“Good, solid sten-bolts is all. Figured you could get some fair market pricin’ fer the lot of them… got a good five cartons full: five hunnerd, shiny.”

“Willow! You sly vixen. What you be tryin’ to do to me 'ere?”

"Dodger, darlin', if I were attempting to ‘do’ you, there'd be no mistaking it for anything else. I told the captain, if anyone could move marked goods and get close to market value, it's Dodger, and so here we are. We hadn't gotten to talking about price yet, and we had no intention of hiding anything. With me, sweetness, what you see is what you get."

“Same’s clean through fer the lot o’ us, Dodger. I ain’t no Chwen, and ain’t lookin’ to wind up on the wrong end of Dodger’s interests. Like I said, five hunnerd o’ them. These here are good, solid pieces o’ equipment, Dodger. They ain’t some spoiled turnips we’re trying to dice and pass off as raisons. They’ll fetch ya a good price on the flipside, so what’s your offer?”
A moment. It isn’t a long stretch of time - the space of time between the clicks of the second hand. There was a lot that could happen in a moment though. Wyatt had seen scores of men die in a moment. Dash had pulled Rocinante from certain destruction in a moments turn of the wheel. Willow, well she had seen men do in a moment what should have lasted an entire evening, yet a moment was all she needed to bring a man from death to life on an operating table.

A moment passed between Dodger looking at the serial number of the sten-bolt. That was all it was, a serial/lot number that was stamped on manufactured goods. Sam saw that from where he was sitting. Nothing saying alliance only goods or any such cautions – after all they were just gorram sten-bolts. But Wyatt wasn’t looking at the serial number; he saw the fear flash in Dodger’s eyes. Something about this shipment scared the big man, and scared him badly.

Dodger sized up Wyatt and his crew in the same moment. After which the guarded smile was replaced by the genuine one, followed by that infectious laugh. “Ahhh, Miss Willow, dese not be marked. No fears dere. And you speak truth, I can move marked goods if the goods be good. But dis is the first time I ‘ave ‘ad anyone bring me goods what were stolen from me, looking for a good price.”

(assuming some astonishment here)

“See, I ‘ad a client want to move dese bolts along with other such merch, going to Newhall. I used an independent operator, much like yourselves, to do the deed. Trustwort’y sort who ‘ad done many jobs in de past.” Dodger leaned back as if to weigh his words, “Dat be Captain North and ‘is swan - Nina ‘artley”

(You have all heard of Nina Hartley. It was found adrift in the black, with no crew, no cargo. Reports on the waves said it was hit by pirates, using an EMP to disable the ship, then overriding the backup systems to open all hatches – sucking the crew into the void.)

“Yeah Mon! Dat de one. Very ‘arsh way to steal 2 credit a piece sten-bolts. But pirates don’t always know the cargo is good or not. So I ‘ave to make amends to the client. I ‘ave a rep to keep. Offer to pay de cost of d’ goods, and compensation, Mon. But ‘e’s all no worries Mon. Even t’rows a big job to me to make sure dere be no ‘ard feelings. I don’t bite the ‘and that feeds Mon, but dere be lesser mon than me on a meat ‘ook for losing dis cat’s stuff, you know what I mean?

(Assume some commentary here)

“So ‘ere you be wit’ part of dis cargo. So what am I to do? If I send you ‘way and you move dem elseswhere, word gets out, my reputation is shot and you be in trouble. If I try to move dem and word gets out, then my rep be trashed and dere be questions. If I take dem and turn ‘em over to my client, then ‘e’ll want names and you’d be in a world of ‘urt that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, let alone alls of you. So what am I to do now? Dat be de question.”

Willow watched Dodger’s reaction to the bolts and their words, and the minute play of emotions on the man’s face told of fear, but not towards them. An inexperienced person would have relaxed at that point, thinking they were in the clear, but Willow remained alert to all possibilities. She’d assisted in neurosurgery, after all, and the smallest mistake could take you from “all vitals good” to “let’s salvage the organs” in a flash.

She kept her hand warm and soft on Dodger’s arm, all the better to feel any new tension or sweat, and looked over to catch Sam’s eye. She let her smile widen to let him reassure him that there was no immediate danger, then looked to Sung.

“Captain san, I may be stating the obvious, but we’re caught in a classic standoff, and with an unknown slinger, not Dodger, here. The question is, were we being set up, was Dodger,” and here she looked back at the intelligent and perceptive man sitting beside her and her insides shivered,” or are all of us being played?”

“…dis is the first time I ‘ave ‘ad anyone bring me goods what were stolen from me, looking for a good price.”

“What?! Tzao gao! (Bulls---!)” Sam very nearly came completely out of his seat. The hairs on the back of his neck had been standing up since Dodger’s smile had gone cold and now, finding out that they were trying to sell the man’s own stolen goods back to him, those hairs may have well grown arms of their own and pulled the pilot to his feet. He was half-standing, in fact – eyes widened by disbelief and itchy fingers wriggling as if they sought purchase on the butt of a pistol that wasn’t there – when the Rastafarian fixer’s grin warmed again (a good sign, if Dash would have noticed it).

Dash’s eyes ticked nervously from one face to the next and scanned every bit of open space in between as his mind flooded with a few too many options to maintain his calm. Hearing Dodger explain how it was Cap’n North and the crew of Nina Hartley as got themselves sucked into the Black for this payload the first time around didn’t exactly help where easing back on the twitchy was concerned, either.

“So ‘ere you be wit’ part of dis cargo,” the rastaman said, “So what am I to do? If I send you ‘way and you move dem elseswhere, word gets out, my reputation is shot and you be in trouble. If I try to move dem and word gets out, then my rep be trashed and dere be questions. If I take dem and turn ‘em over to my client, then ‘e’ll want names and you’d be in a world of ‘urt that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, let alone alls of you. So what am I to do now? Dat be de question.”

For one, quick moment, Dash was sure that Frick and Frack were eyeballing him hungrily and that Dodger was plumb on the verge of unleashing the two big men on the Cap, Miss Wil, and himself for the sake of reputation and customer relations and, if he hadn’t caught Willow’s reassuring smile, Sam would have likely already been over the top of the desk with Dodger’s neck half-broke… It was that same smile that Willow had once used to assure him that, yes, he’d wake up just fine if he let her sedate him before she dug the bullets out… No, he wouldn’t wake up chained in the hold of some two-bit bounty hunter’s boat…

One corner of Sam’s mouth twitched as he tried to offer a smile in reply. The smile didn’t fully-develop though, so he nodded faintly, as well, and forced himself back into his seat, still uncertain that that was the best place to be given recent developments. When Willow’s eyes tracked away from him to regard the Cap, Dash’s uneasy gaze flicked, once more, to Hack and Slash before returning his attentions in full back to the deal at hand.

“Captain san, I may be stating the obvious, but we’re caught in a classic standoff, and with an unknown slinger, not Dodger, here. The question is, were we being set up, was Dodger,” and here she looked back at the intelligent and perceptive man sitting beside her and her insides shivered,” or are all of us being played?”

“Juh guh jee hua juhn kuh pah, either way,” Sam grumbled, “fer the whole ruttin’ buncha us! I mean, if I’m hearin’ correct what Dodger’s sayin’, we’re humped on this deal, right? Plus, even if’n we’s ta manage salvagin’ anythin’ from it, us an’ Smokey McPot, here, get on the bad side o’ some big ruttin’ Joo Bah Jeh who’s like ta come a-gunnin’ fer us jus’ cuz we mighta once seen this mi tian gohn cargo… Mother-humpin’-son-of….” Dash’s voice trailed off into under-his-breath mumblings.

((OOC: Okie doke… captain’s ball on this one… Dash ain’t gonna say much more as he figgers Wyatt don’t need no help with superstitions an’ the Luck o’ Three – plus he ain’t lookin’ ta get a slap to the head fer runnin’ off at the yap, neither – but he’s definitely gettin’ more an’ more nervous… Dodger ain’t makin’ it sound good. ))

And there it was: The Luck o’ Three.

Wyatt sat quietly stone-faced through Dodger’s discourse. His natural expression was one of hard sternness that some automatically assumed meant he was angry. It was something that he used to his advantage both often and well, and in this case it portrayed the cold rage that built inside more than adequately. As the captain saw it there could be only one answer, and that was that they were being set up. How far it went, he couldn’t immediately conjure, so he was uncertain as to whether Dodger was at risk, but he was absolutely positive that his crew was. That’s the way he looked at it too: his crew was at risk. It didn’t matter that he might be commanding Rocinante and by proximity that meant that he, too, was at risk. As far as Wyatt Sung was concerned, his crew and his boat were all that mattered now, and this revelation was threatening to blow them all outta the Black.

He’d found it more than a little odd that the delivery boys’d been slaughtered, but the sten-bolts were left. He’d voiced his concern to the crew at dinner that night as they burned for Bellerophon and what they’d hoped was a safe dispatch of the goods that sat in their cargo bay. Don’t make no sense slaughterin’ and shootin’ holes in them all, but leavin’ the wares. Jus’ ain’t proper pirating’s all. Still, there was nothin’ for it then and there weren’t nothing for it now. They brought the sten-bolts to Dodger in good faith that he’d be able to step ‘em off for a fair price; judging from the look in his eye, Wyatt was fairly certain that the man didn’t think they’d gone all a-piratin’ and humped those that got his stolen cargo. Of course, what it did mean was that those that got dead at the swap point were likely those that humped Nina Harley. There’s some justice after all. So the big question was what to do ‘bout the circumstances they found themselves in now?

“Captain san, I may be stating the obvious, but we’re caught in a classic standoff, and with an unknown slinger, not Dodger, here. The question is; were we being set up, or was Dodger,” Wyatt met Willow’s gaze with an unreadable expression on his own, “Or are all of us being played?” The doctor finished ominously.

“Juh guh jee hua juhn kuh pah, either way,” Sam grumbled, “Fer the whole ruttin’ buncha us! I mean, if I’m hearin’ correct what Dodger’s sayin’, we’re humped on this deal, right? Plus, even if’n we’s ta manage salvagin’ anythin’ from it, us an’ Smokey McPot, here, get on the bad side o’ some big ruttin’ Joo Bah Jeh who’s like ta come a-gunnin’ fer us jus’ cuz we mighta once seen this mi tian gohn cargo… Mother-humpin’-son-of….” Dash’s voice trailed off into under-his-breath mumblings.

“Finished?” Wyatt said evenly, raising a brow at his friend and waiting for the affirmation with gargoyle-like patience.

(OOC: assuming he is… or if he ain’t then Wyatt’ll let him rant a bit more.)

Turning back to Dodger, Wyatt tilted his head a bit to the left and settled back into his chair once more. “Ways I see it, Puhn Yoh, is that Sam an’ Willow ain’t that far off. ‘Course this don’t mean Da Shiong La Se La Ch’wohn Tian as far as I’m concerned ‘cause the good of it is that it forces our hand rather than allowin’ us t’ sit on our shiny little asses an’ wait fer something to poke us.

“Now, I know—an’ I’m sure you’re thinkin’ the same—that we came by this cargo clean an’ lawful. Fact of it was that the Ching Soh that dealt the crew o’ Nina Hartley their ace o’ spades was dead when we got there, so it ain’t likely that they had no stories t’ tell despite the sayin’ from Earth That Was t’ the contrary.

“You say—an’ I’m likely t’ believe you—that this here cargo’s a bunch that you lost, but that the Lao Buhn that hired you t’ ride it ‘cross the Black washed his hands of it like it was petty cash.” Here, the right side of Wyatt’s mouth curved into a wry half-smile. “Seems as though a Jing Chai business-type’d be a bit outta character t’ act so ruttin’ foolish where his money’s concerned. The types I know’d be poundin’ on yer door ready to take yer boys here and show ‘em a new dance even for a couple of credits on the head. It’s bad business t’ go all Hur Bao Duhn with an’ audience an’ such.”

Wyatt paused for just a moment—not long enough to indicate he was finished, but enough to let Dodger chew on his muddling a little.

“Like I said,” Sung continued nonchalantly. “Seems likely that someone’s got a burr under their saddle and is aimin’ t’ Da Kai Sa Jeh the lot o’ us. So, here’s the rough side up: you take this cargo off our hands for a fair price—nothin’ fancy, just enough t’ make up fer our costs an’ such. We got ourselves a run lined up that’d put us in a fair shiny spot fer a spell that’s gotta be carted off by tomorrow if’n we’re to meet the deadline. After’s all said an’ done, we’ll burn back to this rock an’ put our brainpans together t’ see if’n we can’t conjure up a fair picture o’ the why’s and how’s.”

Wyatt’s face went deadpan again as he finished his line of thought. “Some Ung Jeong Jia Ching Jien Soh put mine in a fix, Puhn Yoh. As far as I’m concerned they’ve already been sized fer a shiny, little pine box.”

Geeks with Gifts Spacedock, Thrasher City – 6:00 pm
Kora had been busy mending a small tear in the coolant line. If she didn’t know better she’d swear someone was chewing on it (probably Dash, he’d eat anything) The plastic line was thin for a reason, and you only had to look at them sometimes to break, but she had check this line not that long ago. That was when the bang on the side of Rocinante signaled that someone wanted to come in. Quickly wiping her hands with a rag, she made her way to the air doorway. Trish was already there, shotgun in hand. Kora nodded an assurance to her and looked through the viewer. It was Griffith, the captain of Royale looking up at the camera with a wave. Behind him was a grav cart with fuel cells upon it.

“Relax Trish. It’s just Grif with the fuel cells, just like the Captain said.” Kora calledback, and Trish lowered her gun and drew her hood firmly over her head. Kora opened the door to greet the older captain.

“Kora! Good to see you. Wasn’t sure if Ole Wyatt could still afford to be paying you! Wish I had a heap o’ gold to lure you away – seeing the mess my lady is in.”

(assuming conversation. Kora knows Griffith in passing but has no grudge against him. He doesn’t hold your past against you)

Griffith calls a greeting to Trish, who nods back but keeps a distance aways as is usual for her. The captain helps Kora bring the fuel cells into the bay and even offers to help with the loading.

“ I ains’t got much else to do. I gave my crew some leave since we weren’t going anywhere. Did you get searched by the feds? No? They were all over my berth tiday, lifting thing up, opening stuff up. At first I thought they were looking for contraband or an escapee, but they were looking in all them small spots andon the ground. Wouldn’t tell me what they were looking for but I could tell they were sick and tired of searching.”


Busy Night
Dm’s Note – by the dice, Wyatt was out-rolled by Dodger, but I used Willow’s skill in persuasion (d10+D10) as direct assistance which moved it your way again.

Yep…That went about as well as to be expected
It had been a tough dealin, but all of you had been in a bad situation. Dodger stated very low, offering 250 platinum and exclaiming the tragedy of having to take the sten-bolts and incinerate them. Wyatt had begun high with 2,250 pp, noting that surely Dodger was a man of the world and had tech enough to erase or change lot numbers if needed. There was much banter back and forth, and for awhile, Wyatt felt he was losing the game. Sam was a distraction, and he started feeling bad about the situation. Then Willow had stepped in to help with calm words, a flirtatious gesture or two, then a strong tone where unexpected and they came out with 1,500 pp (600 cr), a case of rum (12 bottles worth 10 cr each) and assorted foodstuff (real meat frozen, fruit, vegetables and six bars of real chocolate) that would make the next few days of moving through the black more palpable.

Once an agreement was made, it was decided that Dodger would send his men to the ship late tonight (around 9 pm) to pick up the goods and drop off yours. The cases of stuff to drop off would be very big so they can swap the sten bolts into them, and not look to casual observers like they are taking good out of your ship.

Willow had stayed behind with Dodger with a cavalier comment about not waiting up for her; she’d see them in the morning. Sam grumbled all the way back to Rocinante about how between Asher and Willow – he was the only one not getting any tonight.

Upon returning to the ship, Wyatt finds that the fuel cells have been delivered and Grif repeats to Sam and himself about the Feds searching his ship.

(insert any conversation with Grif you may wish to have. You choose whether you want him to stick around when your goods arrive or ask him to wait elsewhere)

Dodger’s crew arrives about a half-hour late, which is par for the course. Hack and Slash are there as well but they mostly supervise and do not speak much. You swap cargos into their bins and no one speaks a word about what is happening. Trish, Sam and Kora immediately start to sort through the foodstuffs with a child-like glee, not unlike present time on Christmas morning. (Chocolate! Real Chocolate! Not that synth stuff they have for us low lives! Look! Green Beans! Is that honey?)

With the way now clear, you move the special ICE crates from Royale to Rocinante and secure them to the hold. Griffith gives you a once over on how to use them, but they are easy enough (designed for miners after all, basically a crate designed to keep the content at absolute zero. It will hold a block of ice, 3x3x3 feet). He gives you the coordinated for the comet and the mine, wishing you all the best on your journey.

(Blamm is swamped in RL so I have asked Vanadia to complete the date for Asher. He will arrive sometime during the night with Beth, have a good evening and then see her off in the morning before you leave)

Sun comes up the next day (you think, this is Beaumonde after all) and it is time to be going. You buy and load the fuel cells you need, get your waste management services emptied, cleaned, fresh water in the tanks and you are good to go. Any time you leave atmo with no one wounded or hurt is a good one.

GM Note – Will stop here so you can backpost and do any housekeeping. Next post will start as you see the comet for the first time

Sunni’s Noodle House was a posh location, and the discreetly secluded room Sunni had brought Asher and Beth to was normally reserved for Blue Sun and government types. This was apparent by the number of staff (and a few curious patrons) who found reasons to wander in and out of the room, studying the occupants surreptitiously (or openly, in the case of customers). The staff poured more tea into tiny cups Beth and Asher had barely touched, as well as endless glasses of water, all young women in well cut cheongsams and high heels. The girls were all so generically pretty that one had to wonder if they too, like the shrimp, had been grown on the premises.

The staff scattered like butterflies when Sunni bustled in with bowls of soup. She gave the staff a piercing look before chasing them out with a liquid stream of Hindi that sounded lovely and scathing at the same time. “Stupid girls,” Sunni sighed before setting the bowls down with a flourish.

“Drink up, my pets, my special soup thickens the blood!” She nudged Asher with a cackle,” Young men need their strength, yes? Of course they do, yes, yes and you can relax…I will keep the stupid ones too busy to come bother you anymore.” She tilted her head, listening for something only she could only hear. “Excuse me darlings, someone is trying to burn the masala.”

In the sudden silence (how did one tiny woman take up so much space?) Asher and Beth looked at each other, and laughed, openly gawking at the luxurious room. Asher proclaimed “Well, I’ll be damned!” more than once, but Beth wasted little time in tucking into her soup, her half audible moan a testament to its flavour.

Asher looked around for a spoon, then flushed a bit when he saw Beth sipping out of the bowl directly. “Shucks,” he muttered, a little embarrassed,” I’da bin swatted for that back home.” Beth dimpled with a polite smile, but put down her soup long enough to ask,” Where’s home? When it’s not a ship, that is.”

The two chatted as Auntie Sun brought in platter after platter of sumptuous dumplings, roasted duck, tiny tarts filled with savouries. When Asher looked down at the table, there were both carved wooden chopsticks and silver cutlery, and Sunni brightened when he picked the cutlery (typically, the middle and lower classes use chopsticks, cutlery is usually for the wealthy), only to have her face fall when she saw the ham fisted way he held them and sawed at the meat. “Your home is Ezra, boy, or I’m a monkey’s aunt,” she shook her head ruefully, but her eyes were kind. “Did you park the cattle out back where they won’t scare the customers? No worries, Auntie Sun likes her little jokes,” she finished, patting Asher on the head like he was one of her nephews. She then vanished back to the kitchen, leaving a cloud of spice in the air.

While they ate, Beth visibly relaxed, Asher’s open admiration and respectful manner bringing the girl out from behind the brassy working girl. Over a second bottle of sake, she admitted to being a sharecropper’s kid from Beylix. Her parents had proved to be better at producing babies over crops, though, and they’d started selling the older boys into indentured service to pay the rent on the land. Beth had decided to leave before they got around to selling the girls, but had found Beaumonde a tough place for a farm girl with few skills.

Auntie Sun continued to bustle in and out, but true to her word, she’d kept the others out. From the tilt of her head as she replaced empty teapots and poured more sake, she’d been listening discreetly. As her guests were trying to figure out if they could stuff one more crystal dumpling into their full bellies, Auntie Sun looked Beth over critically before giving the girl’s hair a gentle tug.

“You know, you pretty and smart, and that’s your real hair, yes? It is good you came to me then. I need a girl smart enough to know how to check coats without emptying pockets, hmm? If you smart enough to know this is a way to work up to better things, you come see me in the morning…but not too early. Auntie Sun needs her beauty sleep. Now go away, darlings, but don’t be strangers, hmm?”

The look of hope and gratitude on Beth’s face is nearly brighter than the moon as they head out into the night (still drawing curious stares from well dressed people waiting in line). When Asher invites Beth back to the ship, she freezes a moment, then hugs Asher’s arm to her tightly. “Why not,” she laughs, “Auntie Sun likes you, so you must be good people.

The night air does strange things to Asher’s knees, and he realizes just how much sake they’d had. Beth seems unaffected, though, and with her help, they make it to the Rocinante without any falls or spills.

It takes a moment for Asher to recognize his own cabin after Willow’s careful preparations, and after he lets out a long whistle, Beth breaks down into giggles before pulling him down onto the bed. The young man has a moment’s worry about the effect of all the alcohol may have on his abilities, but it appears Beth did learn a few skills after leaving Beylix after all.

(OOC: Fading to black here to maintain the PG rating.)

Hagglin’ “Finished?”

Dash, still half grumbling curses under his breath, recognized the tone in his friend’s voice. Don’t go gettin’ all prickly-britches, it said, I’ve got this’n. Just to make sure, though, Sam glanced in Wyatt’s direction to make sure that that eyebrow was raised and that the Cap looked all stone-faced and serious like.

“Yeah,” he chuffed after a moment, his lips tightening a bit as he nodded at Wyatt, “I’m good. Go ‘head…” Sam did his best to keep his tongue in check after that. He didn’t like what Dodger was alluding to where this deal was concerned – sure, the Rastafarian would likely take the bolts off their hands and the cargo would be out of Roc’s bay, but that didn’t really matter, now, did it? No, there was already some ruttin’ feh feh pi goh out there huntin’ the crap down with guns blazin’ an’ lookin’ to corpsify any as might’ve seen, smelt, or so much as heard of it – but at least there was still a deal to be done. So, seeing as how the details of the whole thing had pushed his anxious button, Dash kept his comments to himself and let cooler heads handle the talking… He only offered up a “Ruttin’-A, right” when Wyatt made the comment about someone having fitted themselves for a pine-box.

As Wyatt and Willow commenced to haggling with Dodger over the deal, Sam sprawled (if one could call it sprawling what with all the tension in his shoulders) in his chair, chewed on his lip, and, on occasion grumbled, some about how this whole shipment of gorram sten-bolts suddenly stunk more than three herds of cattle with gas bunched up in the hold for two weeks. It sure didn’t help none that Dodger started with a seriously low-ball offer, either.

“Two-fifty,” Sam repeated incredulously, “Gun ni jwo lu! (Screw you runnin’!) That luh suh don’ even cover the cost of us walkin’ to this flop! Never mind coverin’ the gorram bafflin’ of the brainpan as findin’ out we’re humped’s done…”

That comment earned him a “shut up, Dash” glance from both Willow and Wyatt. In reply, Dash tossed both hands in the air, exasperated, and hauled himself out of the seat. “A’right! A’right,” he huffed, clipping away from the desk, “I’ll jus’ go over here an’ play footsy wit’ Frick an’ Frack…” He hadn’t really intended to be a distraction, of course, and, by excusing himself from the direct dealing, Sam had hoped that he would’ve managed to keep from stepping all over the negotiations. Unfortunately, getting out of the chair had only led to the scruffy pilot agitatedly pacing the floor, still unable to keep himself from interjecting at what turned out to be inopportune times.

By the time all was said and done, Sam figured he was probably lucky that Hack and Slash hadn’t bent him over and stuffed him up his own butt while Wyatt offered to help, and Sam felt plumb awful about not being more accommodating where the haggling was concerned… Regardless of the random, profanity laced comments and the incessant pacing, though (and with a lot of help from Miss Wil’s womanly wiles), they had ended up coming to a right respectable set of terms. Probably better’n what we shoulda got, he mused, watching the Cap and Dodger shake on the deal from across the room. Everwhat! Let’s jus’ shin the hell outta here! He was more than ready to strap his iron back on and get back to the ship and, when Frick and Frack opened the door to Dodger’s office, Sam didn’t waste any time getting through it.

“…no need to wait up,” he heard Willow coo as he strapped on his gunbelt and commenced to secreting away the rest of his arsenal.

An’ that’s where we made our money, he smirked, stuffing a derringer into his boot as he shot a glance back through the doorway, is ever’body but me gettin’ some tonight er what?! Need ta find us a female fence wit’ low standards, I reckon…
Done deal… “Sorry about all that, Cap,” Dash said, falling into step beside Wyatt as the moseyed back towards the docks, “I din’t mean ta toss a monkey inna wrench in there… but, gorram it, who inna hump goes ‘round fraggin’ folk fer a shipment o’ ruttin’ bolts?! I don’ ruttin’ like it, not one little ruttin’ bit, puhn yoh. Makes me think there’s somethin’ real damn off about ever’thin’ we’ve been into lately… people watchin’ as shouldn’t even know where we’re at, get me?”

((Any reply… will backpost conversation if needed…))

After a bit of chatter on the subject – which didn’t last long, as neither Sam nor Wyatt was too keen on saying much out in the open – Sam tried to keep his mind occupied on matters other than those that had pushed his twitchy button and, for a good remainder of the walk back to Rocinante, he grumbled and griped about how, given Asher and Willow’s “extra-vehicular activities”, he was the only one “not gettin’ nothin’ polished but my damn nerves.” It wasn’t really anything that bothered him, though – after all, Wyatt had offered to let him go off and “sample the local fare” earlier in the day – but crabbing about it did wonders where keeping some of his more paranoid thoughts from spilling out or overrunning his thoughts. So, he huffed and puffed, rather graphically, aloud about his shipmates’ shore leave and whatever anxious thoughts weren’t quashed by his ranting were subdued by an unspoken promise to himself to drop a wave out on the cortex for Tink when he got a free minute. If anyone c’n get me some good dirt on this f’n zse (deep crap) situation, it’ll be that li’l lady…
Sweet home Rocinante Sam’s mind had settled a little by the time Roc’s silhouette filled his vision and he relaxed even more once he and Wyatt were safely up the gangplank and in the cargo bay. He still wasn’t feeling any more at ease about this whole series of events but something about being safe and sound inside the non-descript transport enabled him to mull over his paranoia and think about things with just a bit more clarity. Other than the cargo and provision transfer they had scheduled with Dodger’s folk a little later, Sam figured that there was little else that really needed to be done unless Kora needed some help loading the fuels cells and securing the ICE boxes that Griffith had promised to transfer, so, he was almost looking forward to squirreling away in his bunk, tossing a nudge on the Cortex for Tink, and then catching a little shut-eye before having to saddle up and break atmo…

“Wyatt! Sam!”

Grif’s voice had kickstarted Dash’s nerves again. He’d figured that Royale’s skipper would have made the transfer of the gear while they’d been at their meet, but he sure wasn’t expecting the man to be waiting for them in the cargo bay when they returned and he damn near slapped leather in surprise… before he realized that the voice was Grif’s.

“Gorramit, Griffith,” he growled, forcing his hand to fall away from the butt of his pistol, “Don’ do that! Yer like ta get yerself kilt…”

((OOC: Assuming a bit of chit-chat between Wyatt and Grif, here, re: fuel cells, etc…))

“…like I told, Kora,” Griff said nodding in the mechanic’s direction as she hauled the cart full of fuel cells towards the engine room, “the gorram Feds was climbin’ all over Royale. Liftin’ things up, openin’ anythin’ as could be opened. At first I thought they were looking for contraband or an escapee, but they were looking in all them small spots and on the ground. Wouldn’t tell me what they were looking for but I could tell they were sick and tired of searching.”

“Prob’ly lookin’ fer some member o’ Parliament’s pet gerbil er somethin’,” Sam smirked, “Fuzzy li’l bastard like got plumb tired o’ bein’ run up ‘is giggy an’ made a break for it.” He recalled the purple-bellies crawling all over the docks earlier in the day and remembered that they seemed to be looking for something of a smallish nature then, too. The quip about the Parliament gerbil had been a crude joke, of course, but, knowing now that the Feds were right hot to find whatever this small thing was (and thanks, once again, to Wyatt’s superstitions reeling him in) Dash was taking the situation more seriously than he let on and decided that, when he got in touch with Tink, he’d see if she could dig something up on this matter, as well… If that ruttin’ luck o’ three goes gettin’ all multiplied, I’m gonna jus’ crap all over myself. It was then that Roc’s pilot decided that he’d let the captains finish their jawing by their lonesome.

“I’m gonna go see if Mei mei needs any help wit’ them cells, Cap,” he said, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder before stalking off in search of Kora, “Grif. I’ll catch ya later.”

((OOC: Assuming that nothing major happens, Sam will be doing what he can to help get those cells loaded, will be in attendance when Dodger’s guys show up, etc… anything in between that needs response from Sam can be backposted… ))

40 Winks (cuz I’m sleepin’ with one eye open) Later in the evening, his belly full and one of the bottles of rum tucked under his arm, Dash made his way along the foredeck and shoved through the door to his cabin. “Wong ba duhn,” he grumbled as the door shut behind him and he flopped down on the bunk, “what a ruttin’ day!”

After screwing the cap off of the flask and indulging in a long, nerve-stilling pull of the rum, Dash kicked off his boots and set about stripping off the majority of his weaponry. The derringers were returned to their box and his blade and gunbelt were hung carefully alongside the shotgun on one, short bulkhead of the cabin – but the Avenger itself, found its place under the thin pillow that topped the pilot’s bunk. Satisfied that he’d done everything he needed to do until morning and following another appreciative slug of the rum, Dash reached out, powered up the viewer mounted on the wall across the room, and, once it was active, keyed in a contact link he had been given several years ago.

A long moment passed as the signal spun out into the ‘Verse. The screen never did light up to display an image when the wave finally connected but a vaguely familiar voice issued from the speaker. “If you believe in faeries,” it said in a blunt monotone.

Sam clapped his hands twice.

“Yo hua kwai suo (Speak now and quickly),” the voice said, acknowledging that Dash had responded properly to the challenge phrase.

“Strange things are afoot in Neverland,” Dash said, “I need some pixie dust.”

“Duhn ruhn, what’s the scan?”

“Need a datadump on a coupla things, puhn yoh,” the pilot answered, “See what our faerie can come up with on a cargo as was bein’ hauled by the Nina Hartley just ‘fore she was set t’drift… shoulda been a load o’ industrials… need ta know who th’ client was an’ whatever fairytales might go along. Oh… an’ see what can be shook loose ‘bout what the Feds’re lookin’ fer on Beaumonde.”

“That it?”

“Fer now. Yup.”

“Ku. I’ll place the ad.”

“Sheh sheh.”

((And that’s all I’ve got for now… …anything I missed or might need to be addressed prior to breaking atmo can be handled backwards-like… Sam's probably gonna drink himself to sleep (so's he can sleep) but not so much sauce as he won't be able to fly tomorrow...))

Flashback:

Willow is a child watching an old vid with her mother, so old it had only black and white colours. Usha is in the “Young Hollywood family” stage of her career, and occasionally has time for Willow even when there aren’t photographers around. Willow and her mother are dressed simply, Usha without makeup and her hair in a simple plait and they nibble snacks as they watch.

On the vid, a pair of dancers float around a dancefloor, the man slimly elegant and the woman a froth of chiffon. After a complicated set of steps, the “audience” in the vid applaud, and Willow and Usha do, too. “That Mr. Astaire can really dance!” Willow sighs, half in love with a man dead for centuries.

Usha’s feeling motherly and indulgent, so she doesn’t laugh at Willow, and pats her hand instead. “Silly girl, it is Ginger who is the real dancer. She does everything he does, but backwards and in heels.”

Present:

Willow remembers the afternoon on the sofa as one of the happiest days of her life, but the analogy of dancing backwards and in heels comes back to her now. Captain knows how much he needs to have a chance to turn a profit, but she doesn’t, so she has to follow his lead, and try hard to make him look good. Negotiations were a three way dance when she had the Captain along, so it was tough.

“Juh guh jee hua juhn kuh pah, either way,” Sam grumbled, “Fer the whole ruttin’ buncha us! I mean, if I’m hearin’ correct what Dodger’s sayin’, we’re humped on this deal, right? Plus, even if’n we’s ta manage salvagin’ anythin’ from it, us an’ Smokey McPot, here, get on the bad side o’ some big ruttin’ Joo Bah Jeh who’s like ta come a-gunnin’ fer us jus’ cuz we mighta once seen this mi tian gohn cargo… Mother-humpin’-son-of….” Dash’s voice trailed off into under-his-breath mumblings.

The Captain stilled Dash with a glare and a “Finished”, but Willow feared it was a temporary reprieve. Indeed, dancing backwards in heels was hard enough without Dash lobbing verbal grenades onto the dance floor, and Willow began considering how she could jab Dash with her butterfly pin without anyone noticing. No, that won’t do. A suddenly sleepy Dash may be more unsettling to Dodger than one with verbal diarrhea.
Wyatt had given his opening price for the bolts, and Dodger had countered low. All three discussing the matter knew those two prices were unrealistic, they merely set the boundaries for the discussion. No-one had ever explained the finer points of wordplay to Dash, though, as he fairly burst out again “Two-fifty,” Sam repeated incredulously, “Gun ni jwo lu! (Screw you runnin’!) That luh suh don’ even cover the cost of us walkin’ to this flop! (OOC:won’t repeat everything)”

Willow and Wyatt both glared at Sam, but Willow let Wyatt do the really disconcerting stare. She’d never been able to divert Sam’s paranoia when it had the bit in its teeth. Instead, she smiled a rueful apology to Dodger.

“I’m sorry, Dodger dear, but he’s rather like a trained ape at times. Without the training, of course. Now, about that price of yours. I can understand how you don’t want to necessarily pay for the same cargo twice, but I’m sure you can do better than that…”

And so the dance resumed. Wyatt was a fair hand at bartering, so Willow let him lead, interjecting more to smooth the way when things got heated, applying warmth to Dodger and polite deference to Wyatt. When Sam had interrupted once too often, Willow turned to him and said in a firm, no-nonsense voice,” Why don’t you go play, and leave us adults to our conversation? You are acting like a child who needs a dose of cod liver oil, and I’m reaching for the spoon, nyen ching duh! ”

Willow was startled at her own vehemence, feeling like her mother’s words had come out instead of her own, but it made Sam stomp away to bother Hack and Slash for a while. She figured that she could always stitch him up later if they hurt him too much.

Dodger seemed more amused by Sam than annoyed, and like any good businessman, haggling over price was a fine way to relax. When the final price was reached and Wyatt and Dodger had shook hands over it, Dodger looked over to Willow with a broad smile. “Shouldn’t we be kissin’ ta seal de deal, sweetness?”

Willow tilted her head to the side and arched a brow at his assumption. Before his smile could fade, she winked and purred,” Later, dear…among other things.”

When Wyatt and Sam started preparing to leave, Willow moved over to Dodger’s side and made room for herself beside him on the chair. Dodger put his arm around her to accomodate her, and she breathed in his warm spicy smell again. When Wyatt looked back at her with an “Ain’t you comin’?” look, Willow shook her head slowly.” Don’t wait up for me, Captain san…I’ll be back in time before we lift.”

(OOC: not sure what Wyatt will say, will respond if needed.)

The finest of Rocinante’s crew left (Sam still grumbling) and Willow was left alone Dodger. She gazed at his leonine features, full lips and strong nose chiseled by a master craftsman, and felt her warmth gathering into a fire. She gave him a smoldering look and asked, “Now, about that kiss…”

(OOC: Again, fading to black to maintain a PG rating)

In the morning, Willow again walked through the streets on the wrist of a gentleman, as Dodger escorted her back to the ship. Bare of makeup and with her hair flowing simply down her back, she was radiantly beautiful in the morning’s light, if a touch tired. Kissing Dodger sweetly at the ship’s ramp, she pressed her forehead to his before giving him a swift hug. “Our time together was too short, Dodger, dear, but I thank you for it. JA keep you safe!”

Before he could say anything more, Willow stepped lightly onto the ship and waved goodbye as the door closed behind her. Once she was out of sight, she let her shoulders slump with the tiredness she felt, but smiled a secret smile of happiness as she made her way to her bunk. A little sleep while they headed out, then some food to make up for the dinner she’d missed!

“Tzao Gao! What’s this?” Kora was busy inspecting the cooling system when she came across a tear in the inboard coolant line. “not the coolant line again…seems like I just fixed this.” She grumbled as she pulled a roll of silicone tape from her tool box. Looking disdainfully at the small amount left on the roll she sighed … “this can’t happen many more times before we’re gonna hafta to spring for a complete new line…I’m running real low on this stuff.” Frugally, she pulled off enough to patch the line and secured the end by wrapping it around itself a couple of times. “there, that should do it…at least until we can scrape up enough coin to do the job proper.”

As she placed the last of her tools back into her tool box a loud bang resounded throughout the ship. Wiping her hands with a rag she made her way to the ramp. Trish was already there, shotgun in hand. Kora nodded an assurance to her and looked through the viewer. It was Griffith, the captain of the Royale. Behind him was a grav cart with fuel cells on it.

“Relax Trish. It’s just Grif with the fuel cells, just like the Captain said.” Kora called back.

Trish lowered her gun and drew her hood firmly over her head as Kora opened the door to greet the older captain.

“Kora! Good to see you. Wasn’t sure if Ole Wyatt could still afford to be paying you! Wish I had a heap o’ gold to lure you away – seeing the mess my lady is in.”

Kora allowed a small grin to slightly curl her lips as she helped him guide the cart through the open doorway. “I’m not here for the money…it’s the excitement that keeps me hangin’ round”

The Captain laughed and called a greeting to Trish who nodded back but kept her distance as was her way.

“ I ains’t got much else to do… I’ll help you unload these. I gave my crew some leave since we weren’t going anywhere.”

Kora smiled her appreciation for the offer of help. “Ain’t had no leave in a while myself” she said as Griff edged past her into the ship. “I’m lookin’ forward to some down time.”
The Captain nodded, knowing full well how hard it was for a crew to get time for themselves.

As they started toward the engine room Griff asked “did your ship get searched tiday?”
Surprised by the question, Kora slowly wiped her hands again and looked into the Captain’s eyes without replying. Giving out information was a habit she considered foolhardy, no matter how trivial it seemed. It was a lesson she had learned very quickly while in the corps.

“No?" he said, ignoring her silence. "They were all over my berth tiday, lifting thing up, opening stuff up. At first I thought they were looking for contraband or an escapee, but they were looking in all them small spots and on the ground. Wouldn’t tell me what they were looking for but I could tell they were sick and tired of searching.”

Kora found the man’s account to be a bit unsettling considering the shape his ship was in.
It seemed to be a mighty strange coincidence by her reckoning. She was dying to get the details on what exactly happened but before she could ask any questions Dash and Wyatt arrived back at the Roc.

“Welcome home" she said. The Captain was just deliverin’ the fuel cells and telling me about his ship being searched today” she said as she continued on to the engine room. With a sarcastic edge, she added over her shoulder “Don’t you find that “interesting”?”

The heat in the room couldn’t have registered on a regular thermometer; at least that’s the way Wyatt felt when Dodger low-balled them. He was ruttin’ fuming inside—boiling over at the thought that his was being challenged… again. It took all sorts of control just to maintain that their good ol’ pal Dodger wasn’t nothing but a victim as well, and that nearly clouded his judgment enough that Sung felt the deal going south almost moments after they’d started. He just wasn’t altogether there—that is to say that he was having a hard time focusing his brainpan on what was matterin’ that moment. His mind’s eye was seeing a faceless suit strung up from a tree on the very plains that he’d ridden before Summer and Eden had left him, though there was no way that’d happen. He could never go back, and when he found whoever was threatening them, he’d put enough holes in them that they’d be too light to properly hang themselves. It was a real good thing Willow was there, or the whole thing’d have been humped before too long.

After a time he found himself shaking Dodger’s hand, settling on a fair deal, all things considered. He hoped that he’d made a good enough show of it and that those with him hadn’t seen him go all hazy like that. That’d be plum embarrassing. Strapping iron once again, he peered back at Willow settlin’ in with Dodger and raised his eyebrows. Her response wasn’t what he’d expected, not when there was planning to do, but he didn’t say anything, turning about and walking casually out the door with Dash while his mind immediately moved on. If Willow had relations with Dodger, it’d just mean a better negotiating stance when they next met. She knew what she was doin’, and Wyatt only allowed the thought that Dodger might present a danger for the ex-companion for a brief moment before completely moving on to other things.

“Sorry about all that, Cap,” Dash said, falling into step beside Wyatt as they moseyed back towards the docks, “I din’t mean ta toss a monkey inna wrench in there… but, gorram it, who inna hump goes ‘round fraggin’ folk fer a shipment o’ ruttin’ bolts?! I don’ ruttin’ like it, not one little ruttin’ bit, puhn yoh. Makes me think there’s somethin’ real damn off about ever’thin’ we’ve been into lately… people watchin’ as shouldn’t even know where we’re at, get me?”

Wyatt was quiet for a few more steps while his gears continued to turn. When he responded, it was in a dangerously low tone. “I get ya, Sam. It ain’t right from the get go—all should-uh been easy-like. Ruttin’ gig. Pick up some minin’ equipment an’ take it t’ a drop. Standard-like. We get paid, everythin’s shiny.”

Wyatt glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Only it ain’t. I think I just conjured up the third in our Luck o’ Three.”

The captain let Sam chew on that for the remainder of their trip back to Rocinante. Making the short climb to the cargo bay.

“Wyatt! Sam!”

Sung resisted the immediate urge to frown and allowed his lips to curl in a half smile. He didn’t jump like Dash, but his shoulders went tense.

“Gorramit, Griffith,” Sam growled, forcing his hand to fall away from the butt of his pistol, “Don’ do that! Yer like ta get yerself kilt…”

Griff chuckled and moved to give the pilot a pat on the shoulder as Kora spoke up.

“Welcome home" she said. “The Captain was just deliverin’ the fuel cells and telling me about his ship being searched today” she said as she continued on to the engine room. With a sarcastic edge, she added over her shoulder “Don’t you find that “interesting”?”

Wyatt allowed the frown then. “Trouble?”

“Just a pain in th’ass,” Griff sighed and Wyatt glanced towards Sam with a raised eyebrow. “Like I told, Kora,” Griff said nodding in the mechanic’s direction as she hauled the cart full of fuel cells towards the engine room, “The gorram Feds was climbin’ all over Royale. Liftin’ things up, openin’ anythin’ as could be opened. At first I thought they were looking for contraband or an escapee, but they were looking in all them small spots and on the ground. Wouldn’t tell me what they were looking for but I could tell they were sick and tired of searching.”

“Prob’ly lookin’ fer some member o’ Parliament’s pet gerbil er somethin’,” Sam smirked, “Fuzzy li’l bastard like got plumb tired o’ bein’ run up ‘is giggy an’ made a break for it.”

Wyatt allowed himself a self-satisfying smirk. “Well, we told you there was feds about, Griff.”

“I’m gonna go see if Mei mei needs any help wit’ them cells, Cap,” Dash said suddenly, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder before stalking off in search of Kora, “Grif. I’ll catch ya later.”

This left the captains alone and after a time of friendly chit chat that Wyatt would have just as soon done without due to his mood, Sung politely excused himself… a lot of preflight planning to attend. When the ice arrived, Wyatt made sure everything was in tact before finalizing the deal with the two bodyguards. He was on his way back through the kitchens when he paused at the crates of rum and closed his eye. He could practically smell the alcohol despite their enclosed cases. His right hand hovered over the bottles; perhaps he could gain the numbing benefit through osmosis. His fingertips brushed the smooth caps: one, two, three, four… four… where’s four? Opening his eyes Wyatt was met with the vision of an empty slot in the crate. Glancing over his shoulder he quickly surmised that the rum hadn’t been approached with the intent to stow it just yet. Had Dodger lightened the load? No, Wyatt had counted them all—ever the careful man. Someone had snaked one and Wyatt was pretty sure who. He just couldn’t blame the man, though he knew in all fairness he’d have to find some way for Dash to make it up to the others.

The Luck o’ Three came back to mind, having been pushed aside with the events of the evening, as he made his way to his quarters empty handed. That alone took a huge amount of willpower. The danger that they now faced wasn’t unlike anything they’d face before. The result could be the same: they’d end up dead. But the difference was that it seemed now like someone was setting them up.

Luck o’ Three.

One: they land a gig that takes them to the stolen sten-bolts where the crew’s been wiped out… the second of such crews.

Wyatt dropped his hat on his bed and unbuckled the gunbelt.

Two: Royale runs afoul o’ some bad luck droppin’ a cargo load and fuel in their laps, but for what? More mining deliveries… and what are those feds looking for exactly?

Kicking off his boots, Wyatt dropped onto the bed and stared at the gray bulkhead across from him. What were they looking for? Was it in their cargo?

Three: They find that the stolen cargo, that which was the cause of two crew’s deaths, belonged to the one man they had connections to on Beaumonde.

Wyatt fell asleep with a disturbing thought rippling through his brainpan like a dry, hot wind across a bleak desert: he was scraping bottom searching for that number three. Luck o’ Three hadn’t come about yet.

The captain’s dreams were disturbing and when he woke, Wyatt found his bed sheets pulled up and twisted about his legs, the pillow on the floor, his hat across the room, and himself half off the bed. He was in a cold sweat and the ration of water for a sponge bath was barely enough to pull that stench from his skin. Splashing his face, Wyatt ran his hair back and peered at his sunken eyes in the mirror. He couldn’t afford to be jonesin’ this morning. There, in the mirror, he could almost see her standing lookin’ back at him, their baby girl in her arms.

“You got work t’ do, Wyatt Sung,” she’d say. “Now cowboy up an’ go show that sun that you got it beat.”

Only, the sun on Beaumonde was hardly a difficult thing to beat, weak as it was. Wyatt closed his eyes on the vision and took a deep breath. Dressed, he snatched his hat off the floor and pulled it down low over his eyes. His mood was foul as he gave the pictures of elephants hanging in his room a pat before he climbed the ladder to the hall and made his way to the kitchen. They’d meet there, that was the custom before a job was underway. They’d meet in the kitchen and Trish would have something special to set them off right. Wyatt would give the usual pep talk and then they’d be off; at least, that’s what the usual ticket was.

Entering the kitchen, Sung pulled the chair out with his foot and dropped into the seat, keeping his hat low across his forehead to hide the hollow of his eyes.

“Mornin’ Trish,” he drawled, trying to keep the edge from his tone. Wyatt didn’t see her response. Trish was usually pretty good about reading him and would likely warn the others as they came in as to his countenance, so Wyatt sat quiet and still, his hands folded across his chest, his hat down low as though he was napping until every one of the crew was present. Then, before the table was dished, he began, never changing his stance, never looking up.

“The sun’s up, folks. Time t’ pour the coffee an’ saddle Rocinante. We done this time an’ time again over the past while, puttin’ our burn t’ earth an’ reachin’ for the Black. We’re pretty much experts at this. Only way I figure this is that this ain’t like those other times. See, those other times we had a foresight that was pretty vague. We knew that there was likely trouble on the horizon only we didn’t know much what t’ look for. We just kept our eyes open and our weapons loaded. We sailed pretty clean thus far; little problems aside.

“I ain’t gonna lie. As I figure it, someone’s gunnin’ for one ‘er all o’ us. These past days are just too fulled up of Ma Fuhn. So we gotta be extra careful this run. That’s all I got this time. You all know what t’ do, so enjoy yer breakfast an’ let’s get the Roc eatin’ up the Black. We got a comet t’ catch.”

(Conversation as necessary – Al, if you’ll let me know what kind of cash we have left after the dock fees, refueling, etc. is taken care of, I’d appreciate it – Wyatt will get things prepped, be in the cockpit when Dash takes them away, and that’s as far as I’ll take it for now.)

Where i have taken liberty with spoken words or conversation, feel free to make mor eto your liking.

Mad Spending Spree
Money in hand, Wyatt calls upon Kora to explain the situation to her. There are 160 credits and we wanting to be off by sunup. Do what you can to make sure all is shiny on Roc with the cash. The Thrasher City Space port is suited to the ship that wants to land quickly and move on, so the part dealers are close by. Yes, you could get things cheaper if you walked a bit, but the beggar can’t be complaining about the offerings.

Kora gets to work with the help of Sam and Trish. New cabling here, a flush of the lubricant system, new (well semi-new…newer) shocks for the landing struts and the evening goes on.

Willow arrives in the morning to be told of 120 credits and a powerful need to be ready to be fixing all sorts of holes in people. Something has got the Captain spooked and he wants to be prepared. Although tired, Willow is up for the challenge and drags Asher along after he says goodbye to his lady friend.

So as ready as you can, you close the cargo bay doors just as the Alliance patrols are returning to sweep the port again with their equipment. Rocinante breaks Atmo and soon afterwards Dash plots a course and then puts the engine into a hard burn. The ship shakes a bit and then the sound, reminiscent of a horse galloping, reverberates through the ship. Even Trish smiles for a moment.

Out in the Black DM Note – Two days and a half to get to the Angel Hair Comet. Everyone can post any goings on they wish to for that time. Starting here as you approach the Comet

Trish is the first to hear it; strange noises in the kitchen and within the ship. She keeps find that someone is getting into the protein paste, leaving it on the counter or floor. She initial blames Sam and Asher but they proclaim innocence (We got real meat! Why’d we mess with paste?).

Willow finds her silk scarves have been moved and left crumbled on the floor.

Asher hears strange sounds of movement from around his gun cases, but can’t find the source.

Then Kora is working on fixing yet another tear in the coolant feed when she hears a sound.

“Mrawf”

Kora stops to listen. It is silent for awhile then there it is again.

“Mrawf! Mrawwwwwwl”

She turns her head to see a small cat, almost a kitten really. It is looking at her curiously from atop the shelving where her tools are kept. It is a brown and white tabby with blue coolant stains on its head. It looks quite pitiful, but the thing that really catches her attention is the collar on it. It has a jeweled collar – covered with red and green shiny gems. But one of the red gems is flashing red.

“Attention Everyone! Get your gorram asses up here cause you’re gonna wanna to see this!” Sam’s voice crackles through the onboard PA. The sound startles the kitty and it runs away, into an area of the decking that Kora can’t follow.

What am I gonna tell the captain?
On the bridge
Out of the window of the bridge you can see it. The Angel Hair Comet – the bright nimbus of its tail splashes across the path of the ship – a glorious swath gleaming across the black.

“Reminds me of a woman I once knew,” Sam quips, “Shiny, beautiful and inviting – but underneath it all, a gorram heart of solid ice.”

The ship reads the transponder and the homing beacon identifying itself as the Lullabelle Mine; claim registration 1277640. This is the place where the two prospectors has lashed a modified Bumblebee Class to the comet. Going in will be complex and hard, what with the particles and pieces of comet that make up the tail.

Then the proximity alarm goes off. On instinct, Sam banks to the left as another ship barrels past you on a hard burn, heading for the mine. It is a fixed up Griffin Class, the name Mary Celestia clear as day on the side. It is moving to cut you off and it is heading towards your job.

(OOC: Rewinding a bit on my last post to incorporate DM’s post).

After kissing Dodger goodbye, Willow stepped lightly onto the ship, and waved goodbye as the cargo doors closed behind her. Once she was out of sight, she let her shoulders slump with the tiredness she felt, but smiled a secret smile of happiness as she made her way to the kitchen. Sleep sang its need in her bones, but Captain would want to come up with a plan for the next few days. Certainly, they’d be busy.

Willow straightened her shoulders as she reached the kitchen, and reached up to wind her hair back up into a loose knot, held in place by the butterfly pin. She nodded a greeting to Sung and Trish, already seated at the table, and continued to the stove. She put the kettle on to boil and put together the makings of tea.

When everyone was in the kitchen, she glided to the table with teapot and enough cups for all, and poured for those that wanted it. Taking her seat, she cupped her hands around the tiny cup of tea, sipping slowly. Being tired always made her cold, and the sheer silks of yesterday’s outfit were not made for warmth.

(OOC: Insert Wyatt's speech from Bromern's post here )

Willow nodded her head when Sung instructed her on getting more medical supplies, knowing that this job would be far from routine “Mind you, “ she thought to herself,” we haven’t figured out what a routine job would look like.” She thought fleetingly of her small bed with it’s clean cotton sheets and suppressed a sigh. Internship in medicine had meant many sleepless nights, surely she could forego a nap for one last errand.

When the Captain dismissed them, Willow made a quick stop at her bunk, shivering as she changed into the market outfit of yesterday, adding a wool sweater (knit by Trish, of course) for warmth. She looked critically into the mirror and made a face at the little Buddha sitting serenely nearby. “Just some mascara and lipgloss will do for now,” she told the statue,” I am in a hurry, after all.”

Making her way back to the cargo area, she ran into Asher escorting a young woman to the cargo doors. To Willow’s critical eye, the girl was pretty enough, but cheaply dressed, both in material and manner. “Definitely a working girl,” she thought to herself, but her manner was warm as she greeted them. She shook Beth’s hand politely as Asher introduced them.

“And this must be your new friend, Asher, dear,” Willow smiled, ”I’m Willow, the ship’s doctor. Do lead the way, Asher dear, Beth and I are going to share a little girl talk.” While they continued their way to the cargo bay, Willow gently touched Beth’s arm, slowing her to create a little distance between the two women and Asher. When Beth looked her way, puzzled, Willow spoke, her manner coolly clinical. “As ship’s doctor, I am responsible for the health of the crew. Is there anything I should know about your health with regards to our friend up ahead? I’m sure you get my meaning. “

When Beth answered, (OOC: let me know which way she responds), Willow nodded and smiled warmly again. “Thank you, dear, I had to ask. Now get your rest, dear, I’m sure you must be tired.”

Willow stands a discreet distance away as Asher bids his lady goodbye, then hooks her arm through Asher’s once Beth leaves. “Come, my dear,” Willow sang,” while you were abed with your lady love, we got our marching orders. I need strong arms and a stronger back for all the med supplies I’m going to fetch, and you won the lucky chance to be the strong back. “

The two leave the ship in the mid morning light, and make short work of the supply list. As much as being dirtside was a rare treat, they had a job to do.

(OOC: Will post more later this week, just wanted to get the Beaumonde part done and posted. )

“Another day, another tear in this Gorram coolant line!”
The frustrated mechanic reached into her tool box and pulled out a brand new roll of silicone tape purchased with the money the Captain had given her for repairs and began to wrap yet another rip. “$160 credits” she grumbled to herself. How the hell am I expected to fix anything with that measly bit? Guess the Captain thinks I’m ruttin’ Houdini.” Although Kora wasn’t one to complain for the most part, she had found the recent lack of funds a source of aggravation. Seemed lately that she all she was able to do was patch and mend. Feeling more like a doctor than a mechanic she found herself empathizing with Willow quite a bit.

Grumbling under her breath Kora didn’t notice the wrench she had laid on the shelf above her begin to move ever closer to the edge until…

“OUCH!! Wong ba Duhn.!”

She reached up and rubbed her head. A small knot was starting to rise where the wrench had impacted the top of her skull.

“what the…” her voice trailed off as she caught movement on the shelf where the wrench had previously laid. Squinting in the dim light she watched as a small brown and white creature emerged from behind a box of lubricant.

Looking curiously down at her it spoke …“Mrawf”

Kora’s eyes widened as the animal rubbed it’s head on the box of lubricant and arched it’s back.

“Mrawf! Mrawwwwwwl”

“well…hello” she said. The small beast purred it’s reply.

“where did you come from Nien Ching Duh?” she asked incredulously as she reached out to allow it to sniff her hand.

The young cat moved closer to the edge of the shelf and lowered it’s head for Kora to scratch between it’s ears. As she reached up to oblige it’s unspoken request she noticed blue stains on it’s head. “HA!..so you’re the one who’s been gnawing on the coolant lines!.” The kitten seemed amused at the statement and rubbed it’s head on her outstretched fingers. That’s when she noticed the collar. It was covered with red and green shiny gems and one of the red gems was flashing.


“Mi Tian Gohn!” She exclaimed. Just as she was about to pull the animal down from the shelf
Sam’s voice crackled obnoxiously through the onboard PA.

“Attention Everyone! Get your gorram asses up here cause you’re gonna wanna see this!”

The abrupt sound split the silence. Startled, the young cat scrambled away, it’s claws clicking on metal as it retreated into an area of decking Kora couldn’t reach.

“Ta Ma Duh.” She yelled as she tried to coax it out of hiding with a demure “here kitty kitty”

“Well, that’s just grand…what am I gonna tell the Captain?”

[OOC: Backposting to the morning after mmmMMMmmmBeth]

Asher awoke up early, as was his custom. His early years on the farm had bred into him an internal clock that only let the boy sleep six hours without waking up. That… and the sake had run its course through his body, and Asher now had a serious need to relieve himself.

Gently untangling himself from Beth, Asher used the toilet and then quietly readied himself for the day. From time to time, the young man from Ezra would look over at his sleeping beauty and smile (sometimes, nearly laugh) at his good fortune. Damn! What a great night!
The sure knowledge that Cap’n Sung would be wanting to reach for the black sooner as opposed to later grounded Asher from flying into a full blown, long term fantasy with the buxom beauty from Beaumonde.

Sigh… Asher looked longingly Beth. She sure is awful pretty.
Beth’s eyes fluttered open as she stirred from her sleep. Ash smiled at her, spoke softly, “G’morning.”

“What time is it?”

Asher walked over to her, “Can’t say fer sure, but my guess would be early morning. Five thirty, six mayb… hey!”

Beth’s arms snaked out, her hands pulling Ash back into bed.

The lad caught the wild, lively eyes of Beth as she spoke with child-like eagerness, “Perfect!” She wrapped her arms around Ash tightly and began to kiss him. Her warm lips…

[OOC: Fade to black to maintain PG rating.]

The two young lovers lay together for a long time, both knowing their time was running short, neither wanting the fantasy to end. It had all been too perfect, thought Asher. The date… dinner… this room… the night… all perfect. How does one let all that go?
Asher let out a little sigh and then smiled at Beth. Might as well made the best with was I got. To the woman beside him, Ash said, “How ‘bout we go get some breakfast. We’ll be breakin’ atmo today and Trish always makes a sweet deal of a breakfast on port-leavin’ day. You can come up and I’ll introduce you to the crew.”

Beth looked over and smiled a forced smile, trying like Asher to live and love in the moment without getting too far ahead of herself. “Sounds good,” she said.

As the two of them got dress for the day, they pushed the facts away and enjoy their time together, laughing and playfully teasing each other. It was good for Asher… washed away the hardness and jadedness that he found difficult to avoid while traveling the black.

Just before they were about to exit the room for breakfast, Asher gave Beth the quick shinny on the crew. “Trish will likely be the one with the hood on. Now, she’s a bit sensitive ‘bout the way she looks… I think she’s pretty enough, but then she’s like a second ma to me. Anyway, just don’t stare, ‘k? If you could scrape away the scar tissue, she’d be super pretty, fer sure. Besides… she can whip up a mean meatloaf with just a can of protein paste and a pinch of spice.”

Beth laughed at the thought as Asher continued, “You met Dash already, he was at the bar with me when we met. Dash is like an older brother. So expect all kinds of razzin’ and big shot macho talk coming from his mouth. The guy’s harmless…just trying to get a rise out of me, so smile lots and ignore most of what he says.

“As for the rest… well, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

The two of them made their way up the ladder and over to the kitchen, the smell of breakfast leading the way. They giggled as the passed by Captain Sung.

“Morning Captain!” said Asher, jovially as the two of them went to get some breakfast. Trish dished it out and gave Asher one of them looks as if to say, “Captain’s in a mood.” Asher winked to show that he understood.

Beth and the Kid sat down at the table, talked to Trish about the night past. “You should have seen this place, Trish! Wow! Man! And those pork dumplings… I just about asked Aunt Sunni for the recipe for you, Trish! Wow!”

The two of them continue to relive the night in front of a silent, yet polite, Trish, who smiled gently and nodded when appropriate.

[OOC: I’ll end this part here… I don’t know how the rest of you would like to react to this situation. Regardless, I imagine (making assumption from Van’s post) that Beth will stay through Sung’s talk and then leave with Willow and Asher when they go to get med supplies. I pick up my post from there…]

As Asher, Beth and Willow prepared to leave, Willow asked Asher to let the two women folk talk for a bit… alone. Asher, not always understanding Willow’s ways, but seeing her as the wiser older sister, gave the ladies some space for a quiet chat. In fact, Asher was pleased, for he took it as a sign of Willow’s approval. He smile openly as an old children’s jingle came to mind… Asher and Beth sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…
Soon enough, the ladies concluded their quiet chat, and the time came for the facts to become reality… their time together was done. Asher tried to extend it, and offered to walk Beth over to Aunt Sunni’s house. But the young woman indicated that she needed to head back to her place for a moment first to fresh up. “Besides,” Beth smiled. “Aunt Sunni said not to show up too early.” The two of them laughed again as they remembered fondly Aunt Sunni.

Finally, it was Beth who made the first move, wrapping her arms around the Kid’s waist. “I had the most perfect time, Asher Talhone.” And she kissed him. “I hope there’ll be more.” One more kiss before she released Ash, turned and walked away. At first slowly, lightly, soaking in Beaumonde faint sun beams. She turned around once to find Asher still watching after her, before she picked up her pace, still light, almost skipping.

Asher sighed once again. Wow… that was some night… A lopsided grin appeared on his faced as he thought about the talented Miss Beth and her many skills.

The Kid felt a slender arm link onto his… Miss Willow’s. “Come, my dear,” she sang. Asher followed her lead as she talked some more. His eyes were on Beth, though, and they followed her until she was out of sight. Only then did he go on and on about his evening and about Aunt Sunni’s and about how Willow had made everything so wonderful and how he definitely owed her.

[OOC: going to stop here… will pick up on the noises around my gun racks later this week.]

Twitchy dreams
Gloved fingers floated over the clean, well-ordered flight consoles of an Alliance Arclight Bomber. With the flip of a switch, the craft’s targeting display flashes to life and a low vibration can be felt throughout the ship as the bomb bay yawn open and the bomb carriages roll into place. “Last of the wing has burned in, Lieutenant,” a voice advised over the comm., “mark is active at two-seven-one mark two. Range, 460 kilometers. You’ve got the tip of the spear, Trent. Light those Browncoats a fire.”

“Affirmative,” a once familiar voice replied, “Ordnance is live, and vector is confirmed. I’m 380 and closing. Consider the target crispy.”

His view lifted from the controls and looked out through the molded canopy, his eyes narrowing as he picked out the shapes of the buildings in the target zone ahead. Something wasn’t right. His gaze ticked to the ranging display…300 clicks… shouldn’t the anti-aircraft cannons be lighting up?

“Weird,” that once familiar voice said into the comm., “Where are the guns?”

“They don’t know that we’re coming, Trent,” came the reply, “This is a pre-emptive run remember? Da chow jing ser.”

There was something about the reply that didn’t sit right but he couldn’t quite lock down what it was…until he got a visual on the target zone…

“Sir, that doesn’t look like any sort of Independent installation… it looks like a town.”

“You know those Browncoats, Morgan; sneaky-sneaky-sneaky…”

“Right. But, sir, I swear that’s a church…Are you certain we’re on the right vector?”

“Belay that mi tian gohn, lieutenant! The target is confirmed. You’re looking right at it! Bombs away!”

As the Arclight bomber screamed towards the kill zone, the targeting computers went to work scanning the structures, assigning threat categories, and passing that data on to the ship’s lethal payload. It wasn’t a second later when the computer blipped off its first fire notice, quickly followed by two more. His thumb twitched on the firing stud, mimicking the targeting computer’s cues, and half of the bombs fell through the bay doors, screaming unerringly towards their targets.

A satisfied grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he heard the WHUMP of the first two drops but, even as he prepared to echo the latest fire notices, he felt a strange knot tie itself in his stomach. His gaze dropped towards the targeting display, watching as the vid feed from the third bomb sputtered on the screen… People were spilling from the targeted building… Not Browncoats…not even folks who looked as if they were even thinking about the civil war that raged throughout the ‘Verse…Just everyday, normal folk running out of the church under the woefully mistaken presumption that they could outrun the shell that, in less than a second, would carve a crater a kilometer wide in the center of their bucolic little town. The last image transmitted by the bomb camera was of a teary-eyed, yet defiant woman standing in the doorway of the church, holding a pair of children close to her; their faces pressed into her apron as she shielded them from seeing what their end would be…

…he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Son of a…
…bitch!” When Sam awoke, he realized that he was already on his feet, pistol in hand ready to fend off those memories (or those folks as might come after him looking to collect a bounty on his head for even having them) of a life-that-was. It wasn’t so much that the events in the dream had scared him (he’d lived them first hand, after all; nothing trumps that horror)…no, what had startled him out of his bunk even before his eyes could open was that the dream always seemed so real that it was hard to believe that he wasn’t actually living it all over again. That and, after he shook off the initial panic, that he couldn’t believe he’d actually had the dream again. That one hadn’t bothered him since he’d signed on as Wyatt’s wheelman.

“Whew,” he sighed, shakily lowering the pistol and bending a bit to rest his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, “Damn, but that ain’t no way ta get woke up!” As he shook off the rest of the prickly, tingling sensation that had taken hold of his spine, he caught sight of the rum bottle sitting near the foot of his bunk. “Thanks a heap,” he scowled, “I really ruttin’ needed that.”

“Don’ reckon there’s much call in tryin’ ta get back ta sleep,” he grumped to himself as he relinquished his grip on the pistol, dropping it into the holster that hung from the bulkhead, “Prob’ly like ta get chased back out. Can’t be much longer ‘til sun-up, no how.” Dash tugged on a clean shirt, stuffed his feet into his boots, and, as he didn’t much feel like tying a bandana just yet, pulled the cap that Trish had knitted for him over his head before he strapped on his gunbelt and climbed out onto the foredeck.

As he suspected, it appeared that the rest of the crew was still sacked out. All of the crew dorms doors were closed and there was only a faint glow coming from the galley. Quietly, Dash made his way towards the dimly lit kitchen and was mildly surprised to find Trish already there pulling items from the cupboards, likely getting a jump on making breakfast. “Mornin’, Ma,” he rumbled as he stepped through the door. He rubbed at his eyes as he sidled up beside her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek; “Guess it ain’t as early as I figgered. Coffee on?”

The older woman smiled faintly and nodded, hooking a thumb in the direction of the pot.

“Sheh sheh,,” he yawned, snagging a mug from the cabinet and pouring himself a steaming cupful. “Think I’m gonna mosey outside fer a spell an’ watch the sun not come up…”

Trish arched a brow at that, likely wondering why the man hadn’t tried to pilfer a little something from the breakfast fare she had already laid out on the counter (he often did when he was the first to amble through the galley in the mornings).

“…If the Cap’s lookin’ fer me, that’s where I’ll be.”

Breakfast and the breakdown
Sam had spent quite a while just sitting at the end of Rocinante’s ramp, sipping at his coffee, watching the early morning goings on of the Thrasher City docks, on occasion, trying to string a tune together on that tarnished harmonica of his, and, for the most part, trying to chase the wake of that dream and everything it conjured up out of his conscious thoughts. He tried over and over again to convince himself that the bad turn that this last job had taken had nothing to do with his past or those folks who might be looking for him but, as he got closer to emptying his coffee, Dash just couldn’t make himself believe it.

He was wondering about Tink, too. Dash had contacted the girl a handful of times over the years and knew better than to expect an immediate response from the twitchy little cortex wiz but he was hoping against hope that she’d reply to his wave well before he (or, worse, any of his friends) came down with a case of the dead. “Nice,” he grumbled, abandoning the tune he was attempting to play, “Way ta go, chwen; jus’ give yerself somethin’ else ta worry on…”

Worry on it, he did, though, and, at one point, he had almost talked himself into just disappearing into the shambles of Thrasher City in hopes of saving Wyatt and the rest the trouble of Dash’s (strike that… Morgan Trent’s) enemies suffering for his transgressions. Just then, Trish wandered out (just to the end of the ramp) to refill his coffee and let him know that others were starting to rouse about and, as the pilot nodded in reply, he caught sight of Willow making her way up the docks on Dodger’s arm. “Yeah,” he scowled, watching the Doc and the rastafixer for a moment before strolling up the ramp in Trish’s wake, “an’ if I left ‘em now, they’d get splattered all over the Black anyhoo… Been a long gorram time since I run from a tussle, ain’t no sense in startin’ now, I reckon.”

When Dash arrived in the common area, Wyatt was already there, leaned back and shaded by his hat as if he were napping. The pilot glanced at Trish, who offered a scant shake of her hooded head. “Long night, huh, Cap,” he asked, not really expecting an answer, as he took a seat at the table, “I feel yer pain, puhn yoh.” Other than that and short good-mornings to the others as they arrived, Dash was unusually quiet throughout the course of Wyatt’s speech (though he did snort and look around rather nervously when the Captain mentioned someone gunning for one or all of them), and he was relatively silent (some might’ve even said distracted) during breakfast, too.

((OOC: Room for convo and interrupts throughout, of course… Sam is kind of distracted this last morning on Beaumonde, of course… he’ll speak if spoken to but he’s not his “normal self”…Once in the Black, if he’s not at the controls or doing his chores, he’s holed up in his bunk cleaning his guns and waiting for a wave from Tink (not that he’ll tell that to anyone but Wyatt)…))

Get along little Lullabelle…
This morning had been a little bit better that the last couple. Dash remembered having a dream last night but it hadn’t been like the ones that had shaken him from his sleep the past two days and he was starting to feel (and act) more like the Sam Dash that the crew had grown accustomed to. With nothing to do out here in the Black aside from nudging Roc’s reins every now and again, keeping up on his chores, and such, Sam had managed to turn his paranoia back a notch or two. Hell, he’d even made an ass of himself at breakfast this morning and given Kora a hard time…“somethin’ in that gorram engine room smells like cat piss… ya didn’t pick up no perfume from one o’ them hack street vendors back in Thrasher City did ya?”

Now, as Sam sat in the pilot’s chair, his fingers curled lovingly around the yoke and his eyes dancing from the star-dappled ocean of Black to the displays on the consoles before him, he decided that things just might turn out to be all right after all. “Ain’t nobody tried to heave us to and suck us out inta the nothin’,” he grinned as he flicked a glance at the navsat display, “ain’t no bombs went off in none o’ the luh suh what Griff or Dodger stuck in Roc’s hold… Ever’thin’s shiny as shiny gets.

Now where in the hell is that ruttin’ Hulawhore mi…” Dash interrupted his own query with a low whistle as he caught sight of the Angel Hair comet streaking brilliantly through the inky void. “Wuo duh MA! Ain’t that a pretty sight, though?”

Even as he goaded Rocinante closer, slightly adjusting course to pin down his intended intercept vector, Dash gawked at the comet for a long moment. He only blinked when the transponder blipped and identified the thing as their next port… Lullabelle Mine: claim registration 1277640. “I wanna meet the crazy S.O.B. that tied a Bumblebee to that,” he chuckled as he started making adjustments to the controls and sensors that would be necessary to ease the Firefly into the comet’s tail and then successfully navigate through and, finally, dock with the mine. That done, Sam turned his gaze back to the rapidly approaching Angel Hair comet again and reached for the mic.

“A’right, ladies an’ men-folk,” he said, broadcasting to the entire ship, “Ya’ll need ta get yer gorram asses up here! Ya ain’t gonna wanna miss this!”

((OOC: Sam’s very much “in the zone” at the moment, doing what he does the best (aside from cussin’), and will be very intent on his work until the rest arrive… convos backposted as necessary))

“Reminds me of a lady I knew once,” Sam quipped without looking away from what he was doing, “Shiny. Beautiful. Damn invitin’… But, underneath all o’ th’ sparkly stuff, a heart o’ solid gorram ice.

I remember this one time. Her an’ me was grapplin’ like grapplin’ was goin’ outta style, get me? An’, all the sudden she flips us over an’ reaches fer th…Gun!!!”

At the very instant the proximity alarm sounded, Sam twisted the yoke hard to port in order to roll Rocinante safely out of the path of the Griffin class freighter that had just blown past them. “What the hell was that,” he growled, angrily reining the Firefly back to starboard to re-claim his plotted vector. He glared at the Griffin as it burned hard towards the comet, the name Mary Celestia indelibly scribing itself at the top of his Mi tian gohn list.

“Choo fei wuh suh leh (Over my dead body),” Dash snarled at the Celestia as his hands thudded across the console and nudged the throttle, “you obviously don’ know who yer humpin’ wit’! Meh, tah mah duh hwoon dahn!.”

“Mei mei,” he barked as his fingers flexed, then curled around the yoke in a nothin’-but-business manner, “Get yer fine li’l ass back there an’ get me some juice flowin’! Ever’body else, grab hold o’ somethin’! This tzao gao’s ‘bout ta get all kinds o’ crazy!”

((OOC: Wad a ta, sa da tay, an’ it’ll be okay… Let’s toss Roc to the hardest burn we c’n get an’ see if’n we can’t moon the Mary Celestia, dohn ma? I wanna blow by that jien huo an’ maybe even buzz her gorram canopy! If she beats us into the tail she sure as hell ain’t beatin’ us to the job! How many plot points can I throw at this?))