoming travelers to the Colonial Republic, with signs featuring a proud, barrel chested miner in a hard hat with a laser drill standing with a large grin indicating:

Welcome to New Kazakhstan and the Colonial Republic of Earth!
Travel Friendly, the New Kazakhstani Way!
Governor Florence J. Lepetomane
President Michael Haggar

Priscilla May would be able to hear the local comms channels on her comms, essentially repeating the same message. A female voice--presumably that of the Governor of New Kazakhstan's and then President Haggar's--would greet the newcomer to their land. Likewise, there would be signs advertising various tourist traps and truckstops, and local "radio" to accompany listeners with music and ads. Given the fact that the USC was responsible for much of this new traffic, Commonwealth pop music hits along with Dornalian pop music could be heard on the radio. Signs and automated audio signals would also be present marking a speed limit for the area.

Shadowing everyone would be ships that would be barely detectable by sensors holding their positions in space. Priscilla would be able to barely make out some ships watching the spacelanes. A couple of them looked like smaller ships painted in black and white with the words "New Kazakhstan County Sheriff's Department" in yellow font in both English and Cyrillic (with equivalent Russian translation of course). A few more were a simple gunmetal grey paint scheme--including some circularish ships with pointed ends, what looked like reinforced prows, and a subtle bar of some sort on the top. A speeding ship gave the answer--the bar awoke in flashing red and blue lights, and proceeded to speed after the violator.

The Dok-Shifa would then have a couple of options.

If the Dok-Shifa opted to dock at one of Marston City's orbital platforms, there would be spare space likely at the Orbital Docking Complex which awkwardly would be called "part of the Herbert Throckmorton Memorial Spaceport." The platform, which looked like a demented flower with all these drydocks about would have a massive elevator connected to the surface, although shuttles and ferries could be seen flying to the surface also. The dock would have clamps suitable for holding ZMI-standard ships (although the clamps were infinitely adaptable to any ship) and a Traffic Controller would be helping Priscilla dock in one of the docks and instructing her to provide documentation of the ship's cargo and to prepare for inspection. The ship would be scanned as it entered the dock, but just in case an ICBA Officer would be standing by in requisite ICBA uniform--namely, a blue Operational Dress Uniform with appropriate rank pips and patches indicating he was a lieutenant with the Immigration and Common Border Authority. He wore what looked like some sort of powered exoskeleton around his person, including what looked like a slightly beefier tactical vest with a holster. The man also had a M1 helmet marked "MP" on it. At his side was a dog, with a vest on with a small antenna on it. The man was flanked by a couple of similarly attired individuals. He would greet the crew with a simple, "Welcome to New Kazakhstan. I'm Lt. Joe Silva, just want to come by, see about the ship, and let you on your way." Along the way, stevedores and dockworkers would be available to remove cargo.

Meanwhile, if the Dok-Shifa could and did land on the surface, the Traffic Controller would direct the ship to the Herbert Throckmorton Memorial Spaceport itself, again encouraging Priscilla May to get the appropriate docs and to prepare for possible inspection. The sky itself was somewhat grey, and it looked to be about midday. Down below the Dok-Shifa was the city. In typical Dornalian style, while there was a definite downtown, there was a lot of urban sprawl and grid planning--contouring to the local terrain, but either way resembled some sort of big concrete organism emerging from what was a grey, rugged steppe. The spaceport was somewhat busy, with ships flying in and out directed by both a man in the tower and also men on the ground with glowing batons, obnoxiously loud safety orange vests with blinking amber lights on and arcane movements which seemed more akin to a magical raindance to the uninitiated. The ship would be directed to Hangar 15, which was somewhat out of the way. As this occurred, Priscilla May would be able to detect scanners moving to scan the ship as it entered into the Hangar--mostly as the Traffic Controller would note this was the case. A ladder would pull up to the entrance if needed, moved about on a small hover platform. Either way, the baggage handling crew was ready, as was a waiting ICBA inspection team which included a dog, much as it would have been if Priscilla had docked onto the Orbital Complex. And well, just as it happened, the ICBA Lieutenant down below--someone who was less tall than Joe Silva, and posessed of cat ears and a tail, along with a peanut butter complexion and an otherwise normal human woman's appearance, would introduce herself as "Lt. Juanita Alves". Unlike Joe though, she would be a lot friendlier....

[Roania]

Maein would, at last, come out of her chambers. She had, once more, dressed herself fully. More fully, indeed, than before. And it was... strange.

Oh, not that she was covered from neck to toe. Traditional Rudanese women's clothing often covered that much, and could cover more; to wear it in a way that conveyed that she may as well be wearing nothing was an art girls learned in school, if not with their mother's milk. Effortless art, effortless style, effortless grace. All this took a great deal of effort, and the Rudanese prided themselves on making themselves look like it came to them naturally. Still, yes, for a woman who had spent a good portion of the day before dressed in practically nothing without thinking of it, it may have been jarring to see her covered from head to toe.

What was more jarring that it was so effortlessly arranged to make Maein's form beneath it about as feminine as a bowling pin. Loose where she would have worn it tight, tight where she would have worn it loose.

Her face, today, seemed washed out. Dark circles hung prominently under her eyes, and her lips (normally plump and, as McClintock may attest, all-too inviting) seemed thinner and wanner. There was little color to her cheeks, except when she looked at Paul, and her pale skin would pinken slightly. It was still a beautiful woman's face; little she could do overnight would have been sufficient to change that. But it was not Maein's face. Even her eyes seemed duller, the jade-green within them having sunk into a sparkless turquoise pool that remained still.

"My apologies for not making dinner last night. I was... unwell." She spoke softly, and in clipped tones. "I would like to thank you, Priscilla, for your excellent work. You have earned your bonus on this trip." And that was that, as far as the crew was concerned, at least while there were formalities to attend to. It was her responsibility to deal with customs, and she did so, though with none of what may be called her usual joi de vivre.


On the ground

Juana received a warm reception. And so did dog. Maein would take her and her team through the ship and its manifest, chatting, offering to share the crew's breakfast, subtly gathering information without gathering information. Today, at least, time spent around women was to be preferred.

To Juana, Priscilla was 'a most excellent hire', Vega was 'one of those Sohei, aren't they amazing? He's asked me to help move some big freight of his, I don't think it' and Paul was... a puzzle. Maein's hackles rose once with Juana on board, when the neko smiled at the orderman. The humans may not have noticed, but the dog certainly did, and its ears drooped. Eventually, Maein would say "Paul is working on my ship as an assistant engineer and handyman. He wants to see the galaxy, and my ship seemed to be going in a way he wanted to be heading." And if Juana was wise, she left it at that. Maein seemed somewhat surprised at herself.

The manifest, and the cargo hold, held few surprises, beyond the change of crew. Maein's paperwork (sealed with the peach blossom of House Dasal, not that these locals knew anything about that) showed she had made the trip before, largely carrying agricultural goods and industrial equipment back and forth. Not glamorous work, but someone had to do it. She willingly opened every container except Vega's container, and provided that line was not crossed, she accepted the clomping feet of dockworkers and revenue men, and the fee, as cited, which she paid with a flourish somewhat reminiscent of her usual self. And why would they doubt her? She was a Roanian, a representative of a people known throughout the galaxy as law-abiding and stolid, if not ploddingly unimaginative.

Afterwards

When the revenue officers had left, and Maein was sure they had left, and that her crew were busy, she went into the engine room and sealed the door behind her, as well as the way in from the cockpit. Whatever she did in there, she came out carrying a closely sealed satchel that vanished into her clothes before she rejoined her crew. "Well, and that was exciting." The Ship-Mistress said, a note of sarcasm entering her otherwise flat voice. "Here is my plan. Shore leave. Satoshi Vega, you may be able to finish your duty on the planet before we settle accounts. My ship will be in orbit for at least two days." She bowed to the owl.

"Priscilla, you have more than met with my satisfaction, and I am happy to grant you your bonus. As the room has been cleaned by... my standards," She changed she was about to say, "I will open my credit on New Marston to you, as well. Please, redecorate your quarters as you like, and I will foot all expenses. It is my ship, after all." Did that dull eye flutter in a wink? Surely not. "And if you wish to buy anything else for yourself, please."

That left McClintock. Speaking while looking at a point three feet to the left and five inches above his head, Maein spoke carefully. "After recent events, Paul McClintock, I must confess that I had the wrong opinion of you when we first met. Certainly, you took care of that problem with expertise and decisiveness. I would ask you, then, to be of some assistance in another matter. I have a meeting at a..." She seemed to consider the words, reminding people, perhaps including herself, that this language was not her first language. "The.... Te ngo... the Tin.. the Dengy... no... a bar." She produced a card, which she offered to Paul with both hands. It read 'The Dingy Dingo'. "I have never travelled abroad from the ship on this world without an escort before, and I do not feel, under recent circumstances, safe. And would consider it an honor if you helped."

[Achesia]

Maein was acting... off today. Off from the usual self that was off from what Priscilla considered normal for a freighter captain. Though If she was honest with herself there was no normal freighter captain, typically the normal was shrewd, perverted, dirty, casual, perhaps even suave. But supposing the shrewdness and properness of Maein was not the worst thing Priscilla counted herself lucky as she scarfed down the rest of her breakfast.

It had been a pretty rapid morning since Priscilla woke up still wrapped in her shower towels. She had chuckled at herself a bit when she flung the towel onto her cabin floor, the unfortunate product of which meant her hair was still quite damp but being as the ship was soon to arrive in the Marston System she would have to make do.
“A little wet hair never killed anyone” Was her mantra as she got ready.

She threw on a fresh pair of tan utility pants, coyote brown shirt and her normal brown leather jacket before binding her wet blonde hair into a wet soppy bun behind her head. After that it was all a rush of standard system entry communications, waiting in line for landing clearance, and trying to keep the freighter flying as inconspicuous as she could. While she didn’t see Maein as the smuggling type, the whole “my ship, my cargo, my business” speech certain didn’t have Priscilla yearning to be pulled over for an extra detailed inspection. From there getting the ship on the ground was quite simple and then came the most important part of the morning… food.

Priscilla had still been slurping up her gruel as the inspection was on going, and only paused for as much time as was polite to listen to Maein thank her for her excellent work. Though Priscilla had landed freighters several dozen times on different systems she certain didn’t mind taking a bonus for it.

“Thank you Maein.” She did manage a smile as polite as she could be, nodding her head. “I guess I will be around if you need anything Ma’am.” Priscilla was not used to being let loose so soon once planet side. Usually there was a deck to be swabbed or a valve to be greased somewhere. It almost felt like a trap at first for her to just be free on the town but knowing how little Maein understood of piloting she guessed this was not any sort of cruel trick a saltier captain would pull. Yet there was still a part of her that knew she needed to do those things, maybe it was a compulsion or force of trained habit, yet the pull of being planet side again after so long was strong. Maybe some of the chores could wait.

Taking the last slurp of gruel Priscilla kicked back in her chair in the middle of the rec room. Both Maein and McClintthingy had already left, and it just left her and the feathery pilot alone in silence.

“So Vega.” She wiped her mouth with her sleeve as she turned to him. “What are you gonna’ be up to? You’ever been to Marston City?” She folded her hands behind her head as she leaned back waiting for an answer.

[Enso and Mu]

Vega, who had returned Maein's instructional invitation with a deep, formal bow, considered his response to Priscilla much more carefully. He was just about done his preparations to leave for the city when she'd found him - data-scroll and pilot module tucked into his sash, where his sidearm was about to join them. The weapon couldn't have been anything else apart from a weapon, and yet it had a certain refined elegance about it. It declared "I'm Here, and I'm Meant to Be", in a way that only the sidearm of a lawman could.

Sohei were not Law Enforcement Officers within the sphere - they occupied a rank closer to military officers than policemen. A Sohei Captain, on the other hand, was rare. There were only about thirty of them in the entire Red Enso Society, and, them included, the number of retirees brought their ranks up to the low hundreds. Such rank was obvious, and came at the expense of what was often a lifetime (or working-lifetime) of service to the Society. The public reverence afforded them was closer to magistrate or judge.

He knew he would have to be careful to remember, here, that he was a stranger in a strange land, and therefore unlikely to enjoy the usual perks. "Marston? Goodness, no, I've never left the sphere."

Satisfied with his inspection of the weapon, he tucked that into his sash as well, and turned to a mirror to give himself one last glance for presentibility. "As it happens I'm looking for somone. And I should start immediately. It would be convenient to depart in the same way arrived if he's not here."

Without much else - and without an invitation - Vega left to depart the ship. Priscilla had her orders, after all. Who was he to encourage her to ignore them?

It didn't take long, with the dust of the planet under his taloned feet, for the Satoshi Carbourne to determine this planet was an unlikely host for Shibata anyway. The planet had been mentioned in the Master's notes - parenthetically - but Vega's decision to come had been down to it being the closest outside of Sphere space to appear in his diary. Having searched all the ones in the diary, this seemed like a logical starting point.

The information fed back from the kiosk was less helpful. There was little on Marston by way of religion, at least any sort of religion Vega and Shibata would recognize. No temples, no monasteries, no Grand Schola or Tradesherimtages. Resigned, Vega called up the position of a few local bars, memorizing the shortest routes to them, so that he could do things the harder way.

The Dingy Dingo? What, like the wild dog?
Amused by nothing more than the name, he quickly downloaded a local map to his scroll, and set out in search of this place. It was as good a place to start as any.

Though at this point, he was quite sure he was in for an afternoon of wasted time and unhelpful drunks.

[New Dornalia]

OOC: Part 1 of 2. Part 2 will come up for more description goodness.

IC:

The day was getting interesting.

It had begun interestingly enough, right after Paul McClintock had dashed into his room to escape what had become a very awkward situation. He had remembered the orders Maein had given before the fiasco went down, and those were to set up his quarters before working with Priss to clean out the rec room. Paul found it relatively easy to set up, considering his pack had a pattern buffer within it that stored any number of things. Some bedding materials--namely, a Self-Fitting Bed Coverings Set from the PeopleMart that fit itself onto the mattress and the pillow easily enough with some work. Some books--Orderman's Manual for basic spells, cookbooks in case he had to cook, a copy of the great Dornalian novel, The Adventures of Captain Chartwell--a rollicking, if introspective Western based on the Great Southern Gata War--and so on. These were real books too. One could use the digitized stuff, but well, print wasn't dead in Dornieland and Paul's family had preferred print when practicable. Besides, being an Orderman, sometimes grimoires needed to be made in hard copy, on special psychokinetic paper. Paul also pulled out a small computer, which he placed on a desk in the room. The computer was colored in a sort of metallic, brushed forest green, with the Order's symbol on it and a thumbprint reader. Putting his thumb to the reader, the device opened up, and granted Paul access. Paul began typing. When one did fieldwork it helped to keep a journal of events. One to make it memorable in one's mind. Two so that Paul could document and show, if challenged, how and what he had learned from his adventures for the benefit of the advisor assigned to his fieldwork when it came time to talk about his experiences.

Paul documented the day's events so far. Cleaning the room. Meeting Priss and Vega and Maein. And.....

He stopped typing for a moment. How to document what he could only call, for lack of a better word, "The Chocolate incident?" Paul was worried about how to memorialize it or even explain it for posterity. What had happened was certainly not intended on his part. The man just wanted to let his boss try a piece of chocolate. Gregson’s no less--some of the best chocolate available to men and women across the Order, trusted for its invigorating properties. Evidently, it was too invigorating.

Paul’s mind tried to make sense of what had happened earlier on. Was this a thing among Maein’s people? Was this a thing among Maein herself? If he had known…..he would have kept that chocolate to himself. He was worried about just what would happen when he left his room and when he got to Marston City. Paul knew that either way things would be awkward--how awkward remained to be seen. Either way, he felt an apology was in order. If only he had known about the chocolate…..

He then mulled it over, and decided to type simply, “Also, make mental note. Do not feed Maein chocolate. For whatever reason, I offered to share a Gregson’s bar with her because she said she liked chocolate and I figured it’d be a friendly gesture. Next thing you know, I have to use my abilities to get the Ship Mistress to her quarters because things got crazy. I just hope nothing results from it--nothing happened, but...I feel kinda bad about the whole thing.”

He then saved the document, and then got up and finished setting up his room, putting his laptop away and closing it shut, the thumbprint reader lock sealing the laptop closed. At that, Paul came back outside.

When he did come outside because they landed on Marston City, he noticed Maein was….off. The previous night’s action had drained her of life, and she looked like a ghost. Before Paul could say anything though, Maein excused herself to deal with the inevitable presence of customs.

The customs lady--one Lt. Alves, if her rank pips were any indication--was making her way around the ship. Maein was introducing them all, and Paul acknowledged her with a nod and a simple, “Mornin’” as he ate his food. The dog seemed polite, if business like enough, although Maein’s raising of hackles seemed to put the dog on notice. Still, things were uneventful.

Paul kept his focus otherwise on the others and then proceeded to eat some congee whipped up quickly--someone had whipped it up, although he wasn’t clear on who did. Priss had some for sure. It wasn’t much, but it was food. And hey, he was used to eating it before. He did whip out a small salt shaker though marked with masking tape and the words “Fajita Seasoning,” and put some spice in, before chowing down.

Eventually, as the inspection team finished their work with a “Welcome to Marston, and have a good day” on Lt. Alves’s part, Maein briefed the crew.

For whatever reason, when it came to McClintock, Paul noticed Maein making an effort to not make eye contact with him and providing him with the card for a place called the Dingy Dingo and requesting an escort. The request made Paul slightly relieved, and slightly worried all at once. On the one hand, Maein evidently found him to be an honorable man for his handling of the incident earlier, and also trusted him to run escort at the least. On the other hand, it was clear she was….feeling more than a bit awkward still when it came to talking with Paul. Also, looking at the Dingy Dingo’s business card, it was a place that looked like a rather strange area for someone like Maein to go. Just what sort of bar was it?

Still, Paul decided to help Maein out--if at the very least, in Paul’s mind, it would make up for the shenanigans yesterday--and then said, smiling (since smiling was his way of improving a mood in a room--so he was told) “I’d be glad to help, Maein. I could escort you there and back yeah, while everyone else is busy doing their thing.”

Thus, the two would begin their adventure…..to a very strange part of town. As for Priss and Vega? Well, they’d be going to places as well….

[Roania]

"Thank you, Paul McClintock." She didn't meet his eye, but she did bow. "I must go and put my face on for my meeting, and change to my local attire. I hope you do not mind waiting, and I wish you luck, Satoshi Vega, and you a pleasant shore leave, Priscilla."

And so it was that she and Paul would be the last to leave. Putting her face on, for Maein, seemed to entail some twenty minutes worth of work, but she evidently felt it was time well spent at the end when she stepped from her room. "My apologies for taking so long, Paul." She did meet his eye now, and she smiled, though both her eyes and her smile were somewhat brittle. Internally, if read, she would be as dull as in the morning. Externally, though...

Well, it was a change. She wore a lavender v-neck t-shirt that hung to about her lower thigh, and seemed to be wearing standard denim blue jeans beneath, though the neckline of her top plunged halfway to her navel, revealing the whole valley of her cleavage. By some trick, when she walked, Maein managed to maintain decency. But she was profoundly unhappy. She had evidently taken the time to wait for Priscilla and Satoshi Vega to leave, so they would not see her like this. However she chose to dress for this meeting, and whatever she chose to put on display, she was not doing it for herself.

Over her arm, she carried a large purse that seemed out of place on her, but the girl didn't pay it any attention. "Shall we be on our way?"

[New Dornalia]

Part 2 of 2

Paul nodded, and agreed to proceed onwards, first finding his Orderman’s jacket. He noticed Maein’s getup, and noted that it was quite….revealing, although not too revealing given how it all seemed to stay together.

***

The party members, once they had exited the ship to make their way across the town, would be greeted with a somewhat seasonable, cool climate. It certainly wasn’t freezing, but temperatures--if the Bank of New Kazakhstan’s thermometer sign could be believed--were hovering around sixty to sixty two degrees Fahrenheit, with a corresponding translation of sixteen degrees Celsius. Paul wasn’t too cold. He privately wondered how Maein would be doing, although it was pleasant enough temperature wise.

Paul then could be seen removing his coat, taking it off and showing a t-shirt underneath with the logo of the Order on it. He then could be seen offering the coat to Maein, adding, “It may get a bit brisk. Figure this’ll help keep you warm, Maein, what with your shirt leaving you half-naked as it is.” The tone was of course, not one of judgment--he had no time for that, and didn’t want to make things worse--but of concern over Maein’s comfort.

The sky though would be somewhat grey still.

In front of the party as they left Throckmorton for various parts of the city, they would be greeted with the usual sort of buzz around a spaceport. In this case, taxicabs driven by absolute madmen in old wheeled or hovercars could be seen dropping off and picking up fares going to and from Throckmorton. Likewise, trams and buses operated by a group calling itself the “Marston Public Transit Authority” could be seen docking at various stations and driving onwards. The transit stops would have a guide standing in front of a map which pointed to an elaborate metro map for the MPTA’s transit routes, if any member of the party so desired. There would also be what looked like small gravbikes and even regular bikes for lease--pay up and one could be used for transport.

There were also street signs besides the map. These street signs, printed in Cyrillic and English, pointed to a variety of destinations including the Order Temple of Marston. There was even a shuttle bus marked with the Order Temple’s logo on it in huntergreen and with signs advertising “Stay the night! Low low rates!”

However, if the party could see beyond the signs, they would see a number of businesses. One of them was a shop marked “Marston Outfitters”. The comical chibi cowgirl mascot aside, the shop seemed to have any number of stetsons and other Western themed souvenirs….along with some Ostern themed ones as well such as ushankas and Cossack sabers. If anyone needed clothing or souvenirs? Well, they could stop in.

Indeed, the city itself seemed to have a strange mixture of East meets West. The architecture seemed to recall both a Western frontier town beginning to become more civilized with brick and concrete, and something more Osternish with features which were distinctly of the Russian revival school. Certainly, one could see law enforcement types walking the beat with holsters on Sam Browne belts, whose uniforms seemed to be designed by a committee composed of Barney Fife and a Don Cossack. The whole thing was held together with a sense of “bigness” generated by the fact the city seemed to expand wider and not taller, as if the Dornalian character was predisposed to build just as the city fathers of Los Angeles did.

Within that bigness would be a number of points of interest. If the crew decided to do some shopping, a building which looked like a Russian palace but had any number of light, medium, and heavy pickups parked in front of it was marked “PeopleMart.” Further down the road to the left would be a shinier, modern looking building marked “GoodPrice Supermarkets” and even further down to the right, another big-box store named “Spacer’s Supply,” with gaudy faux-trucker trim on its employees and decor.

Of course, there would be any number of small buildings, of various types of repute. These would depend on where the party’s membership went.

If any of the party members continued to the PeopleMart or even past the PeopleMart--as Paul did, shadowing Maein and keeping an eye out to protect her--they would eventually find themselves in Portside. Portside looked to be somewhat poor, with somewhat worn down townhouses and apartment blocks all somewhat rough in character from the outside looking in. Many of the people there could be heard speaking languages and dialects once found in the Gamma Quadrant or other regions--and if that didn’t give away their former origins as refugees in the Great Displacement, then the various flags from now-dead nations in shop windows would give the game away. The neighborhood certainly seemed vibrant, filled with ethnic eateries and so on, all with signs on the flagpoles declaring, “Travellers’ Solidarity Day Parade!” in July. The people would look at the newcomers with a polite nod, even if they were watching them. Paul would be able to sense that the locals had some awkward encounters with outsiders before, particularly those with a law enforcement career….and those who were just criminals.

Any of the party members going down through Portside would eventually soon discover that among the sorts of happy, healthy places that made an urban district thrive, there would be would be a lot of the sort of places that mothers warned sons and daughters not to go. Places like “massage parlors”, or dispensaries that seemed all too eager to fob their wares on passing sailors or tourists. Or even bars which seemed to host fights alongside a promise of decent beer. This was all intermingled with warehouses, docks and all sorts of utilitarian things that made it look drab, and even a bit wild. Men and women who looked like the polite refugees from before were present, but they seemed a bit more suspicious and a bit tougher than their cousins. Paul got a feeling that this new crop was not exactly keen on outsiders coming in and out, although they seemed to leave them alone. The Force told him these locals had located here for a reason--perhaps the cops and even some of the polite ones from before had experienced “issues” with these ones.

The Dingy Dingo would be there, in all its drab glory. Outside the Dingo would be not only the usual flags, but also a window on the door which, in stained glass, would have a harpy clutching a branding iron in its talons glaring at the viewer. Paul opened the door for Maein, gesturing for her to enter. The men around the side of the entrance--including a man in a suit which seemed one size too small for him--merely acknowledged the two with a nod. Paul had a feeling that they knew who Maein was, which of course set off the usual questions of just what a woman like this was doing here.

The inside of the bar would be a classic “bad guy” bar from a Western. There would be wooden round tables, around which were rough characters of all sorts sitting around, wearing leather jackets emblazoned with the harpy logo from outside, playing obscure card games of Gamma Quadrant origin and nursing what looked like glasses filled with any number of alcoholic beverages. They all spoke loudly, cursed loudly, and generally were quite undignified--and well armed, by the looks of it.

In the corner, on a small stage, a woman in a parody of a military outfit--except one which looked considerably more lascivious and impractical than the usual--could be seen doing a version of the hopak which involved her removing more and more elements of the outfit, accompanied by a musician playing a strange, alien fiddle of some sort.

Working the bar itself would be a young woman in a rather masculine getup--a shirt, suit pants with a vest and bowtie, with a “hime cut” hairstyle wiping glasses like some sort of Old West barkeep. Old West barkeeps didn’t normally have a nametag reading “Gracie,” though, and certainly didn’t have images of the barkeep in happier, militarized times behind the counter nestled amongst the liquor bottles, and most certainly didn’t have a holographic flicker indicating they were a hard light hologram.

She looked up at Maein, and said simply, in a gruff voice with surprisingly pitch perfect Rudanese, “Evenin’. You lookin’ for the Boss? She’s in back.”

***

If any of the party members went to the GoodPrice and ventured onwards, they would find themselves in Kornilov Bluffs. Here, the city would take on an unusually clean look to it, and a part of it would be dominated by a large, modern complex with the sign in front reading “University of New Kazakhstan--Marston City Campus”. As any campus town had, there would be all sorts of quirky shops catering to a student body. There would be bars, small cafes and coffee houses and even diners advertising specials and cuisines of all sorts, be they Konoha Style Ramen, hamburgers, or even a New Kazakhstani dish--the Jumbo Pelmeni Soup. The dish would resemble an unholy mixture of a Chinese wonton soup with Russian Pelmeni--the meatfilled kind, hopefully. The people certainly didn’t seem like they were from a frontier town, for sure--many of them looked more the part of “urban hipster” or “college student eager to learn and experience life” than anything.

***

If any of the party members in turn went to the Spacer’s Supply and then went past it, they would end up in Westside. Here were any number of apartment blocks and small townhouses, built using standardized patterns and with any number of lower-middle end cars parked in front of them. The area would be somewhat boring, but amongst the lower-middle suburban tracts would be bars and shopping centers in their own right...

[Roania]

Maein nodded, sighed, and took a breath. Slowly, and to some whistles from the crowd (who had evidently been expecting the show from the moment she walked in) and a catty comment or two from the dancer, she began to unwillingly take off her jacket, not turning to face her sudden audience. Her cheeks flushed only slightly pinker than they had been; she was used to this, and she seemed to accept it. When her shoulders were bare, she looked up at Paul. Her eyes were suffering, but she smiled. "Well, it kept me warm, boy. You'd do a better job, and if you do a good job tonight, you won't be paying me back for it.." The voice was clipped, cool, and lacking in emotion, though there was a certain forced sensual heat behind it.

Had this been what her former pilot had meant, when he'd thought her coming onto him? How often had she come here, with him, and said a similar thing, with the same pained expression, the same vacuous smile that didn't touch her pained green eyes? She placed the jacket on the bar. "He's coming in with me; I've gotten rather attached to part of him, and the rest of him comes with it. Look out for this for me, will you?" She put her hand on Paul's arm, her nails digging into his bare skin ever so slightly. "Let's go in, loverboy."

[New Dornalia]

Paul looked over at Maein, and he had to admit. Under the low honky-tonk lighting of the Dingy Dingo...with that plunging neckline....Maein was....how would his dad say it? Drop dead gorgeous. Certainly, the plunging neckline and the shirt--which didn't leave much to the imagination--would catch Paul's attention in more ways than one. Not just because he noticed Maein's...tracts of land....but also because Paul could, amidst the din of the bar and the strange mix of Slavic, Alien, and Biker Bar music hear singing coming from Maein's chest. Particularly, from a spot near the collarbone which seemed to cover up something with what looked like a fleshtoned piece of clothing. But something compelled him--likely his Empowered sensibilities--to recognize that there was something more to Maein's chest than the obvious. Like...no, a crystal? He didn't know, and something told him it wasn't worth it to ask at the moment.

As to Maein's manner, Paul played along, although he sensed Maein's mannerisms were partly an act, and decidedly one which she was used to doing--although she seemed to wish that she didn't have to do it. It made sense to Paul. After all, this was a place which made honky tonks in Tijuana look like a Spiro's Diner--safe, family friendly, and not at all filled with lowlifes from whom Paul sensed a rather primal--and rather ugly--lasciviousness. Likely, the patrons wanted this out of anyone remotely attractive woman coming into their bar to do business--and Maein was quite attractive. Paul was already not liking this place--now he found a reason to dislike it even more.

As to what Gracie the barkeep would say, Gracie shrugged and said, with a smile, "Will do." Evidently, the hard hologram was used to the song and dance, and shrugged with a tired, cynical shrug that seemed to yearn for wistful times...when she wasn't working in a dive.

The walk to the back past the stage and past the rowdy patrons would take Maein and Paul past a couple of doors marked "WC" respectively, with less of the loud music. Paul kept his head on a swivel, wondering just what this meeting was all about. He was glad to have his lightsaber on him at the moment--and even gladder that no one had asked for it to be taken from him. The two would move past a dingy hallway all the way to the back, where a room was marked "Manager's Office." One of the toughs sized up Maein and Paul, and then knocked on the door, bellowing in some sort of tongue native to the Gamma Quadrant. The door opened, and inside was a simple, surprisingly well kept office with a pair of wood chairs, a desk, and a woman in an office chair who stood up to greet Maein and Paul with an extended hand and a bow. She looked to be a bit too respectable for this place. Save for the ominous, Hollywood-central-casting scar over her left eye, she didn't look the part of a manager of a honky tonk. Paul himself sensed that this woman was the one in charge of proceedings, and she looked the part with an expensive skirt suit and a pair of suited up bodyguards next to her. Her hair was a sandy blonde, with a fair face that seemed unusually at ease--with eyes that held a bit of menace within them, like a shark sizing up prey.

The woman spoke with a slight accent which mixed any number of Earth dialects with something exotic--again from the Gamma Quadrant.

"Hello, hello again! Ship Mistress Dasal, was it?" Turning to Paul, she said, politely, "And you may be...."

"Paul McClintock, ma'am."

"Charmed. Joanna Struan. My colleagues call me Lemonade Jo--I don't drink!" Jo then laughed a bit, and the toughs behind her laughed too, albeit with less enthusiasm than their boss. Jo then bade the two to sit with a gesture of her hand a cry of "So, sit sit!" as she sat down. Pulling out a small cigarette case from her desk, she flipped it open with one hand and offered it to the two with a simple, "Cigarette?" before putting it away. Folding her hands on the table as Paul looked at Jo with an uneasy eye--and trying to wonder just what this all was, although he had a feeling--Jo then asked Maein, "So. How did you two meet? He looks rather handsome--and an Orderman!" Jo seemed to zero in on Paul's shirt when she said the last part. She then added, with politeness and friendliness more the product of forced study than innate talent, "My dad had a good time with the Ordermen. Real nice folks. Mom also, she used to say I could trust an Orderman to be trustworthy."

Small talk aside, she then leaned back and said, with a smile, "So! I understand you're here on business?"

[Roania]

"Miss Struan," Maein spoke softly and without inflection, after the appropriate courtesies were exchanged, "I have done as you requested." She slipped her purse up and over her body, momentarily (much to the appreciation of the thugs, it seemed) letting her shirt fall even deeper to the right; while she did her best, and she was wearing a bodysuit (though only Paul seemed to know about that), nevertheless there a flash of darker skin and the sight of her breast beginning to round to its point, and she knew about it, and shifted her body so as to move the tunic back into place, but the damage had been done. Her cheeks pinked.

Trying to keep her blush from spreading, she placed the purse on the table and pulled out what may have been a cooking pot, with the lid sealed in with rivets. When she placed it on the desk, there was some minor reaction, as the wood beneath its base cooled dramatically. "They asked for more than I was willing to give for how little they were willing to give, and they would not offer more in exchange." Despite how desperately she wanted to appear in command of the situation, her cheeks pinked yet more. She wanted to appear as a woman of the world, and maybe her words were enough to fool people who only listened to her. But no; last night had been a rare event. Whatever her age, she was more girl than woman; there was no truth behind her attempts to appear as experienced as the women of this place, or as rough around the edges, or as willing. Her eyes said it, if anyone looked at her eyes. While her voice strove for confidence and sensuality, her eyes had shrunk into terrified little points. "Eventually they accepted money. "I watched them measure it out and fill it myself." Her hand, now that the pot was with its new owner, slipped back and grabbed Paul's arm again, digging her claws in.

Why was she here?

[Macisikan]

Let’s back up a moment. Many pairs of eyes have been surveying our heroes from the moment they walked in, but there’s one pair whose owner needs an introduction. Over there, seated in his own booth. No, not him; that one. Yeah, him.

At first glance, the young man seems one of those slick pilot boys they thought they left behind on Yokohama. Pretty-boy looks combined with dark tousled hair; chiselled cheekbones, strong jawline, and… is that an eyebrow piercing? What a peacock. He’s maybe a few finger widths shorter than McClintock. Lean and fit. Body language that screams cocky arrogance. He’s not sitting in the couch; he’s lounging in it, gaze lazily drifting across the bar. Let the reader’s perspective drift closer; one hand is holding a cup of something steaming, while the other is flung out across the back of his couch. Those eyes move from face to face, body to body; they miss nothing. The attire even resembles the fly-boys – a black jacket that’s probably made from leather (typical), dark grey pants of some sort (nearly black in this light), and a red t-shirt with what looks like something violent or obscene written on it. No harpy logo on this one though. It looks curiously solid though – almost as though it’s a form-fit suit of armour underneath it. And then, you catch a flash of light reflecting from what you thought were shadows on the skin – implants. The glove over his left hand suddenly takes on new significance, and that’s not a tattoo on his neck. As the lights dip and change you catch something in his eyes – a very faint red glow.

What we have here, dear reader, is a cyborg – one with some pretty slick augmentation. Take into account the physique that you now know is enhanced, the sort of bar we’re in, his lack of tags or signs, and throw in these two facts; first, he’s confident enough in his own abilities that he doesn’t seem to be anywhere near a weapon even in this joint; second, no-one is bothering him. By now you should realise that his lack of obvious movement isn’t the cocky lounge of your typical pretty-boy pilot, but the deliberate stillness of a predator. Despite that, he’s drawing some rather obvious interest from a couple of people in the room, and he knows it, judging by the smirk playing around his lips.

Those eyes flit from face to face among everyone who enters; Maein and Paul aren’t spared the cool appraisal. And it is cool, almost clinical; her disrobing earns no more interest than the stripper does. He tilts his head as the two head to the back, as though listening to some internal voice, but his eyes don’t track them. Instead, as they’ve left, he looks up at the Gracie, and he raises the mug he’s holding. She understands, and has a refill dispatched – he nods his thanks. They enjoy each other’s company.

Of course, your author would not spend so much time describing him if he wasn’t going to become a character in our story.

But let’s go back to the others. Vega, thrilling us all by moving at a glacial pace, maybe. Or Priss (who is about to receive some urgent news that will make things complicated). Or we can go back to Jo’s office.

One last thing; our new friend doesn’t like Jo. He thinks she’s an idiot. Still, she can afford his rates.

[Achesia]

With the rest of the crew’s abrupt departure on their own business, Priscilla was left to the quiet ship herself. The cold corridors and echoing bulkheads as loud in their silence as they had been in warp. It was time Priscilla ventured to the edge of the boarding ramp, touching soil for the first time in many weeks. The air through her lungs was refreshing after inhaling recycled oxygen for longer than any sentient being should. Finally, she was free.

Or was she? Priscilla looked back up the ramp of the Dok-Shifa once more, the thoughts of the last day spent on the ship mulling through her brain. She reflected back on her time on the ship, the opportunity it was and the escape from the station it provided. Yet the prospect of a continued voyage on her seemed somewhat straining to the blonde girl. She picked up the bun of her hair to release the pressure on her head and took a deep breath, about that time a freighter passed over the landing area on a similar approach as they had been not too long ago. This just was not her sort of gig, a bit too stuffy for her almost.

This was a rather big port, and there were endless opportunities out there, maybe now that she had the choices, she could truly be free.

It was then the free spirit in Priscilla kicked in, the spontaneity of the young girl flowing through her veins as she strode up the ramp and to what had been her crew quarters that night. She had not even unpacked her bag since she came aboard, still sitting there partially unzipped from when she had got her clothes for that day. The towels she had bathed with her still strewn about on the floor, she took the time at least to fold them, laying them on the end which she tidied up best she could.
Shouldering her bag, she walked to the door of Maein’s cabin, taking a piece of chemical wipe and scribbling on it with a pen she kept hand in her utility pants.

“Maein, thanks for the opportunity, but I need to be on my way. Take that cancellation bonus you talked about out of my account if needed. Again, thanks.”

She slipped the note under the door, stepping back a bit an exhaling as her small heart pounded. Now she can explore this distant port with true freedom. The galaxy awaited the girl named Priss.
With that she headed down the ramp, and into the crowd of the busy port, seemingly disappearing into the cosmos once more.

[New Dornalia]

Why was she here?

Paul was wondering that very question himself.

Up until this point, Paul hadn't thought much about why Maein insisted on going into the filthiest, most sleazy honky-tonk he had ever been into in his life. To be fair, he never made a habit of visiting too many such places. A combination of comparative inexperience and the strictness of Elder McClintock's upbringing ensured he never had too much opportunity to do so.

Now, seeing the pot Maein brought forth, Paul had a sinking feeling that he had gotten into something quite illicit--as had Maein. Thoughts of why she would do this flashed through his head. Was she being blackmailed? Was she down on her luck, desperate for money? Part of him wanted to see if the elder McClintock needed someone on the ranch, but another more sensible part felt that to be more than a little naive. Either way, it seemed Maein, given her druthers, would not be here doing this if she didn't need to be.

One could write poems about the sad sight Maein was giving off here, pretending to be sexy, delivering goods like some tawdry strip-o-gram trying to pay her way through college to someone who was clearly not a legitimate businesswoman. Certainly, Paul thought that was the case, although he had a gut feeling Maein would be even more upset if he thought that way. If he noticed the show, and if anyone could peer into his mind, it was clear that any sort of reaction to the accidental show was likely the last thing on his mind. As it was, Paul’s nervous disposition wasn’t helped by the fact he sensed the toughs in the room were looking at Maein with the same lascivious attitudes the others outside had. Even Struan--who seemed to not be aroused at all about the whole display--was looking Maein over as if she were a sculpture--or a judge of show dogs.

Maein’s grab also certainly didn’t escape Paul’s attention--but it only seemed to add to his analysis of the scene, however frantic and perhaps panicky it may have been. People tended to grab like that when they were in discomfort--Mrs. McClintock had occasionally grabbed the Elder McClintock that way when they were traveling, a habit she had picked up from the Civil War and post-Civil War days, when road agents plagued New Chicago County in the wake of that epic conflict. As such, Paul seemed to do what came naturally, and gave her a reassuring look--the same look the Elder McClintock, stoic and reserved as he was, gave to let everyone know that he had the situation well in hand, with a reassuring nod. Paul himself was still a bit nervous, but he found acting the part of the resolute bodyguard kept his morale up in a tense situation.

Struan picked up the pot and opened it up, revealing a large quantity of small white pills. Struan plucked one, pulled out a glass of water from seemingly nowhere, and then pulled out what looked like a rather large combat knife from her boot. Struan then shaved off a bit of the pill, and popped it in her mouth and then chased it with the water. A sound of self-satisfaction occurred, followed by Struan’s eyes growing a bit wider.

Within a few seconds, Struan said proudly, "WHOOO! That's the shit!" Her grin grew greedy, and for a few awkward minutes of silence not much except the sight of Struan struggling to keep it together could be seen--evidently, she had been taken by surprise. After a few minutes however, the amiability she had exercised before melted away to reveal something more craven, more hyperactive.

Paul's instincts it seemed were right. Perhaps Struan noticed it, because the woman then said, her inhibitions loosened a bit, "Oh, this?" Struan laughed, and commanded Paul with an unusually ingratiating grin to "Relax, relax! You're too uptight, loverboy."

Struan turned to Maein and said, continuing to gush friendliness, "Your friend here--he's a bit stiff. One moment he’s jumpy as a New Chicago Tick, and then the other moment he’s like fucking stone. You should work on that with him." Pointing to Paul as suddenly as she pointed to Maein—Paul could definitely tell whatever was in those pills, it was not having an effect on the hustler--Struan added, "I can tell a man of nervous disposition anywhere, and these pills seem to make him nervous."

Struan turned to Paul again and said, staring him down with unusually fervent eye contact, "These are just diet pills, my good man. Diet pills! A kind which the government of this great land believes will kill whoever gets it." Scoffing, Struan leaned back and then looked back at Maein with great speed, adding, “And my dear—whoever you got these from—this is the most rush I’ve felt from these pills in years! A small sliver like the one I usually take for a taste to prove authenticity normally doesn’t make me this excited, or animated. But I think that today is the exception! I must use this supplier again.”

Paul was trying to keep up, and he had a feeling that things were going to go south. Fast.

Struan then continued, “Anyway, thanks for bringing me my merchandise. The dieters, sleepy students and thrillseekers of New Kazakhstan all thank you, Maein. Well, mostly the dieters. The moment they get their hands on this shit, those pounds will melt away like an ice cube in summertime."

She then paused, tapping on the desk out of habit, “Of course, you’re no doubt wondering about the payment. I did promise to pay you, after all, for your efforts.”

Struan then paused, and then said, trying to remain calm as possible, “Well, I did want to ask you a question first.” Pausing for a second, Struan then asked, “I heard from someone named Zei Guan? Or something like that? I couldn’t recall exactly, but it was something like that. Anyway, do you know this guy?”

Paul’s powers were still those of a trainee, but even he could tell Struan knew something Maein didn’t know….or hadn’t told him, and was trying to lord over Maein with the information. It didn’t help that when Maein heard the name, she seemed to dig deeper into his arm. It hurt, and he quickly gave her an acknowledging nod.

Paul hoped he didn’t have to use his lightsaber. But it looked like things were going in that direction.

[Enso and Mu]

OOC: I'm a derp, plz ignore.

[Roania]

Maein's cheeks turned red, though for the first time that day it wasn't because she was embarrassed. She was angry. And scared. And embarrassed, yes, but angry and scared. Her voice caught a few times. With forced calmness, the young woman nodded. "Zei Guanlin is the man I have told you about. We have an arrangement, and I know you lived up to your end of it." Her eyes, and the way she tightened her grip on Paul's arm, would rather show she wasn't sure, but she definitely hoped and expected jo to have kept her word. "...may I ask what he said?"

[Enso and Mu]

Vega did not need to take long at the first bar he hit to realise it was a waste of his time, and so, the Sohei-Captain carried on to the next bar in sequence - The Dingy Dingo. Besides being an alien to this world, he tended to stick out. A decades-long career and never quite being "off" had left him with the bearing and aura of command, and the rich robes typical of his position - largely bereft of the usual bevvy of insignia seen in military uniforms - gave him the appearance of a magistrate, aristocrat, or other dignitary. He tended not to be popular at bars. Sure, he could be polite enough, which is why he rarely got more than dirty looks and lack of co-operation. He looked too much of the law for the divier bars, and the Dingo was as seedy as you could ask for.

Not that Sohei-Captain Satoshi Vega minded the disdain of the patrons. It was directed at the office he held and not he himself personally, or so he told himself, and what was more, it was nearly mutual. The Satoshi Carbourne, like the Mujin themselves, kept the Precepts religiously rather than out of legal obligation. He didn't drink, and the idea of peddling drink and pandering to its mild addictive properties (or any other intoxicant, really) was anathema to him.

Still, if for no other reason than to be polite, he would approach the bartender and at least ask for permission to interrupt their patrons. "Excuse me, I'm looking for-"
"She's down back," the too-busy Bartender replied. "Just stay out of the way, Mujin."
As Vega was neither looking for a woman nor, in his estimation, Mujin, he was taken doubly aback. His brow ridge bristled in stark imitation of a human frown. "What? No, I wanted your permission to... oh, never mind."
"Look, do you want a drink or not?"
"Tea, if you please."

At this, the bartender took their own turn to frown, leaning onto the bar and stopping their work for the first time since they had addressed vega. "We aren't a cafe."
"Fine, fine. Tonic then."

Eventually with a glass in hand, Vega would deposit some coins onto the bar to settle the cost, and drift back into the crowd. Armed with the master disguise of something that might have been a drink, his posture and bearing blended rather quickly into the general thicket of a bar, even if he couldn't suddenly swap into a species that was more common for the local area. Sohei, particularly "alien" sohei, were operational security nightmares. Since the Red Enso Society rarely did anything covert themselves, there was no need for them to learn subtlty, at least in this particular sense of the word.

Slowly and politely, he began to single out those who were sitting alone (or at least, not overly involved in conversations), asking politely if they could tell him anything about the man who's picture he'd show them from his data scroll. Oh, are you sure? How about the name Shibata the Fourty-Second? Real old-school monk vibe. Well, if you're sure...

He'd sigh between groups. Marston City was a waste of time. He'd have to make sure to catch up with Maein so that he would not be stuck here when she left.

He was at the point of considering leaving. He'd entered the building without good will, and that good will seemed to be slipping. His eyes grew more suspicious every time they passed across the room, and more than once he felt his balance shift reflexively and defensively. It was as he set the empty glass down at the bar, and scanned the room with his eyes one last time, he spotted the other (though less-so) sore thumb, and figured he could afford one more attempt before beating feet back to the ship and admitting this planet (and the cost of shipping here) had been a waste of time.

He added a tip beside the glass (to at least buy back some of the goodwill of the bartender, if nobody else), and made his way to the cyborg.

"Sorry to interrupt your drink," he interjected, and wished he could be more honest about that. "But I was hoping you could help me with something."

[Macisikan]

The cyborg’s eyes had fixed the Satoshi when he entered, observing his gait, his stance. In this environment enhanced hearing wouldn’t pick up anything – too much junk to even think of filtering from this distance – so he didn’t bother. Still, Gracie-D’s body language was more surprised than annoyed.

As Vega began to circle the room, the cyborg tilted his head again, as though listening to a voice only he could hear.

His eyes flicked back from whatever distant world they’d been fixed on as Vega approached; his interest sharpening. Unlike the other patrons, he recognised that this wasn’t just an oddball alien. He was also mildly intrigued; very few actually had the stones to walk right up to him.

“Sorry to interrupt your drink,” the other said, “but I was hoping you could help me with something.”

The cyborg’s smirk didn’t shift.

“Prob’ly,” he said, an unfamiliar twang in his voice. “Depends. Wha’ d’ya wan’?”