OOC: JP between @Winters, @MK Blitzen and @Yule





Cyd put her speaker on the galley table, the house music radiating loud enough to shake a few glasses. Isaac looked pleased as punch and was eager to get back to their room, antsy, which almost, but not quite won out over his stomach. Cyd let the steady techno rhythm move her feet, though she did take half a step closer to her brothers when two cagey looking… passengers? Crew mates? They hadn’t met everyone on board yet, paused in the doorway. They were cagey looking, that was for sure. The taller one smiled and gave a few steps of what could possibly be called a really weak Charleston. Cyd threw in a diamond T-step to retaliate moving into a slide slide.

The food from breakfast has long been gobbled up by the crew and really the Skye’s had no one to blame but themselves. It was just long ingrained habits they had developed. “Oye.” Mathias greeted keeping. “A’right birdies, let's see what we got … who's hungry for what? We got options.”

Isaac was tapping absentmindedly with the rhythm, his thoughts completely elsewhere. Only two things broke through: one was the two creeps that paused in the doorway to ogle his sister. Something didn't sit right about those two. Spending years on the streets, you develop a nose for spotting people who were up to no good and those two were it. Fortunately, they moved along after the shorter man shoved the tall one out on his awkward mating display. The teen chuckled to himself, which the tall one seemed to notice and a brief expression crossed his face that he didn't like being laughed at one bit. He took a warning step towards the Skyes.

Thwack! Mathias aggressively bashed the knife he was holding against an empty chopping board with enough force to garner the attention of both men. The eldest of the Skye sibs gave a warning glare to the interlopers. Shorty ushered Tallboy on their way and Cyd couldn’t help but giggle, switching up her footwork in time to the next song. Heel-Toe-Cross.

“Skelm,” she said under her breath, stopping after they’d left.

This could be trouble later. Isaac shrugged it off when that other thing demanded his undivided attention: food. It's siren song beckoning through his nostrils. And the best thing of all that he heard his brother say? 'Options'!

“We gots the trappings for some shakshuka?” Mathias offered peeking through the cupboards as he acquainted himself with the kitchen. “I think …” He mused.

"Laduma!!" Isaac said with excitement. "You ain't made shakshuka in a dog's age!"

“Esh! Not often we gots a kitchen to cook in.” Mathias reminded as he started pulling together spices and ingredients.

“Lekker,” Cyd agreed, shrugging off the encounter.

The rambunctious trio resumed their jibbs and jokes as Mathias pulled a meal to gethe with the little bits of this and that along with some protein paste to bulk it up without adding any flavor. Soon enough there was a high sided pan with chunky tomato sauce still bubbling. There was a bit of veggies, some frozen, some fresh cooked in the liquid and four eggs simmered on the top of it all cooking over easy. Mathias also pan fried a pile of flatbread after he found the flour.

“Smaaklike ete.” Matthias said, clapping his hands together.

“Itadakimasu.” Cyd replied clapping her hands in front of her as she slid into one of the galley chairs, waiting impatiently for her food to cool. Isaac had less self control. Her younger brother gasped and fanned his mouth as he shoveled in the hot food. It’d only been a day and a half in the black, but, she thought as she glanced around the galley. I could really get used to this. She did, afterall, have a good feeling about the China Doll.

“Here!” the First Mate shouted as they skidded to a halt. Her hands trembled as she threw the hatch couplers. “Get in!” she barked as the pursuing animal howls and gunshots grew ominously closer.

“What do we do?” Bã ba gasped as he clambered into the escape pod.

“Strap in!” She ordered, before a hail of gunfire forced her to take cover behind the open hatch. “Saskatoon’s below us. There’s a garrison at Yellowknife…’bout two hundred miles East. Pod’ll ride their RDF beacon all the way down!”

The escape pod was built for one. Bã ba pulled his daughter close, the tight straps clicking home as an automated voice counted down. “Launch in five..four...three..” Mei Lin glanced over her shoulder. Through the viewport, she could see Cavendish, the First Mate. The woman lifted her hand, a last farewell before those things were on her. It was all so fast...muzzle flashes from her gun strobe lit the violent struggle. A desperate hand slapped the pane, leaving in its’ trail a filmy smear of blood. Suddenly, a face appeared, eyes ablaze as their owner tried to force the hatch. At first she thought it had to be a mask; the girl had never seen such a blood spattered twist of madness and rage before.

And then they were gone, hurtling through the void with only a tiny window to see the planet below. Mei Lin thought about Reavers, and all the tales she’d been told. “They’re wrong,” she considered as Bã ba’s heart pounded in her ear. “They’re so much worse.”

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China Doll’s laundry gear was tucked in amongst her water and waste recyclin’ tanks. Abby sat cross legged atop the churning washer, eyes glued to the open novel on her lap. Jest out of the shower, she’s barefoot in a fresh pair ‘o’ chinos an’ a tee shirt what read Cleo’s of Valentine - Come For The Faroe Game...Stay For The Sushi! She’d towelled her hair dry, but weren't a soul alive couldn’t see need fer a good brush. So deep inta Mei Lin’s harrowin’ escape was she that even Ms. Baker walkin’ up didn’t catch her ear.

“What you readin’? Oh, sorry,” she chuckled, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

The girl tucked her book away. “S’alright,” she answered. “First of tha Mei Lin series.”

“Ooh,” the mechanic nodded, “my girls loved those. How far along are you?”

“Jest started. Reavers took their boat.”

Baker smiled as she removed the hood. ”Mi esposo… sorry, my husband,” she checked herself, “heard me readin’ that to our youngest. He was afraid it’d give her nightmares. But she loved it. Pretty sure I owe Mei Lin the credit for teachin’ my daughter to read.”

Abby nodded. “It’s mighty fine. Hope tah finish afore we set down. Wanna find a bookshop fer tha next one.”

“You could read ‘em all with a cortex.”

“Don’t got a cortex. Well, not one as I can use at will. Sure’n they’s a reader or a source box tha Cap’n’ll let me borrow,” the deckhand said. “Still gotta look up trit-ee-um an’ see-see-um one three seven.”

Ms. Baker fumbled through the folds of her robe. “Here,” she held a gleaming piece of sleek metal up to the light. “Use mine.”

“Don’t wanna break it…”

“It’s not a holy relic,” the mechanic smiled. “Was gonna get another one on New Melbourne, anyway. Go on, use it,” she laid it across the girl’s open palm. “But there’s a price.”

This cortex felt all shiny...all modern...like somethin’ she weren’t allowed tah touch. Uncle Bob had always talked it down. ”Cortex ain’t good fer’ nothin’ ‘cept lies an’ nekkid folk humpin”. But she’d found other stuff...stuff she could use, like word on planets an’ fixin’ things cheap...though watchin’ nekkid folk humpin’ got her thinkin’ that tha actual doin’ might be better. She cocked an eyebrow. “Ain’t there always?”

“Uh huh,” Baker grinned. “While you’re on the cortex, look up a Firefly radion core, oh-three-K-six-four. You got that?”

Abby tilted her head. “Oh-three-K-six-four. Ah’ll find ‘er...but why?”

“Cause I’m gonna ask you questions,” the woman used a sing song voice as she turned. “I gotta go see the doc. Back in two shakes.”

“Look out fer them horn-dogs.” Abby was already engrossed. R-A-D-I-O-N-C-O-R-E…

“Horn-dogs?”

“Two of ‘em,” the girl said. “Makin’ eyes on all tha women. Been askin’ ‘bout yew an’ yer crates.”

Baker turned. If Abby hadn’t been all dazzled with the cortex, she mighta seen the hard look in tha woman’s eyes. “Is that a fact?”

“Sure’s Ah’m sittin’ here.” 0-3-K-6-4

“What do these fellas look like?” the mechanic lifted her hood, plunging her face into shadow.

A whole world ‘o’ pitchers an’ names was lit up in fronta her. Abby conjured the core in them pitchers was jest like one on tha upper deck. “One’s tall,” she said, her eyes down on the screen. “T’other’s shorter….light skin. Both got matchin’ short haircuts. They’s all hot fer a ride...somethin’ ‘bout a private fishin’ charter. I’s closin’ up fer launch when they come runnin’ up beggin’. Paid double fares each tah share our last room.” The girl chuckled. “That’s why I’m out on tha couch fer this run.”

“They paid double,” Baker’s voice had gone cold. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes’m. That’s a fact.” Here’s a pitcher showed flow twixt the radion core an’ tha reactor. When she tetched parts ‘o’ the boat, whole to an’ fro….circuits...would light up an’ send little arrows flyin’ out an’ back agin. What a wonder…

Ms. Baker watched the girl for a moment, her mind racing. It could be true. These ‘horn-dogs’ could be just a couple overaged rubes livin’ out some frat boy fantasy...or they could be Feds. Her money was on the latter. They hadn’t moved on her yet, which most like meant they were lookin’ to see how many more they could round up on New Melbourne. “Time for Plan B,” she thought as she made her way down to the infirmary. “Conjure I’d best think one up.”

JP between Cal & Pen on the Flight Deck

Shoes Penelope had decided as she slipped her bare feet into her sandals, the only other pair of shoes she had. Neither, like all her clothing, required much effort. She felt entirely at ease climbing her quarter’s ladder to go into public in a simple jersey knit long tank with cloth shorts. Her hair was a bit mussed from sleep, but had checked and there weren’t any drool marks or crusties about her eyes, so she was presentable enough for a shower in her opinion - and she didn’t think too much about others’, so all went swimmingly for her.

The flightdeck was empty aside from her new, possibly inanimate companion, Scratchy. She pat the box in passing as she sat down in the swivel chair to check readings on the China Doll. “Kept a keen eye on things, Scratch? Look’s like the Doll’s late-night fixin’ up took care of that strayin’... ain’t got anythin’ hairy showin’ neither.”

She yawned on the back of her hand just as she had the early morning previous, but this time stretching back into the chair with her other arm reaching out in an arc as it fell with her. Completed with a sigh, she looked out at the sky. Real pretty.

The ticking box, dubbed ‘Scratchy’ by the plucky pilot, slowly whirred down until it stopped altogether. A comm-like crackle hearkened to the velvet and distinct Bostonian accent of the female voice that followed, “I concur, Penelope; I can find nothing in the sensors resembling hair.” The sound that emanated from the box almost sounded smug, as if the owner of the voice spoke through smiling teeth. “And it appears that the mechanic has corrected the right thruster’s velocity output,” a sigh of relief echoed from the black box.

A little gasp escaped the pilot's lips as she turned wide-eyed at the sound of a unfamiliar voice - a voice that knew her name, no less - suddenly so close. The jump to sitting position and quick look around didn't reveal another person, but then it went on praising the mechanical work and her rounded hazel eyes found their way to the less-scratchy-sounding Scratchy. Penelope's head tilted to the side a little as she examined the black box, then slowly her eyes went back to the reading that matched what the thing had said.

Maybe it was her penchant for speaking to inanimate objects or maybe it was much the same of her not wanting to be rude to a stranger when they had not cause for it, but Penelope simply agreed conversationally now that she'd identified the voice. "Seems like Abbs and Baker, I think she said was her name, did a right good job. Now that the right is balanced, there is less demand on the left, too, to correct that subtle stray it was causin'... "

Her voice trailed off as she was double-checking the diagnostic while she spoke, used to getting lost in her work when there wasn't an actual person around. If there's been, she wouldn't have forgotten she was speaking to someone. Or something. But, as it were, she found herself going to get up and check the readings on the navigation computer output screen. Then she stopped in her tracks and looked back down at the box, as if just remembering it had spoken to her.
“That’s correct, Penelope. The engines will be better balanced when next the China Doll breaks the atmosphere. Thanks to this Epsilon interface I’m tied into the ship’s readings and hydraulics. Did you know this ship houses a hydroponics trough? I didn’t think Cal ate vegetables,” the box chirped cheerfully. “When I registered the Epsilon adapter it took some time for me to load the ship’s rudimentary systems in an organized manner. By the way, thank you for managing the cables; I’ve been begging Cal to pay more attention to the console. I register that we have a heading of New Melbourne. Why are we flying there?” The voice’s tone waxed from explanatory to genuine curiosity. The ship’s wave screen clicked on as the camera focused on Penelope’s quizzical expression.

A curious thumbnail found itself between Penelope’s teeth as she leaned in to look down at the box while it went on. She tilted her head this way and that, noting what the thing was saying all the while investigating it for any sign of what exactly it was and how it worked.

“I reckon for a job,” She answered as she looked behind the box where it was connected, then squatted down to look level at it. “Big ta-do going on this time’a year.”

She stood, hands on hips as her voice came more direct than speculative, then she looked to where she heard the camera dilations. “Say, Scratch, ya ain’t tha China Doll, are ya?”

The voice’s mirth lilted to the pilot’s query, “No, Penelope, I’m not the China Doll. I am designated as a Societal Automated Management via Neural Transmission and Haptics Artifice. My documentation refers to me as S.A.M.A.N.T.H.A, but the Captain has taken to calling me ‘Sam.’ I have no preference in the matter.” After a moment of ticking, Sam added, “Scratch is just as sufficient a moniker as any other.” Without missing a beat Sam’s questions continued, “What sort of ‘ta-do’ is happening on New Melbourne? My datasets have neglected to mention the planet in any historical computations. Is it a place of import?”

Sam, huh? A real AI. Sentient There may have been a lot of ways a pilot not being told what was being plugged in on the dash and discovering it on their own at full-burn in the black could’ve gone. But, Penelope was on the more fascinated side than anything else, though she did take a beat to process it. Not many folk could hear such a thing and breeze it off. But this particular pilot simply sat in her chair as she rubbed the back of her neck, thinking on the question being asked by what she immediately considered her new co-pilot and companion.

“More export - fish and other sea critters. I ain’t never been to New Melbourne, but from what I hear it’s got ocean like Greenleaf has jungle. Pretty much all you can see if you leave the main city. There’s a big catch season startin’ up, and we plan on making port just before it kicks off.” Penelope explained as she habitually lifted a foot to tuck under herself, letting the other swivel the chair slightly side to side while she spoke. When she finished the explanation, she looked back to the camera more directly. “So, Sam? You … were you online last night when I was here waitin’ on Abbs to clean up the Doll? Why didn’t ya say somethin’ then?”

Whirring and clicking answered Penelope’s pointed question. Then, the clicks precursed into audible vocal tones, “Yes, I was online at that time, but I was unable to speak with you then. You see, when Cal plugged me into the China Doll, I started to receive an influx of data. Ship schematics, wave frequencies, pressure readings, airlock codes--the list is comprehensive. Not only that, but this far into space, some rudimentary frequencies are broadcasted across this Firefly’s external receivers. Though there is some data missing, I have been able to parse passing transmissions to piece together a rough sector of the Cortex. You can imagine that, even for a program like me, it takes some time to assemble all the puzzle pieces.” After its monologue, Sam appeared to focus the wave recorder screen before powering it off. “What is the definition of a ‘sea critter?’”

Penelope was enraptured by what the little box - Sam - was telling her. It made sense. Sam had a lot to learn! And all so quick … the power of machines…

The question that followed made Pen's wide-eyed crinkle as she gently answered. "Somethin' that lives in the sea. A fish, octopus, crab - there's so many kinds it's jus' easiest to say 'critter'."

The soft chuckle came anyway, amazed by how something so smart as to do all that learning in one night was asking such a question. Then her stomach grumbled, reminding her she'd promised it breakfast. "They taste pretty good too. They can be ate raw or cooked, some... I reckon you don't have much use for food, Sam, but my stomach is hankerin' for whatever breakfast I might can find in the galley. Will ya be alright till I get washed up and some grub?"

After a few choice ticks and whirs, the box replied, “Noted, and please, don’t let me keep you; I may not need to eat, but I understand ‘hankerin’ for ‘sea critters’ must be uncomfortable. I’ll be right here. I’m picking up on a frequency I don’t recognize. It may take me a moment to calibrate.” The lilting voice cut short as it presumably initiated its search for the aforementioned frequency, leaving the bridge in silence except for its subtle whir.

Pen chuckled at the talk of sea critters as her immediate meal, which would be delightful, but didn't bother correcting the assumption yet. Or… logical deduction? Can machines assume? Before she got lost in that musing, Sam mentioned a frequency, and her eyes were scanning readouts. "You just let me know if it's somethin' I should be worryin' about."

Pen’s voice prompted the machine, “The source of the frequency appears to originate on this vessel, but it’s not coming from the China Doll.” On Pen’s console the frequency pinged visibly denoting a powerful one-way call, albeit encrypted. “I’ll need to do more analysis to pinpoint the origin.”

"Huh… wonder if the Cap'n knows we're broadcastin' as we sail." Penelope said her thoughts aloud, eyes turning back. She lifted the handle to the comms, thinking on pressing it to call. Before she did, she asked: "'bout how long ya think it'll take to to narrow down where our mystery signal is tucked away at?"

“That depends on—“ the voice cut to silence before continuing, “the signal has ceased transmitting, but I was able to record some of the transmission.” Sam switched on a local comm that tied into the bridge and began playing the transmission. To Penelope’s ear the overpowering sound of static would leave nothing to be gleaned. “It appears the transmission is more heavily encoded than my standard algorithms can handle. I’ll need to patch, then try again. Unfortunately, as to the origin of the broadcast, since the source has stopped transmitting, I am unable to provide a location.”

The receiver had gone to rest beneath Penelope’s chin as she considered what Sam was saying. Mighty fishy, and she doubted it had anything to do with their destination. Her thumb pressed down on the comm. “Cap’n, think ya could stop by the bridge when ya get a second?”

The comm returned within a second, “Two shakes,” came Cal’s response. After a minute the Captain stepped into the cockpit. He drew a hand across his disheveled hair as he drew up to the console. “We on fire again?” In response to Penelope’s arched brow, Strand replied, “Don’t worry; only happened the one time.” Cal tapped a finger on the oxygen pressure gauge, whose red arrow flew wildly left, then right before settling in the correct reading. The man nodded, his features easing into his debonair smirk.

"More a' proverbial flame, maybe." Pen said, eyes turning along with the captain to the read out just as she continued. "Sam and I been gettin' aquainted. Awful impolite you didn't introduce us, Cap'n. Girl's gotta know who she's workin' with."

She grinned a little at the tease, giving a wink to let him know she was only doing just that. "But I didn't call ya up here on account of forgotten manners - Sam's found somethin' off and we wanna see if ya know anythin' about it. Sam? Care to do the honors?"

“Might happen sometimes--manners, that is, not fires. Well, more often at least.” Cal leaned in to tap the black box from which a constant soft tick had emanated since he entered the room. “Weren’t for lack of trying, I might add. When I plugged her in, seemed she went dumb--”

“--Hello, Cal,” the box called, “Penelope is correct, there’s a signal originating from aboard the China Doll, though the call didn’t come from its equipment. The wave was a strong one, and I was able to capture some of it before it stopped transmitting.”

Strand’s face went grim, “What did it say? You know from where on the ship it came?”

“It cut before I could triangulate the signal. Also, the message was encrypted:” Sam played the static just as she had for Penelope, then dialed it back, “Just before you arrived, I learned that it requires an access code to decrypt.” The silence from the machine was telling.

“And we don’t have that…” Cal rubbed the stubble across his chin, turning away from the console for a few paces. “It’s early still; no way of knowing who hasn’t been up and about. Anyone could have sent the call. It’s times like these I regret my motto of ‘no questions asked.’” Captain Strand rejoined the console and faced Penelope, who spun in her chair to follow. “Way I see it, there’s only one reason for encryption like this: we got ourselves a Federale aboard. In itself ain’t a bad thing. Everything’s above board, papers in order, Abigail hasn’t started spacing passengers yet, but weren’t no mention of a Fed on the roster. So the situation’s thus: we know the Fed’s here, but the Fed don’t know that we know.”

“I can keep an ear on traffic to see if they send another message,” Sam offered.

“Good thinking, let Rex or me know when that happens. For now, we keep an eye out, all of us.” Cal looked to Penelope for her understanding.

"Hmm, I think this is the part where we all come up with a secret signal." She winked playfully, grin returning. "Maybe a bird call. I know how to do a few of those."

“Fine by me, sister,” Cal replied, “just don’t call the parrot; he bites.”

"Parrot?" Penelope's eyes got wide with excitement. "I love parrots. But," she returned to the more serious nature of things, suppressing her smile as she leaned conspiratorially with a whisper. "They're jus' a bit too loud for this sort of espionage. Maybe a … finch?"

She leaned back as her grin spread. "I'm just messin' - ya probably got cap'n'n to do, and I'm due for a scrub and grub. Sam and I'll'a keep ya apprised of any more mysterious signals and whatnot."

She said all that as she stood, rising to her feet as her expression did finally turn serious with the knit of a lifted brow. "But, Cap'n… can't say most folk will be thrilled 'bout…"

Her head nodded slowly towards the black clicking box as her hands slid into the front pockets of her long pull-over tunic. Then her grin softly appeared. "Am I keepin' secrets for ya already, Cal?"

Captain Strand replied, “Now, what say you and I keep this between the pair of us--”

“Who am I going to tell, Cal?” came Sam’s Bostonian accent from Earth-that-was.

“Not you, Sam,” Cal’s smirk matched Penelope’s as he shook his head. “I have a feelin’ that this particular secret will out sooner or later,” he said, considering his assumption that a Purple Belly resided somewhere on the China Doll. The ghost of a plan passed over his features. “For now, let’s sit on this, the three of us, yuh hear me, Sam?”

“Crystal clear, Cal,” was the machine’s response. Penelope grinned as she looked to the little box at her side, hand reaching out to gently pat it. "Just between us, Cap'n."

Cal nodded approvingly. “Alright, I’ve got some things to suss out. Call if anythin’ comes up.” The Captain turned from his pilot and her co-pilot and entered the gangway, whistling a finch’s song into the galley.

Penelope's head turned slowly at the sound of the bird she'd used in jest. Her new captain sure was an interesting fella. With a final pat to the box beneath her hand, she let out a soft sigh. "Gonna head out for a little bit too, Sam. Got my own things need sussin'."

Mostly, food. Her stomach growled again, getting a pat as if she was acknowledging its need for attention. Whatever Hook was cookin' was waftin' through, and her tummy was being tugged that-a-way.

There was always somethin' about feelin' fresh after a shower - even a space-shower, meaning recycled filtered water that did no good on thinkin' about where'd come. Penelope had contentedly sighed as she stepped out the stall, then towel-patted herself down. Her mind turned to Sam. Most folk wouldn't feel to easy knowin' there was an sentient piece of tech or just how connected into the ship that they were flyin' through space in. She wondered as she dressed then padded back through the ship to her quarters at any reactions, planned any preemptive measures of the more negative ones, and who all knew 'sides her and the captain.

The chaos that was erupting from the galley as she reemerged from her bunk with her satchel threw her. It seemed like some sorta ruckus was being had in the galley just down the hall. A small smile appeared - sounded like Hook might have his hands full with whatever was happening in there. Best leave him to it.

Besides, as her eyes turned to the flight deck, she had her own charge. As she sat down in the pilot's seat - her seat, at present anyway - Penelope undid her bound damp hair and asked aloud: "Sounds like a party is going on in the galley. Anythin' that excitin' happenin' for us up here?"

The clicks and whirs that Penelope had become accustomed to slowed while the pilot begun braiding her hair to the side - carefully picking out orange strands so they were in one ground together. "If by exciting you mean level of noise, our decibel frequency has not yet met that in the galley, so no. Not at present."

After a few clicks, Sam added: "I can play-back the same frequency if you'd like."

"That almost sounds like a joke." The pilot smiled as she tied off her hair at her shoulder. Her new pull-over top was that thin polyester material, so it wouldn't soak through. She comfortably folded her spandex-covered legs under her as she leaned to look over the console before settling in. "That sort of music ain't my taste for casual listenin'. More in place at a rave club or thrash hall in one of them big cities."

It was said without the tone of judgement, just gentle matter-of-fact. There couldn't be actual silence, not with the 'party' going on, but a little time passed as Penelope did passive checks. Just as she leaned back, Sam spoke up again. "My data processor lists many different 'sorts of music.' Are only some music types enjoyable in certain locations?"

"Hmm… well, reckon since there is a ruckus in the galley, I can't rightly say that's the case." Penelope chuckled a little as she withdrew her little macramé project she'd started the previous night from her satchel. As she sat the various bottles of babbles along the front of Sam's box, she added: "Just like there is all sorts of music, there is all sorts of folk who enjoy, in all sorts of ways, in all sorts of places."

"Places such as the 'rave club' and 'thrash hall'?" Sam asked as Penelope popped a plastic top off one of the bottles to withdraw a bead for threading.

"Yep, those are places for dancing - ya know, flailing around with rhythm sort of dancing. Like flowin' with the beat." Her fingers began their weaving as the bead was pulled into its place. "There's all sorts of dancin', too. Ta match the music."

It came natural, somehow. Maybe like the causal way Penelope approached everything, talking with an artificial being just was another thing. It was nice, she thought, having someone to talk to instead of being all by her lonesome like she was accustomed to when on a job. Though, she didn't quite think this crew would be the sort to stay squirreled away like her last one. And, the idea was real nice.

OOC: JP between @Winters, @MK Blitzen and @Yule





Cyd sat at the galley table, sharing a pair of earbuds with Mathias. This way they wouldn’t wake the ship, and could still keep an ear on their surroundings. Her data pad was situated at an angle, and the open tech gloves allowed her to type on a virtual keyboard on the table.

Mathias bopped his head lightly to the driving beat in his ear looking absently in the distance. He was practicing card tricks and throws. He had half a deck behind each hand and would alternate slowly making the card appear, drawn from the back of his hand, to the front for presentation and then tossed it to a slowly filling hat at the other end of the table. The point was to build strength, dexterity and to nitpick over his technique. Street magic was an extremely unforgiving practice. Also he was trying to improve his aim, he didn’t miss often but when he did it was punctuated with a creative curse in a random language.

Isaac hadn’t stopped talking about wheels - not since he saw that crate in the cargo bay. Well, not the wheels so much as the bearings. “He’s right,” Cyd said, finding the wheels he described. “They cost a fortune. Weird that they’d be on a case on a crate being couriered by a random Firefly class.”

“Uh - hu …” Mathias said absently, missing the hat. “ … Sìnüè de yīyuántǐ gǎnrǎn lǘ niào” He hissed and tried again.

“Just weird is all.” Cyd shrugged.

“Sure is …” Mathias mindlessly agreed, flicking the card to the hat, it hit the edge just right and just barely got in. “ … yes!”

Cyd chuckled at her brothers’ indifference. “He does need new bearings.” she offered.

“He does have a terrible sense of direction …” Mathias agreed, focusing on his next throw.

"Seriously, though, Jo!" Isaac popped off one of his earphones so he could hear his siblings better as he pressed the issue. "Maybe when she's done doing whatever she's doing with those crates, maybe she'll let me have those sweet bearings for my trucks? That would make my board gek fast!" The younger Skye daydreamed aloud about the possibilities. "I could be doing krank Backside Tailslides, Shuvits, Crooked Grinds! Think I can ask her for 'em if her business is done with on New Melbourne?" He wondered.

“Worst she can say is no,” Cyd offered, swiping the air in front of her screen to go back to something non wheel related. Isaac could be like a dog with a bone.

“Whatever Cyd says …” Mathias said reflexifly. The card bounced off the edge of the hat. “... Dà xiàng gāowán bàozhà!” He snapped

Isaac's excitement was palpable upon hearing Cyd's encouragement, which was only slightly deflated by Mathias's considerably less convincing agreement. Undeterred, he leaned over to peek at his sister's cortex screen. "How much longer before we land?"

“Forever.” Mathias answered, flicking the card squarely into the hat.

“You could read a book if you’re bored.” Cyd offered.

Isaac groaned and fell back sullen into his chair, pulling the earphones snugly back in place. The thought of sitting around reading a boring old digital book was not exactly his idea of a fun way to pass the time. He fiddled with the controls, trying to find in something, anything that would tune out his tiresome sibs as he slid deeper into his chair and sulked.

“Books are fun.” Mathias encouraged throwing another card into the hat.

Cyd couldn’t help but giggle. It took her a hot minute to realize she’d switched from earbuds to speakers. Music filled the kitchen when she connected the data pad to her small dedicated source box, circumventing the Cortex. The music sounded better loud, but people were just starting to wake up. They’d already not made friends with the skebenga’s Mathias chased off. Alienating people was bad for busking. With a couple of finger taps, the din disappeared, transmitting back to Cyd and Mathias. “All right sibs, I found something - dockside, , and it’s pretty close to the maritime museum. Artifacts from clipper ships back from Earth that was. Who wants to take a pic with New Mel’s largest working cannon?” She had an album full of photos from the verse, random attractions and the like.

Isaac had no idea what his sister was babbling about, but she looked to the boys expectantly about whatever she was saying. He gave a thumbs up. It seemed to be the right response as no one kicked him afterward.

Mathias jumped from the noise breaking his concentration. “Is this another pikkewyn thing?” He asked, wrinkling his nose. Mathias put down the cards to stretch his fingers out.

“We packed white shirts for a reason, Yobo,” she snickered.

“To use in the event we need to surrender?” Mathias answered not sure if it was the right answer?

Cyd laughed. “You’re not getting out of it that eas… “ She furrowed her brow as she swiped a few more keys. It looked like they weren’t the only ones on board circumventing the Cortex.

Isaac's sulk was so deep he was practically halfway to the floor. His face had, up until that point, been fixed with a sour expression. That changed when something seemed to grab his attention, making his eyes grow wide. "Fokkol..." he sighed in disbelief.

Joint post from @Xandrya and @sail3695

Clad once more in the hooded kasaya robe, the temporary mechanic appeared in the open door of the medbay. She tapped quietly on the frame. “Hi, doc? Can I come in?”

She was caught up in her own world, wrapping up some reports she wanted to get done before pressing forward. Alana then heard someone by the entrance and she turned her head to greet them.

"Yes, please," she motioned, standing up to offer a hand. "Alana Lysanger, or doc if you prefer," she went on with a smile.

The slight woman stepped into the infirmary. “Thanks,” she nodded beneath the hood as she took the outstretched hand. “Ellen Baker,” she replied to the introduction. “Ridin’ along as your mechanic for this run.” Following the doc’s gesture, she climbed into the exam chair. “A couple years back I took a pretty good radiation hit. The doc at the time did his best to clean me out, but he warned me it’ll keep comin’ back...and it has. I’m havin’ a spell right now...no appetite...all tired an’ worn out, but I can’t sleep. Is there somethin’ you can give me to put me right for a stretch?”

After a quick nod in her direction, Alana went ahead and gloved up. To her, it was slightly concerning that Ellen's symptoms were creeping up at this point down the road. "I have something for that, at least to ease the nasty side effects." Alana turned her back to the woman for a moment to retrieve the medication stored in one of the cabinets. "Is it the first time since your exposure and subsequent treatment that you're experiencing symptoms?" She placed the bottle down and proceeded to examine her eyes with the penlight.

The mechanic took down her hood, eyes fixed straight ahead as the medic’s light flicked over them. “No,” she responded. “The first doc kept me on a drug regimen for about a year. Worked pretty well,” she offered. “But the last year I moved around alot. I’d take med when I could, but those treatments were few an’ far between. Nowadays,” Baker replied, “it’s alot like ridin’ a wave...good days an’ bad days.”

"I see." A moment later Alana put aside the light and reached for a small device. It would go around the tip of her patient's finger to measure her heart rate, amongst other vitals. "What I'm going to give you is a temporary fix. Once we part ways, if the symptoms get worse, I strongly urge you to seek out specialized care. Years ago during my schooling I came across a promising study regarding radiation, so it doesn't hurt to look into it either way."

Baker regarded the little spring clipped sensor, and the red glow it cast upon her finger. She hadn’t glanced about, but felt pretty certain that on the bulkhead behind her glowed a display whose waves and squiggles must offer up her vitals...pretty standard issue for the Class 3 Fireflies. “Specialized care,” she repeated the advice. “I don’t make it to the central planets very much, Doc. Just need to stay on my feet ‘til we reach New Melbourne.”

She offered a warm smile. "Well, then you're in luck!" Alana presented the small bottle to Ellen. "All yours, free of charge," she added with a playful wink. Alana then noticed that Ellen's stats were recorded and proceeded to remove the device from her finger. "You'll be good for now with this medication. Take it once every couple of days or as needed, but never more than one within a 24 hour period. The instructions are on the bottle for your convenience."

She walked over to the monitor and studied it momentarily. For the most part, Ellen's vitals showed nothing of concern.

"By the way, would you like something to help you sleep? I have plenty of those if you'd like," she added, turning around to face her.

The mechanic studied the bottle in her hand. Nemistroproxin - 50mg tablet - 30 ct. Though she could never remember the full name, enough bells began ringing in her memory to nod gratefully. All doubt was removed when she opened the lid and a plump yellow tablet fell into her palm. This was the stuff to reignite her appetite and push the fatigue back into the irradiated corners from which it crept.

With the aid of a small cup of water, she downed the capsule, then tucked the pill bottle into a pocket as the doc asked about sleep meds. “Normally,” Baker smiled in return, “I’d turn that down, but once we land I intend to spend several days catching up on my sleep, so yes, please!”

"Very well...ask and you should receive."

For a moment, Alana turned away from Ellen. She added a quick note on her pad then went ahead to retrieve the sleeping medication. One needed to be careful when taking Zanquil as it would sometimes be dangerous. In the past, people claimed to have been witnessed sleep-walking and acting out of character. "I'm not sure whether you have experience with this one, but make sure you're ready to get a full night's sleep, usually 7 to 8 hours immediately before taking it." Alana handed her the bottle with 15 tablets inside, hopefully more than enough for her to regulate her sleep.

Baker accepted the bottle with both hands. “Much obliged, Dr. Lysanger,” she smiled. “I won’t use ‘em ‘less I have to. But I need to run. Promised your youngest deckhand I’d be quizzing her on this boat’s engine.” After a grateful handshake with the doc, she exited the infirmary. There’d be time to keep her promise to Abby. But for now, a talk with the captain was paramount.

Joint Post from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

Hopefully, the meds would kick in soon. The mild vertigo was back, another of the more recent symptoms, forcing her to clutch the handrail to steady herself as she climbed the stairs to the upper deck. The right turn at the aft corridor came as second nature, muscle memory. She’d worked on a number of Fireflies over the course of her life, though primarily two’s and threes. Her last had been a Class IV, a regular behemoth with double cargo hold capacity, increased crew and passenger cabin space, and larger all-things-mechanical. Yet, despite the mods and upgrades from class to class, a Firefly was a Firefly was a Firefly. And regardless of the slow motion death sentence she carried from that Class IV, she still loved them all.

The galley, and its’ adjoining lounge space, were both active. Abby was in the lounge, offering crackers and a bottle of cola to a man whose face matched the grey in his beard. “I feel that” she mused, before offering a smile to the three young folk who lounged at the galley table. “The source of the late night music,” she stifled a chuckle before continuing on forward.

As she climbed the cockpit stairs, she thought for a moment she’d heard three voices. Yet, as she tapped on the open doorframe, all that met her eye were the captain and his pilot, Penelope. “Excuse me, captain,” the woman spoke up to draw their attention. “Could I get a few minutes?”

Cal’s eyes swung to meet their stand-in mechanic, Ms. Baker. “Howdy, Sister,” he began before a whirring and ticking grabbed his attention at the console. Reaching out a hand he tapped a screen and held up a finger to the nun. “What’s that now? You seeing this?” Cocking an ear, the Captain waited for a reply, but the pilot by his side listened just as intently.

“That’s not it, Cal,” a velvety, disembodied accent replied, “This one is a passenger. Seems somebody is doing their homework on New Melbourne. Thankfully, Penelope filled me in on all the ‘sea critters’ there.” The voice’s mirth was audible.

Baker froze, her eyes swimming about the space until they fixed upon the impossible. There it is, she fought to avoid any tells upon her face, as all the while she could feel the color draining away. She’d seen it only once before...heard that voice but a single time. “For an already risky jaunt,” she observed in silence, “this run just got all kindsa worrisome.”

“Um….captain…” she tore her eyes away from the SAMANTHA prototype, “I really need to show you something...in the port shuttle.”

Captain Strand sighed in relief at Sam’s proclamation, a second call may have meant bad business, indeed. Straightening, he ran a hand over his face before turning back to Baker, “What, did it catch on fire again?” To Penelope’s wide-eyes, he offered a pat on her arm, and added “only kidding.” Over her shoulder, he arched a brow at the hooded nun, hoping dear God for that curt nod.

The robed figure turned, lifting her voice to the pilot. “Hey Penelope, we’re gonna run the shuttle out on it’s rails for a minute. We’re not lifting off, but the balance shift could offset your trim.” She didn’t wait for acknowledgement. Baker exited the cockpit, a veil of silence over her as she entered the upper cargo bay hatch and turned toward the port shuttle.

A moment later, they were enveloped in the close environment that was the portside shuttle “I’ll button her up,” she offered as she sealed the hatch.

“Hold on a minute, Sister. Why do the pair of us need to run the shuttle out?” Cal’s eyes narrowed as the air lock pressurized and the nun turned to face him. He’d seen her just about bend backwards to make sure the Doll was right and ready for the trip, but he didn’t know a lick about this mysterious woman of the cloth who’d somehow landed in his lap with a wrench.

The woman lowered her hood, revealing a mane of black curls which framed an olive toned face. “Cuz nobody hears what I’ve got to say.” She turned hastily toward the controls. Tapped the “deploy” button, followed with a deft reach for a switch labelled “Umbilical.” The shuttle glided out on its mounting rails, its’ electrical connections now detached. Her task complete, she rose to face Cal again. “Nobody...especially SAMANTHA.”

That face… It was like seeing a ghost he couldn’t quite place, a visage in the fog. She knew her way around the controls and in moments they were outside of earshot of everyone. The Captain’s frame went rigid as Baker mentioned Sam by name. If she knew how it ended up in his hands… Maybe it was her call they’d intercepted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Baker, and you’d do well to keep your nose out where it don’t belong. Now hook us back in before I start gettin’ the wrong idea.” He did a cursory scan of the woman’s robes, but the kasaya’s folds belayed his scrutiny for a weapon.

Baker lifted a hand. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” she held his gaze as she spoke. “I’m pretty sure we got Feds on this boat. I came to see you about changin’ up the plan for my crates….but now...SAMANTHA, too….” she turned her head. ”JesuCristo.”

The woman’s stance was non-threatening, but Cal wasn’t born yesterday. A found-out Fed could be just as likely to disperse suspicion with a misdirection like this. “Yeah,” he assented watching her eyes, “we know there’s a Fed aboard, too. It’s thanks to Sam we picked up their wave.” If she was the Fed, knowing her communication had been intercepted might produce some sign, and Cal stared as if it were high noon.

Her eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know what you’re carrying, do you?” Baker folded her arms before pacing to and fro. “If I’d known, I’d have never...alright. We are where we are. You’ve got SAMANTHA. I’ve got what I’m escorting...and we’ve got at least one, possibly two Feds who trailed me aboard. Time for a new plan.” She ceased her movement, standing before the captain as she looked up into his eyes. A fleeting sense of deja vu settled upon her, before she brushed it away. “Chances are,” she began slowly, “they don’t conjure SAMANTHA is aboard. That’s good...you can hide it. They’re watchin’ me an’ the crates.”

He liked to think he was a great judge of character. Hell, he hired Abigail on a whim and she wasn’t half bad at scaring up a fare. But this Baker woman? He was having trouble placing her. Not a thing about her was what it seemed, from the passage via Badger, these hot crates she mentioned, and now, how she knew about Sam had him scratching his head. “Alright, ‘Sister,’ I’ll bite,” Cal said, with a sinking suspicion that he didn’t hold the cards he ought to. “If the Federales are chasing you and these crates, that makes things simple from my perspective. I can get by a belligerent Badger, but burning the Feds… Now that’s another story.” His fingers went to his cigarette case, holding the silver clasp between thumb and forefinger. “Why should I stick my neck out for you against the law?” He smirked, “Did that once; took a bullet for my trouble. As a rule, I can’t recommend it.”

“I remember.” The words just tumbled from her mouth, a truth uttered yet not realized by a mind waylaid of other concerns. But there it was. She looked up into his face with new eyes and the dawn of an old connection...and she knew. She’d met him before, this lunatic whose actions pulled her out of the darkest day in her life...only to assure that she’d live to see darker. And he wasn’t lying about the bullet he earned for his efforts, either. They stood, squared before one another, the captain and his passenger, sharing a moment of stunned cognition. It seemed as if the air had left the shuttle, coaxing their silence. Finally, having sought inspired words and finding none suitable, the woman demurred to the obvious. “How’s the shoulder?”

Then, the fog of war rolled out from between his ears, and Cal was left with a clear picture of the woman before him. Suddenly, he was a younger man, the world was dark, and his shoulder tingled with the memory. A hand smoothed the muscle which had knit again as he replied, “Well, I get the forecast in aches, now, so there’s that.” This recognition changed the timbre of his voice, the look in his eye. Where once stood a nun of questionable repute there was now a comrade, a confidante, and a person driven by a singular purpose. He was stunned, too, because if he’d have guessed, her chances at a ripe age were ever against her. To that end, the surprise was audible in his voice as he added, “You look good.”

“Thanks. Likewise,” she offered a tired smile. “But the mileage...”

“So,” Strand scratched the back of his neck, “You wanna let me in on what’s got the Feds hot and bothered about the crates you got and what it’s got to do with Sam?”

“Sam.” Her smile faded. It had been awhile since they’d lost SAMANTHA. Aside from the blur of a hastily recorded capture, she knew nothing beyond the fact that Alliance operatives had intervened in a handoff. The resulting gunplay created enough confusion and corpses to muddy the AI’s disappearance. “We thought,” the woman began slowly, “that they’d gotten their hands on ‘Sam’ again. So I took personal command over moving the chips.”

“Chips?” Cal’s brow furrowed. What connection there existed between the two still escaped him. “I’ve heard ‘her’ rattle off what she was made for, but the history lesson didn’t make things any clearer.” He paused, watching her features harden, the way they did when she got bossy and down to business.

Baker took a breath. “SAMANTHA’s a prototype. Those chips,” she continued, “are the first production run. The day we hit Blue Sun’s RESDEV unit, we were lucky. We trashed the etching templates and the design files all the way back to version one. But when we found them,” her gaze intensified, “all packed up and ready to ship out for field testing, we knew what that was about. Your friendly little black box,” the woman could feel her skin tightening as she spoke, “is the command and control system for Plan B.”

She spoke. He listened. Occasionally, the captain would halt her for a question, or to argue against an assertion. But, as he learned the things she’d discovered, the seeming insanity of her acts shone in an altogether different light...one that could prove lethal for his crew. “I owe you far too much to lock horns over giving up SAMANTHA,” she finally offered a shake of her head, “but for ta ma de’s sake please get that thing hidden? Mount it in your avionics or down in the generator bay...both kick up enough RF to mask it.”

Strand’s unlit cigarette hung in the corner of his mouth. This whole conversation had led to something much larger in scope than he had a taste for. “Now that ain’t a bad idea,” Cal said of her admonition, leaning against the bulkhead opposite the woman. “Listen, you’ve seen this before; not a thing we can do to stop the Alliance. No offense, but this is one Goliath David would run away from.”

She took her seat at the shuttle controls. “That’s what they want. I’m not stupid...I know we prob’ly just set ‘em back a year or got ‘em to green light Plan C, but,” Ms. Baker folded her arms, “if we can keep those chips outta their hands, that’s three thousand more folk don’t suffer their ambitions.”

He shook his head, her efforts may have spared a few, but it was like bailing out a sinking ship or plucking flies from a web. The inevitable outcome would be worse than the former, in his mind. “You got a plan for these chips now that you got ‘em?” Way he saw it, the China Doll was too hot to set down.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “We’re destroyin’ em. Got folk lined up to carry ‘em off, Plan was to turn ‘em into corium. But Feds chasin’ me down complicates things an’ puts a whole lot more people at risk. They get you on approach radar for Pensacola, they’ll have a reception committee all strapped and ready. And I don’t conjure how to keep those crates from them,” she shook her head. “Can’t space ‘em...they’ll just backtrack your course and scoop…”

That sparked a thought and Cal turned to face the clever Ms. Baker, “Don’t conjure they much like salt water, do they?”

Roughly 48 hours has passed since the Cap’n an’ Ms. Baker was holed up that shuttle. There was some as conjured it strange, but others didn’t care. Couple passengers found it mighty interestin’, though,

From the cockpit, New Melbourne looked every bit the blue jewel of the ‘verse. China Doll swung herself into orbit as her pilot and cap'n prepped out the re-entry. There’s a slight course change in the offing.

Joint Post from @Aalakrys, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

"Ah, just in time…" Pen said as she held up the finished product of her handiwork. The hoop was now wound up in intricate twine twists and ties, cord running through, making the tree of life. The roots of the tree overflowed, dangling down, while the leaves above poked off the branches in tight-knit folds. She held it up towards the camera lens she'd begun to habitually face while talking aloud. "What do ya think, Sam?"

The little box's whirring slowed with clicks as the camera activated. It seemed the machine had come to learn when Penelope was showing it something over the last few days. After a moment, Sam asked. "What is its purpose?"

"It ain't got much of one 'sides prettyin' up the place." Penelope grinned as she turned to look at it slowly spinning in her outstretched hand, similarly having become accustomed to the conversational pattern they'd formed. "It hangs up, for folk to look at."

"It is visible, so I believe you achieved your goal." Sam responded. Pen chuckled, shaking her head. "What is it called?"

"The design is Yggdrasil, the tree of life or the tree that connects worlds, but … the art is called macrame." Penelope said as she stood to hang it on a bolt on the wall of the ship for now. Sam whirred away, likely processing the new information. They'd talked about macrame once already, but Penelope's teacher always talked about teachable moments and she supposed this qualified.

The dashboard readings alerted her of their approach just as she sat down, telling her they were coming up fast on their destination. She picked up the receiver and spoke into it as she prepared the ship and reviewed the read-outs.

"Hey, folks, this is your pilot lettin' ya know we are comin' up on New Melbourne. I'll be disengaging full burn for the atmo entry in less than five, so find ya a good spot to buckle in here in the next few. Weather ain't lookin' none too calm, so y'all might wanna keep strapped in till we make touch-down. Pen, out till next time."

From her place standing behind the pilot, Ms. Baker allowed herself a secretive smile. “It’s good,” she thought to herself, “that even in a ‘verse as jaded and tough as this one, there’s still people like young Pen here to shine a light.”

Before them, New Melbourne was a graceful blue crescent, filling the lower half of the cockpit viewports as the spritely pillot angled China Doll for entry. Soon, the first buffeting of atmo friction could be felt through the deck. Stray wisps of glowing orange flame began to dance over the viewports. The Firefly jinked and reared with each thickening pocket of air she struck on her way down, each deviation brought solidly under control by Penelope’s hand.

When they struck a particularly rough patch, the mechanic steadied herself on a handrail. Even from this altitude, she could pick out craggy lines of thunderheads, the blackening of their bases lit with flashes of lightning. “Storms...supercells,” she thought as their fiery descent threatened to opaque the view. Their course would take them right into the violent weather. “And that,” she thought, “is the best stroke of luck I’ve had on this entire odyssey.”

There was still a very distinct possibility that she’d be walked off this boat in cuffs and leg irons. But that was always the risk. Denying the Alliance its’ latest atrocity? That was an outcome worthy of staring down one of their firing squads.

As the Doll struggled against Penelope’s hand, Cal made his entrance onto the bridge. No matter how many times he watched the world appear beneath the Doll’s nodding jaw, it always gave him that feeling of butterflies. Up here, in the black, the feeling of safety met the cold of space where no man could take the sky from you. On the ground, all manner of men fixed to assert their will. With a nod to the mechanic, he reached up for a leather hand strap that hung from the ceiling. “How W’rin Bu Lai, Whai W’rin Bu Jwo,” he remarked, watching their steady approach on those roiling gray domes (good luck don’t come, bad luck don’t leave).

Though the pilot had been skilent as she concentrated on the reentry, seeing those storm-clouds she was steering the China Doll directly towards had her all but radiating the thrill welling up deep in her bones. Penelope was all for plunging right in, but she would take directive from the captain now that he was there. Keeping her hold steady on the controls as the weight of the bay was countered with the pitch of the rolling clouds, voice in check as well not to reveal just how excited she actually was, she asked: “Cap’n? I can steer her up and over, sail around the long way, or plunge down low but take the poundin’ of the storm. Which are we hankerin’ for?”

Cal looked to Baker, “Ain’t no time; take ‘er in and through. Quicker we can get to those coords the better. ‘Slong as we don’t end up in the ocean, I’m givin’ out gold stars.” The Captain watched his pilot angle toward the eye of the storm. The look in her eye hinted at joy--the way the corners of her mouth rose at his response. She seemed to be right at home; and ‘right as rain’ to meet the storm head-on. He could tell now, from her posture, that this was the part that kept her sharp. Normally, he’d find her with a leg tucked beneath her, pitched forward to pour over the controls and screens, but now, both her feet were planted, her hands wrapped--but not white-knuckled--around the yoke as she tipped the Doll’s nose toward the sea.

At the captain's orders, Penelope pushed her hold on the control wheel forward. Not the plunge she wanted, but storm surfing wasn't meant for these sorts of boats. They could handle it, with some wear and tear, but that was where Penelope drew the line. She meant when she said she liked to keep the girls under her control pretty, if it could be helped.

As the altitude indicator shifted with them, the roll of the storm fighting back as she pushed through, a bit of that sheer thrill slipped in her tone as she said: "Hold onto yer hats, ladies and gents, this is one wild wind we are riding through."

Baker’s hold on the handgrip was given a vigorous test as China Doll pierced the storm. From her position behind the pilot, she kept watch over Pen’s shoulder. The myriad of dials and gauges told their tale of a boat that so far had mastery of her surroundings. Witnessing a gifted pilot playing throttles and atmo engine rotations as Pen did with such fluid grace was actually kind of marvelous. Fireflies were forgiving boats; they had a reputation for performing, even under ham handed maintenance and ‘pud knocker’ flyboys who were all jacket and no wings. She’d endured more than one over her life. Now, watching the intuitive dance between China Doll and Penelope amid the dramatic backdrop, the mechanic was more than a little enthralled.

“Coming up on the waypoint,” she said aloud, more from an ache to participate in this moment than any logical duty.

“Let’s do what we came to do and be on our way.” Cal aimed a knowing nod at Ms. Baker, “Don’t plan to tary, dohn mah? Oughtn’t take long. Keep us below radar, just in case the neighbors are nosy,” he added to Penelope. Strand took the captain’s chair and flipped the hydraulic clasps on the bulkhead panel for the cargo gate to be lowered at the mechanic’s hands. Turning back to Baker he added, “Be careful, now,” holding her gaze for a moment.

As enthralled as the pilot was with the riding of storm waves above the actual pitching ones below rolled along, Penelope's eyes were ever alert to the sensors. The deluge of rain obscuring the viewports made it impossible to see there, but that wasn't what got her curious.

Baker met his eyes with a mixture of understanding and gratitude. “Yes, sir,” the mechanic answered. “We’ll be quick about it.” Without further adieu, she made an abrupt turn and hurried through the cockpit hatch.

"I ain't seein' nothin' that qualifies as neighbors, Cap'n." Penelope said as Cal took his seat.
Though her eyes were locked on the controls, Penelope continued with the dismissal of Baker. "'Less it's the tosslin' sea critters. Think they got bigger concerns right now. What about us, Cap'n? Any concerns I need to be made awares, doing a dead drop in the middle of an ocean as we are…"

Captain Strand replied to Penelope as Baker quit the bridge, “Just keep us steady,” he said, watching the storm cascade around them, “come hell or high water.”

Hazel eyes flickered over to the captain, knowing full well she hadn’t gotten an answer, but Penelope would save that for later. Right now, the China Doll was riding all the waves, and needed her help from pitchin’ or being swept off. “We got the high water, that’s for truth.”

Baker reached the foot of the cockpit stairs when a harsh gust heeled the boat, tilting the corridor as she grabbed at a quarters hatch for balance.. She could feel the pilot correcting, swinging the ungainly nose into the hurricane wind...a smart move when it came to stabilizing her trim, but… La shi..we’re gonna need help,” she thought before heading aft.

The galley was empty; apparently the other deckhand, Hook, was busy with an errand.The adjoining passenger lounge was also sparse, save three passengers who’d strapped into the chairs. The two ‘horn-dogs’...her Feds, were both limp in their chairs, slack jaws emitting drool and near biblical snores as the boat rocked ‘em like babes. “I should tell the doc her sleeping pills work like a champ,” the mechanic smirked as he eyes met those of the third.

She’d only met the young woman in brief passes-by, with little more than a quick smile and conversation that didn’t exceed the smallest of small talk. Abby had supplied a name...Cyd, before spelling it out to clarify the difference. Now, Cyd was ensconced in a chair, earbuds inserted to doubtless combat the rude symphony of her fellow passengers. “Hi,” she said, removing her hood as she approached. “We’ve got a job in the cargo bay, and could use an extra pair of hands. Can you help us out for a few minutes?”

Cyd had collapsed into one of the chairs in the lounge. The buffering windstorm combined with the fast beat of some Techno - the only thing missing were laser lights and it would have been the perfect rave - at first. Heading back to their room proved challenging, so a brief respite was in order. Movement caught her eye, and she pulled out her earbud,“Ek?” She asked, pointing to herself. With her crop top hoodie and biker shorts, she was an unlikely ask in her own opinion, but curiosity did get the best of her at times, and ubuntu. “Sekerlek, Sure thing. Is it heavy? I have two sibs?”

The woman shook her head. “Not bad...and we’re short on time. Got one of the deckhands, Abby, waitin’ for us.”

“Is everything okay?” She asked warily. “With the ship?”

“It’s all shiny,” Baker nodded as she led the passenger forward. “Pretty decent storm outside, which is why the captain’s in a hurry to get us moving again.” They went through the forward hatch, turning inside the airlock access to the cargo bay entrance.

They emerged on the upper catwalk. Abby was on the deck below, wielding screw guns like one of the pistoleros in the book her uncle Bob give her. “Ready,” she glanced between Ms. Baker and the green haired girl who obviously come to help.

“Ku,” Baker nodded as she took the aft stairway. “Cyd, we’re opening my crates. Gotta make a deposit.”

“Now?” Cyd asked, holding the railing as wind buffered the ship. “Won’t stuff gebreek? … Get Broke?”

The mechanic smiled. “That’s the plan. Abby, let’s do this.”

At Baker’s order, Abby set tah tha hydraulics. She flipped a couple switches, held tha safety, an’ mashed tha ‘activate’ button. A two meter square of deck dropped slightly, then separated, sliding inward to reveal the howling storm beneath them. Abby glanced down. “Gorram, can’t make out the water a’tall fer the weather.” She offered one of the screw guns to Cyd. “Ms. Baker tells me it’s them four screws...two yer side, an two on mine...makes the whole enchilada come tah pieces. Ready?”

“Ja Nee,” Cyd said, awkwardly holding the screw gun, not fully understanding much beyond removing two screws. “You want to ditch the crates?” Her mind briefly went to the wheels, poor Isaac would be crushed! More importantly - why pay to bring crates if you were going to ditch them into the ocean like a colonial tea party on Earth that Was?

“Right again.” Baker steadied the crate as the younger women set to work. The howling wind below sent occasional tufts of spray and sea foam darting upward into the cargo bay. After a moment, the tools ceased their whining. Glancing from one to the other, Baker confirmed they’d finished, before heaving the rough hewn front wall. The entire panel swung upward, before she pitched it back, a motion which sent all of the wooden siding collapsing to the deck. The case hidden underneath was sleek, gleaming black, with a red orange shipping label affixed...a glaring advertisement for the Alliance.

“The Alliance?” Cyd asked with disbelief, holding up both hands. “They’re not gonna take kind to that, Oke, we’re not looking for Pers Maag trouble.”

Ms. Baker glanced toward Cyd. She was right, of course. What business did she have foisting her war upon someone whose future still glowed bright before her? Or Abby, for that matter? These two could move on, live lives, find that right person...without some nutcase witch woman dragging them into all manner of “Pers Maag” trouble. She didn’t know what that exactly meant, but she conjured the gist. “I’m wrong to ask you,” Baker replied. “You’re free to head back in...avoid any hangups.”

She undid the latches, swinging the lock hasps until they snapped loose. The lid swung upward, revealing contents that glittered like pale gold. Row upon row of microchips lay neatly tucked into the partitions of padded trays.

Cyd looked to Abby and who she surmised was Ms. Baker, arching an eyebrow. “Free passage to next stop for me and my sibs?” She asked. “That’d be worth the hangups!”

Baker tilted her head, delivering the classic “you’ve gotta be kidding me” expression. “I don’t get to make deals for this boat,” she turned toward the open case. “We gotta be quick. Abby,” the mechanic hefted a tray full of microchips, “Let’s feed the fish.” With more than a little satisfaction written on her face, the woman upended the tray, loosing a rain of the tiny devices into the violence of the storm beneath them.

“You have say, the Captain’s one up, right, Chana… Mate?” Cyd asked Abby, eyeing the microchips as she rocked on her toes. “Why transport, if you’re just going to ditch them?” The raver was getting antsy at the chips, which had to be worth more than she’d see in a lifetime, being cast off.

Baker pitched one tray after another, freeing hundreds of the tiny chips with each upending. “It’s called Plan B, hon,” she quickly replied as another tray was lifted.

Abby watched the scene, all them feelings she’d held from the first meetin’ with them three jest gettin’ cemented-like. She seen Ms. Baker...had a trust growin’...knew ‘bout how quick this had tah run tah git ‘em movin’ out tha storm. Pair mcouldn’t be more opposite. “Oh, fer fuck’s sake,” she cursed, “fifty percent fares an’ y’each git a room….this next run only,” she added.

“Done!” Cyd said, happy Isaac would have his own bed. Asking for the wheels could wait. She eyed the chips one more time. “Skande… shame, these look top of the line!”

“Only the finest for the great and powerful Alliance!” Baker spat her contempt as the last tray spilled into the tempest. “Done! Send it over!” With a shove delivered by Abby, the crate trundled over the edge, and was soon vanished from all sight. “Next one!”

Now a united team, the three women popped the straps from the second crate. The screw guns did their work, and in seconds this time, Baker was busily undoing the hasps. “We’ll be good to go in just a few,” she offered as the lid swung open.

“Lekker, Lekker,” Cyd replied, pulling her hoodie down further over her head to keep her hair from blowing. “Skande.”

The mechanic laughed as she pitched a tray into the storm. “They’re almost gone,” she thought as each sprinkle of gold felt one less weight upon her. “Liquor, liquor!” she chuckled over Cyd’s offbeat slang. “Once we’re on the ground I’ll take you both…”

“Stop right there!” A man’s voice bellowed above the roar of the wind. All three whirled about to see a solitary figure standing in the aft hatchway.

“Cap’n MacReady?” Abby was dumbstruck. Her space sick passenger din’t show no signs ‘o’ the green apple quickstep now.

“All three of you!” he roared. “Put your hands in the air!” The pistol in his hand was Alliance issue, flat black carbon steel with a muzzle that seemed to widen as he swept it over the three women. The lethal tool came to rest, its’ maw pointing squarely upon Ms. Baker.
Marisol Chavez, you are bound by law!”

“Who?”

............................to be continued...............................

Collaboration Credits: @aalakrys, @MK Blitzen, @Yule, @Winters, @Gunther, @wanderingwolf, @sail3695

"Marisol Chavez, you are bound by law!"

The woman stepped forward, hands outstretched from her sides. “Stay clear of me,” she whispered to Cyd and Abby before addressing the gun wielding Fed. “I’m Marisol Chavez. You’re bound by law to tell me the charges...”

“Think I’m playing here?” the marshal demanded. “I said ‘hands UP!” He punctuated his command with a single overhead shot. The bullet made a hollow ring as it ricocheted once, twice, then embedded into an insulator panel.

Cyd ducked on instinct, bringing her hands to either side of their ears, scanning for cover.

Abby flinched too, eyes sweepin’ about as if she’s tryin’ tah follow tha bullet’s flight..

At the bridge Cal reclined in the Captain’s chair, a foot on the dash as the readings whirred in time to the gentle hand of his pilot, Penelope. What promised to be a quick drop to the soggy depths was turning out to be a struggle against the storm that raged on New Melbourne’s surface. Under Penelope’s hand the Doll eased into each gust, correcting milliseconds after the gale. The rocking was all sorts of calming until Cal heard the peel of a gun shot within the bowels of the China Doll. With brows arched, his feet hit the deck, “What was that?” Penelope’s furtive glance marked her own distress.

"Sam, can ya give us a listen to Cargo?" Penelope asked without taking her eyes off the readings. She was flying blind on the viewports, but this wasn't a time they were helpful noways with the sheets of rain coverin' 'em and all. The whirring slowed as Sam said: "I believe so. It will take approximately one minute."

‘What the hell was that?’ Hook thought hearing the single gunshot ring out from the cargo bay. He instinctively unholstered his Ruger RedHawk keeping the handgun low by his side as he slowly crept out onto the walkways below the galley. He put himself into a position where he could listen to the conversation developing below him.

The crack of the gunshot was enough to cut through Isaac's pleasant post-snack nap. He groggily opened his eyes and looked about, finding the taller creep nuzzled against his shoulder. A sizable drool stain grew on his sleeve. "Mukhai could sleep through an earthquake" he mumbled as he shoved the jerk away from him. The seriousness of the situation quickly dawned on him as he saw his brother running out the door towards the cargo bay and Cyd nowhere to be found. He fumbled with his seatbelt and freed himself, grabbing the skateboard he had stowed next to his chair due to the expected turbulence. He tucked it under his arm and quickly trotted off trying to catch up with Mathias.

Marisol threw her hands into the air. “Alright, alright!, she shouted, moving slowly around to the crate’s side. “You got me. Leave these two be and I’ll go quietly.”

The Fed formerly known as the space sick Captain MacReady laughed. “Not a soul on this boat gonna walk...specially them two. From what I’ve seen, they both got aidin’ and abettin’ charges….FREEZE!” he roared as the woman kicked backwards, sending the second crate and its’ remaining contents plunging into the gale.

Marisol sprung forward, rolling over the deck as he fired a second shot. This one struck the floor grate, careening past her ear with a high pitched yowl as she scrambled for the shelter of the third masked Alliance crate.

"I have enabled one-way feed from the Cargo Hold. Would you like for me to play it now?" Sam reported.

"Yes, please!" There may have been urgency in the typically breezy tone of the pilot. It crackled to life just as the second shot sounded, making it echo loudly through the deck.

Just like gliding, Penelope mentally told herself to stay focused as the pitching of the storm pounded the Doll all around took all of it. Nevermind the added stress of gunfire. That second shot had her catch her captain bolting up, steadying himself as he strode towards the hall. So, that wasn't part of the plan… despite being in the dark on a potentially-turned-definitely dangerous side quest 'fore landing, Pen called over her shoulder. "Careful out there - Cap'n. Storm ain't gonna promise straight shots with the Doll dancin' like she is."

Cal was out through the galley in moments, his hat left on the console beside Penelope. He’d strapped his pistol just in case this shindig turned the wrong sort of exciting. Pulling the iron, Strand made his way down the stairs to the medbay lounge to get eyes on what was going on below. The second shot brought him out into the cargo bay proper, seeing the whole situation.

Hook heard the second shot ring out as he attempted to creep quietly down the steps. He could see the bearded man holding the pistol who had discharged two rounds towards people he knew. People who were now part of this crew, his family. His protective instincts were kicking in and so wanted to remove this intruder from the ship.

Mathias who had jetted off at the first resonating shot in a full panic. The headcount was off and he was already imagining the worst, as older brothers tended to do. He skidded to a haltl at the entrance of the cargo seeing the situation. Seeing Cyd not crumpled in a pool of her own blood brought instant relief and then some jackass waving his gun around sent him into a new wave of panic as he scrambled for something, ANYTHING!

Grasping a flimsy looking pipe as MacReady fired another shot the red head elder brother swung for the fences. And by fences, it was the back of Macready's head.

There was a loud thung sending MacReady reeling, the pipe bending a bit out of shape.

From nowhere came a blow, struck with such force as to send MacReady staggering forward. He whirled, his motions drunken and awkward as an unsteady pistol came to bear on Mathias. “STAND DOWN, BOY!” he bellowed, a mild slur to his voice. “I will put you down….AND YOU TOO! Captain Shtrand. I’m a certified marshal with a...with a..” he reached toward the warm trickle down his neck...Alliance clearance! That womansh my prisoner! I’m authorized to take ANYBODY!” His glare landed once more on his young attacker. “ANYBODY WHAT INTERFERES!”

Get down Marisol threw an urgent gesture toward Cyd and Abby. “I don’t want anybody hurt!” she shouted from behind the crate.

“Don’t much care!” the Fed barked, swinging his gun back toward his primary quarry “My orders say ‘Dead or Alive.’ You been one gorram burr in my saddle bein’ alive. Might’s well try t’other!”

Cyd stood up, panicked at the sight of some skebenga pointing a gun at her sib, and dashed forward to a closer crate. She let out a shrill whistle to catch his attention.

The man had clearly been knocked moon brained. A high pitched whistle turned his head. The gun wavered...til it firmed up again. “Back off, son,” he ordered. “Been trackin’ this’un.. and them crates...ever since she’n her browncoat terr’ists stole ‘em.” He landed a fevered eye upon Cal. “You surely screwed this...screwed….this pooch, Captain.” He wobbled a moment, his unsteady finger touching the trigger. “Conjured you’s smart,” the slur was on the upswing. “Well, mebbe you were...but you weren’t fast! MacReady’s face split into a wicked grin. What’s in that one crate right there gon’ put you and your whole crew away for life!”

Hook crept ever downward toward the events happening below. He saw the man threatening the young passenger he met on the first day of their trip. His pistol was leveled in the direction of the intruder. He was ready to shoot, but needed a clear line of fire.

Isaac heard the second shot as he came running into the cargo bay from behind his brother. It was quite a packed house. "Jo! What's going-" As he came up beside Mathias, he was now able to see the gun pointed at the middle of his sib's chest. "DUDE!" he shouted disapprovingly at the gunman, "Not cool!!" he scolded as he threw up his hands in surrender, his skateboard clutched tight in one of them.

“Marshal.” Marisol had risen from her shelter. She stepped into the open, arms raised, hands tucked behind her head. “No need for any more shootin’. I’m right here,” the independent offered as the storm howled through the open bomb bay at her heels. “C’mon, now. “

“Oh, I conjure you got iron,” MacReady now supported his gun with both hands, the shooter’s stance righting him. “But ya ain’t gon’ use it. I turn for you an’ these two scrubs get me in a rush? Nah,” he chuckled. “Now you might get a shot off...you might hit me. But close as I am to these boys? Think on it...gen’ral.”

Marisol’s eyes met Cal’s. She held a pistol tucked behind her head, but she wouldn’t shoot. MacReady was right about that, and just altered enough by that head wound of his to make every second he held a gun one more chance to roll ‘snake eyes’ on one of Cyd’s brothers. Cal had a shot, but he wouldn’t take it. She was right in his field of fire. Her eyes widened a moment, followed by a nod and a tilt of her head. She lifted her eyebrows, hoping the message had gone through.

Cal locked eyes with the Fed who’d brought his pistol to bear on a lanky boy with a bloodied pipe in hand. “Hold on, partner; wouldn’t be right to have a party without inviting the whole gang.” Strand took a calculated step between the two siblings and MacReady’s sweeping barrel. While his own pistol drew a bead on the man’s center mass, he offered his own retaliatory response, “Come now, ain’t no need for bloodshed or iron” his eye flicked between Marisol and MacReady as his back foot settled into position.

“ENOUGH!” MacReady gave an irritable shake of his head. “Chavez! Git out here in fronta me before I start pronouncin’ sentence!”

Over MacReady’s shoulder, she could see the captain, his gaze hard and steady. “Cal,” Marisol said, “Remember what I told you about the Alliance’s Plan B?”

“I remember,” he echoed.

“Plan A was Miranda.” With a backward step and a mild push, Marisol Chavez leapt through the open bomb bay.

”Shénme shì yǒngyuǎn de fú...” Abby’s on her feet, her jaw hung all shocked open.

“Hook now!” Cal called, before raising his own iron in anger.

Hook was back in the valley. All he knew was this purple belly was threatening his family. He had to do something NOW! The opportunity presented itself. He had a clear line of sight. He lined up a shot to the top of his head and slowly squeezed the trigger, “BLAM!”

Somewhere in the back of his concussed brainpan, Marshal MacReady conjured he’d put himself in a right bad fix. Threatenin’ them boys was the last card in his hand. His Jack was played. He didn’t count on the captain holdin’ two Aces, or just how fast the man was at drawin’ the first.

Before he could think, the first round struck him in the chest, spinning him left as more hot lead set him pitchin’ about. He got off one final shot...and everything just stopped. No white light, no angels or horned folk from the hot place. Just nothing.

Mathias jumped damn near scaring the red out of his hair. Which was quickly replaced by the faceful of blood, brain, chucks of hair and bone. He stood more shocked at the spray of viscera than anything and MacReady slumped and fell to the ground. Mathais blinked, still in shock. “Maaifoedie!” He shouted.

The first time you see a person's head explode right is certainly something you never forget. Isaac certainly wouldn't. He was speechless as he tried to comprehend what just happened. He tried to mutter the words "O kak" but only got to "O" before the words were rudely interrupted with a stream of vomit. He leaned against his brother's shoulder as the remains of that pleasant afternoon snack spilled out onto the cargo bay floor. "I'm sorry, bruv" he said between coughs and gagging as he made an observation, "I got some on your shoes."

Hook watched the man convulse as several bullets entered his body, including the .44 caliber slug that penetrated the top of his skull. It was a bloody mess; watching the corpse as if in slow motion slump to the floor. “Mebee ye shood drop him into the sea too?”

The current ruckus had her flying to and fro. On occasions, storms were quite relentless, and combined with the seldom surge of hardheadedness fogging her judgement here and there to get something done, the results were oftentimes...amusing. Alana let out a hushed curse under her breath, despite being by her lonesome self in the infirmary. She supposed it to be habit, not wanting her professionalism to falter any in front of a body or two, but she found her actions worthy of a chuckle nonetheless.

Some of the equipment had fallen to the deck—none that required any fixing later on—and that was the reason as to why the medic wasn't properly strapped down and secured, so to speak. Of course, this latest hiccup in flight had her rush some. She felt a headache coming on, and despite her workplace currently holding the status akin to that of a playroom with kids who'd strewn just about everything they could get their sticky little hands on, she figured she'd save the clean-up for later. Just her luck that the latch on the overhead storage had given out...

Alana took careful steps towards her seat, and some time passed after that point as her mind grew distracted and her body went on autopilot. However, the shot that unexpectedly went off somewhere outside the supposed safety of the infirmary drew her back to the now, and her eyes widened. The images all came flooding back to that cursed evening at supper time back home. She hadn't had time to react, not when her parents were shot dead without so much as the chance for a plea to leave their lips. The blood splatter, the rather brief surprised expression from her mother a split second before her life too was taken from her, more blood spatter... That alone was the sole cause of many sleepless nights to come for Alana. Yet the one thing that always sent her spiraling was the extreme guilt when she thought back to her brother contemplating ending her life, followed by her wishing he had simply gotten the courage to pull the trigger. It wasn't so much that she had bouts of depression or the likes prior to the incident, but having to deal with the aftermath of the double homicide / suicide was something she simply wasn't equipped to handle.

But in that moment, Alana shook it all off. She stood and did her best to maneuver her way to the door without being tossed about like a rag doll. One could say her actions were slightly foolish given the potential danger opposite her, but it didn’t phase her any. She stuck her head out and heard some commotion quite aways, deciding then to further investigate as it seemed to be coming from the cargo bay.

A second shot, her heart just about threatening to burst from her chest but nonetheless she remained concentrated on not losing her balance. An eternity mighta gone by but she finally made it to her destination, the scene before her freezing her in place.

“W-What happened?"

JP/Collab by the ENTIRE CAST!

@Aalakrys , @Winters , @Xandrya , @MK Blitzen , @Gunther , @Yule , @Psych0pomp . @wanderingwolf , and @sail3695

“Mebee ye shood drop him into the sea too?”

“Maji! Fok ya tinks?!” Mathias said, his voice high and strained to … everyone.

Cyd dashed to her two brothers, not minding Isaac’s’ vomit, quickly patting Mathias down, knitting a string of swears like a sweater. The gore on his white shirt wasn’t his own. Her fear that the bullet went right through the man and struck her brother subsided.

No doubt about it, the Fed was porous as a sponge. Stepping up to the man’s corpse, the Captain toed the slumped shoulder. Once nudged, he rolled over, his standard issue clattering to the deck at his side. “Ugly,” the captain remarked of the grisly scene. “Coulda been uglier,” he muttered, glancing about in the first throes of a head count as the deckhand, Hook, strode up.

Hook was a bit shaken up by the ordeal. He really didn’t want to kill anyone. It felt necessary. He would never let anyone harm his family again. He holstered his pistol and walked the remaining steps down to the cargo bay deck. He looked around as people started to regain composure.

It appeared the task would be left to him. Hook walked over, picked up each of the dead man’s arms and pulled him over toward the opening in the deck. He waited for someone to grab the man’s legs to help get him the rest of the way.

“I got it,” Cal answered the silent question. He squatted, taking the corpse by it’s ankles to lift it from the deck. He didn’t have to offer guidance; this man Hook was all about the business as they marched the Fed over to the open bomb bay. One swing was all it took to set the homicidal marshal to rest in a deepwater grave. “The pistol, too,” he pointed toward the ownerless piece. “Don’t want forget-me-nots floatin’ about.”

He watched the gun spin lazily downward, til the hungry storm took it for its’ own. For a hair’s breadth the captain peeled his eyes below in hopes of catching a sign, a flash of orange bobbing on the storm tossed surface. But no. Unlike that dark day when Highgate fell and he damn near fell with her, the time for thrilling rescues was done. And he still had cleanup to do.

“C’mon,” he glanced toward Hook. “Let’s pop that crate. I got a powerful need to see what our friend said was gonna put us underneath the jailhouse.”

Joe Hooker helped the Captain unlock the latches and remove the cargo straps. Someone passed him the screw gun. He maneuvered it around the box to get it unlocked. The lid fell to the deck with a clatter revealing Badger’s property.

The last piece of Badger’s charter lay before them, it’s black poly surface casting the barest of gleams like a parasite determined to eat every last bit of light.

For a second, the captain didn’t want to lay hands upon it. Then, chiding himself for a fool, Cal Strand turned the hasps.

The lid swung upward, revealing to all a surreal army. Dozens of lucky cats glowed gold, their round little bellies emblazoned with red characters depicting good fortune and wise choices. Painted eyes gazed merrily upward, their welcome enhanced by plump arms waving their nubby paws in the air.

The captain stared into the bizarre cargo, his arms folded. “Huh,” he observed. “I’s expecting somethin’ a touch more...I dunno…” a hand rose to scratch his jaw..”incriminatin’?” Cal’s eye landed on Hook, who silently studied the multitude of little waving arms. “Let’s dump that crate,” he nudged the deckhand before turning away. Cal had taken two steps off, resuming the head count, before a fresh notion dawned. “But keep the cats.”

Hook smiled at the Captain, “what happened to not having any forget-me-nots floatin’ about?” The question remained unanswered. Hook was fine and willing to take one of the cats. This was quite humorous to Joseph Hooker.

”Can’t argue with that,” the captain thought over his own inconsistency. For a man of few words, Hook knew the ‘where’s and when’s’ of smokin’ out a possible slip. The cat empire waved its’ approval as one by one they were freed of their prison. Still, he mused, why would she haul ‘em about?

Made no sense. Fugitive Browncoat….general, if he heard that Fed right. On the dodge with a passel of stolen Alliance tech. He picked up a cat, his thumb subconsciously rubbing the belly for luck as he eyeballed it. Cal gave it a shake. Nothing. He opened the bottom plug, peering into a hollow cavity which held naught but the inner workings for the arm. “Nothin’,” he muttered. Then an idea took root. “Just a big old Qù nǐ de left behind for purple pursuers.”

For a moment, he almost wished they hadn’t sent that gun addled Fed to the hot place...just to see the look on his face when they opened it. But the sight of two boys standin’ unharmed after their ordeal sent that wish right out to the weather. Nice decoy, Cal thought as he returned the cat for herding. Three Skyes...Hook…

Isaac lazily wiped his mouth as he tried to regain his space legs. He looked to his sister, confused. "The heck was going on down here?" He asked her as he tried to assess the remains of the shit show that lay sprawling about the cargo bay when he realized what was missing. He sighed, dejected. "The bearings" he nodded with understanding, "you didn't have to-" as he waved his hand to the mess implying she didn't have to go through all this for them.

Mathias bopped Isaac on the head. “Wys Isaac! Jo, fok dintshang Cyd?!” Mathias said not sure if he should be relieved, angry or follow Isaac's que and upchuck as well.

“Eks!” Cyd stammered heatedly, apologizing while trying to process what happened. Her head was swimming. “Ek’s Jammer!”

Isaac let out a sigh of relief that Cyd was ok and threw an arm around his sister's neck giving her an affectionate squeeze as he bumped his forehead against her shoulder.

Cyd held Isaac tight, drawing Mathias into a group hug, which her older brother tersely accepted. His whole body was tensed as his eyes scanned the chaos of the ship. Hot tears streamed Cyd’s cheeks. Her brothers, her lifeblood - they were okay. She let out a slow breath and relaxed, as Mathias slipped off.

“All present or gone for a swim,” the captain realized as he completed the impromptu headcount, “cept for one.” He scanned the crates that remained as that “wrong” feeling crawled up the back of his neck. “Anybody seen my other deckhand?” he called, looking for Abigail. Once more he looked about, eyes landing on the bright hair of the passenger girl before a sound caught his ear. “Abigail!”

“Yeah?”

“Where you at?” Another sweep bore fruit in the form of her hand, raised up from behind that row of blue Seatronics crates. “Yuh hurt, kid?”

“I reckon..” Abby pulled herself up on an elbow tah see what’s goin’ on. Right leg weren’t workin’ none too good; try as she might, even little move give up a powerful sting. She cast eyes down til they come to rest on her jeans. They’s a a tear, an a stain of blood runnin’ gettin’ wide over her hip. “Well la shi,” she swore. “Cap’n? Looks like I’m shot...in tha pi gu.”

Rounding the boxes, Cal kneeled beside the deckhand, his hand landing in a pool of warm crimson. “You’re speakin’ true, kid,” he replied, holding up a hand made slick with blood. His headcount hadn’t turned up Rex...or the Doc. Cursing his luck, the captain called out to his unshot deckhand, “Hook! Hook! “Got get the doc...wait,” he caught sight of her rushing in through the aft hatch. “Gorram if you don’t know how to time an entrance!” he waved toward Alana. “Got a gunshot wound here.”

Noticing Cal waving her down, Alana hurried along to his side as she donned some gloves. He was holding Abby who appeared to be the injured party, him, not so much. She knelt down as she offered a quick greeting to the both of them and gently turned the girl to examine her wound. Sure enough, quite some blood had slowly gushed out, though now it was just a trickle. "I got it from here, Captain," Alana momentarily peeled her eyes away from Abby, her expression begging for an explanation as to why exactly their youngest crew member was bleedin' out on the cargo bay deck, but knowing that if such words were gonna be communicated, now wouldn't be the time.

Abby’s gaze traveled upward, all surprised and such. “Bastard shot me in tha pi gu. Hurts like all fire!”

He stifled a laugh, his brow creased over the injured child in his arms, “That it does; remind me to tell you about the time I took a bullet in the shoulder… Doc,” he turned his gaze. “You need help gettin’ her back to Medbay, you sing out. Abigail,” he met the girl’s eyes once more, “Doc’s gonna take good care of you. I gotta get us on the ground, and then I’ll be in to see you. That shiny by you?” When Abby responded with a ‘thumb’s up,” Cal rose to his feet. Time to bring this little misadventure to an end.

The out of place laughter snapped Mathias back from his daze. It took him a moment to take it in that the Captain was laughing at the kid who just got shot. ‘What a guaiwu.’ The sooner they got off of this death trap the better, ideally before anyone realized three passengers were now witness to a Fed getting shot.

Rememberin’ somebody else deserved a check, Cal strode to the intercom. “Penelope,” he keyed the mic.

Penelope looked to Sam, or the box that was Sam. Her hands were occupied. “Sam? Can ya playback what I say like a comm?” Once she got the affirmative, her recorded voice chimed in a beat later. “Still swayin’ with the storm, Cap’n.”

“We’re buttonin’ up right now,” he answered. “Give us two shakes and then take her on in. Prob’ly want to get up outta this weather an’ back on Pensacola’s radar, dohn mah? He caught sight of Rex hustling in, and waved the man over.

Rex clamoured in, breathing heavily and in an odd sort of disarray. His teal shirt was basically a crop top as he’d torn the bottom off to wrap around his palm. It was soaked in blood, with more trickling down his fingers. His other hand rested on the back of his head as he rubbed it, wincing every pat or two. He looked to be suffering from a nasty fight. Though considering the participants of the current situation in the hangar, it’d be hard to say with who. One foot had a sock on, parrots of varying hues against a velvet background, and the other was bare. He surveyed the scene with wide eyes and an odd scowl. “Come on, Cal. When I said this place needed a paint job, I didn’t mean like this. Red is not your color.”

“Always knows what to say…” Cal shook his head. “Care to tell me what the Sam Hill happened to you? Or is this one of those tales we hold til there’s whiskey?”

“When there’s more whiskey and less panic. The two don’t go well together. But I’m glad to see everyone is in one piece. Well, I mean except for,” he trailed off, motioning to the blood splatter and the drag marks. “And you’ll have to tell me what went on here. I heard some gunshots… and… fought some furniture. Sad I missed the party.” The inflection in his tone said that he was quite fine having missed this party.

“I conjure,” Abby said all dubious like to the doc, “that I ain’t buyin’ a bikini no time soon.” She could hear tape rippin’ an’ felt the doc’s hands, but she weren’t inclined tah look. Weren’t the sight of blood upset her cart...livin’ in the ‘verse with Blackjack Bob O’Halleran fer an uncle had shown her copious crimson. ‘Cept fer her own...that sight weren’t one tah treasure. Instead, she looked about, studyin’ the other folk. Hook held his tongue as he sent that last crate an’ tha fake tops through tha hole. Rex was here...wonder if now might be the time to offer up no more sass? Nah, she thought, afore her gaze found them three. Whatever she’d learned about ‘em an’ the way they’d played her didn’t matter much when she saw ‘em now...put off by what they’d seen, ‘shell shocked,’ Uncle Bob woulda called it. But more’n that, they’s together, takin’ care fer each other with eyes all free of tha grift. One thing’s fer sure, she thought of the Skyes, they got fam’ly all figgered out. Notion give a pang on her heart, afore the doc’s workin’ reminded her ‘bout tha pain in her….”Oww!” she complained, her eyes watering.

"Sorry love, gotta stop the blood flow, ya know?" She had retrieved some gauze from her cargo pocket to press against the wound. Painful, sure, but effective too.

Abby clinched her teeth. “Shiny. I’m partial tah keepin’ it where it belongs.”

"Up ya go." With Abby sitting upright, leaning to the side of course lest she wanted to worsen matters, as Alana had offered, the medic crouched and informed the deckhand to wrap her arm around her in order to get her to her feet. She placed her own around the other's torso and slowly pulled her up. No time wasted, the two set off to the infirmary.

The girl loosed a groan as the doc helped her along.. “My Uncle Bob tole me ‘bout gettin’ shot once. ‘Ain’t nothin,’ he tole me.” After a couple more pained steps toward the aft hatch, she give a shudder. “Uncle Bob lied,” Abby whispered. “This hurts like a sumbitch!”

“That you did,” Cal answered his First Mate. “Whiskey...later. For now, let’s get the passengers back in the lounge and the bomb bay all buttoned up. Penelope’s ‘bout to put the spurs to her.” Orders given, the captain turned toward the mic, before realizing he’d forgotten. “Rex!” he called out to the First Mate. “One more thing. For Chrissakes, get all them lucky cats secured!”

“I’m going to have to politely disagree with your statement, Captain.” Rex rarely became formal except when things were dire, but there was a smile on his face that announced no storm brewing in his words. “We need to call these cats ‘unlucky.’ Lucky would have been if platinum would have poured out that unfortunate fellow. But no… just blood and… bits.” His words trailed away as he moved further into the bay, shooing the lingering guestings and crewmates. He was about to tend to cleaning a mess that should have turned his stomach, but instead it just rolled over for a polite nap.

“All these crates,” he started to grumble to himself. “Going to have to doctor some logs.” He eyed the lucky cats. “Maybe one less cat than before? It would look nice on my mantle.”

Normal, if such was ever possible, was on the verge of showin’ her face. Cal keyed the mic. “It’s all yours, Penelope. Take us in.”

“Sure thing, Cap’n.” Penelope let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, probably gathered up somewhere in all that she heard going on down below as she remained transfixed with processing the readings and keeping the ship steady. Weren’t an easy thing to do, but she rather enjoyed the chaos from the flyin’ - not quite sure how she felt about all the rest. “Y’all’s movin’ ‘round down there, find somethin’ to help keep steady. I’ll let’cha know when we touch down.”

“I conjure I’ll know that when I got passengers in my grill demandin’ refunds,” he replied. “See you on the ground.”

In a moment, the bay was clear. Rex and Hook had taken care of business. Cal looked across the now quiet space. They had cargo, and passengers to drop. The thought of gunplay and one of his own now on the doc’s table would keep him at odds with his own conscience for many a sleepless night to come. Times like these were the stuff of the ‘verse and the life he’d chosen. But as he collected a mop and bucket, Cal Strand thought on that choice. “Can’t always be tea and biscuits,” he conjured. “Next run’ll go a might smoother.”

A rueful smile crossed his face as the mop sloshed up the blood. “Oldest con in the ‘verse.”

************************Fade to Black******************************

Cue theme music

Roll credits

Welcome to New Melbourne!

China Doll just set down in Pensacola, home of a whole dearth of fishin’ fleets. King Tuna season’s just about to commence, so those fleets and every charter boat on the coast are gearin’ up to head out.

We dropped our passengers. Them horn-dogs was plenty groggy, but they’re gonna make their boat. All the fishin’ crew folk hightailed it to join the refits all along the docks. Two passengers missin’...but Rex has a way with the logs. Ever’thing’ll look just fine if anybody comes sniffin’.

The Skyes are skyin’ out. Cyd got ‘em somethin’ workin’, but wouldn’t be right to go askin’ their business.

Mathias an’ Isaac got some on ‘em...but Abby got some in her. She’s wearin’ a bullet in the medbay, under the doc’s care.

Pen an’ Sam are flippin' switches an’ puttin’ China Doll on shore power. Word is we’re gonna be here a spell. Cap’n might have a deal sproutin’.

Since we’re down a deckhand, Hook’s pullin’ double duty, with a little help from Rex and the Cap’n. Cargo’s comin’ off, and it looks like the Cap’n missed a puddle of puke when he set to moppin’. Gorram amateurs…

Speakin’ of...Cal’s set on tryin’ his hand offshore fishin’ with Hook. Seein’s the sweet deal he worked involves a whole boatload of tuna ain’t been caught yet, they got a good chance to go haul in somethin’ for the galley.

Pensacola’s a fishing town done growed up. Lotsa docks an’ fishin’ boat crews, all kindsa boatwork shops an’ suppliers just crazy busy right now. Seagoin’ town like this has it’s diversions for sailors, an’ right now the saloons, gamblin’ parlors, an’ brothels are runnin’ 24/7.

Turns out some folk find this sorta setting all romantic like, so they’s plenty ‘o’ hotels, gift shops, an’ nice places what offer more respectable environs. Them as so inclined can even take tours what point out hauntin’s, murder sites, pirates, an’ all make of nefarious activity in the town’s history.

Crew got paid. Not so much coin as we’d like, but ain’t no one alive ever got rich on Badger's dole. So hit the town! Try not to end up in the greybar hotel, dohn mah?

China Doll rested in her berth, heat from her atmo engines casting a shimmer in the air above as they cooled off. The moment she settled upon her struts, she was visited by the longshoremen, beefy types who wasted no time in coupling the Firefly to the berth’s connections of power, two types of water, and waste outflow. After getting the green light from the boat’s crew, they hopped into their cart and rushed away to tend the next inbound vessel.

On their way, they sped past a slower moving lorry. The old truck lumbered its’ way among the docked spacecraft, weathered boards of its’ stakeside bed trembling with each bump in the coquina paved road. The dark green of the cab was interrupted by a rusting sign that clung to the driver’s door on two remaining rivets.


COMPLETE MARINE SUPPLY
”Before she sinks, come see Jinks!”

“You’re takin’ all this mighty well,” Jerome offered from the passenger seat. “I’d be pitchin’ a walleyed fit over bein’ left on the dock.”

Tom offered a noncommittal shrug as he steered past a knot of drunken spacers. “I’m the youngest,” he shook his head. “Simple math, Jer. All three olders get first rights to crew berths. They all take ‘em,” he tossed a sidelong glance toward his friend and coworker, “means I gotta stay ashore and help mom with the shop.”

Jerome wouldn’t be put off. “But Trish?” he demanded. “Never worked a run in her life! What business she got…”

“She’s firstborn,” Tom interrupted. “She wants to go. Dad signed off. Nothin’ more to it. Trust me...I’m not bitchin’. Spending the next six weeks on the nine-to-five suits me just fine. You and I get plenty of practice. I get quality time with my girl…”

Jerome snorted. “Your girl. After the show you put on out at Deepwater Jetty, you’re still sticking with that old wreck? And what the hell kinda name is “Day Tripper,” anyway?”

“I like it,” Tom chuckled. “Old song from Earth-That-Was. I’ll teach it to you next time we practice. Got a great bass line…”

“Won’t be another practice if “your girl” has anything to say about it. You’re just lucky she didn’t break apart in those waters.”

Tom steered them toward a Firefly that looked the part. “All about the balance,” he said easily. “A little too much sail, and not enough centerboard weight. Lurvy fixed me up. New board’s 500 pounds. Should let me fly the genoa in twenty, twenty-five knots….”

“You conjure I don’t get a bit of that, right?”

“Okay, I’ll help you out. The pointy end is called the bow...”

”Gǔndàn!” Jerome cuffed his friend.

Laughing as he lifted an arm in mock defense, Tom chortled, “Just shut up an’ give me the clipboard, jackass! C’mon, straighten up. This is it.” He swung the lorry out, nose pointing away from the China Doll. With a grinding of gears and the protesting whine of reversal, the truck backed up to the open ramp.

Armed with the clipboard, the youngest member of the Jinks family jumped down from the cab. He proceeded up the cargo ramp. “Hello?” he called into the dim shadow of the boat’s void. “Thomas Jinks...here to pick up crates from Seatronics,” he studied the document on his clipboard. “I’m supposed to see Abby Travis?”

They’d supplied him with a photo. Tom had committed the girl’s face to memory, but it didn’t matter. Don’t see any girl, let alone that one.

<Open Tag>

_{Collaboration with @sail3695}

The ramp had been lowered to allow for the offloading of personnel and equipment when necessary. Hook sat on a crate smoking a cigar earlier in the day, but returned to the interior of the China Doll to use the head. He didn’t throw the wrapped tobacco away, he merely snuffed it out, so as to not leave a cloud of smoke in the cargo bay area.

When he returned to the cargo bay, he planned to light the cigar back up, but found two men who allowed themselves to step into the Doll, “Thomas Jinks...here to pick up crates from Seatronics,” one of the men looked down at a clipboard. “I’m supposed to see Abby Travis?”

Joe Hooker hit the bottom steps and approached, “Hey there, gentlemen, Ima Joe Hooker. Miss Travis is indisposed right now. Mebee I ken hep you?”

“Mr. Hooker,” the young man offered his hand. “Welcome to New Melbourne. I got a lotta customers waitin’ on those crates right over there,” he pointed toward the distinctive blue of the Seatronics cargo. “Here’s what they sent us from Persephone,” he said as the clipboard exchanged hands.

Joe eyeballed the two young men, sized them up in case they started anything. It was something he had grown accustomed to, unsure about someone, you never knew where a relationship would take you. He always wanted to be ready for anything.

Joe walked over to the side of the bay, a desk of sorts where some papers were maintained. He found the manifest complete with a bill of lading on the Seatroncs crates. Joe pulled them out and looked the papers over. He compared that with the papers on the clipboard, the boy named Tom Jinks handed him. “Could yous boys tell me your names?”

Tom stepped forward. “I’m Thomas Jinks. Clevis Jinks is my dad...you might have his name,” he offered. “He’s preppin’ our boat for the season start in a couple days. Sent me by to pick everything up. I got Ident,” the youngest Jinks fished in his pocket, “if you need.”

“Sho. Let me look,” Joe requested of the young man. “I do see Clevis on this here manifest.”

The young man nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Dad runs the business…”

“...when he’s not out catchin’ his own haul,” Jerome quipped.

“Why he had four kids,” Tom chuckled. “Somebody’s gotta run the register….sorry,” he said to the deckhand. We good to load?”

“Yes suh,” Joe responded. “Jes sign this here,” Joe pointed to a line at the bottom of the shipping papers. “Fo’ our records.”

Tom accepted the clipboard and the offered pen. “Sure thing.” As he laid his signature and the date down, he offered, “hope you guys have a layover planned. This town lives for King Tuna season. There’s tons goin’ on...both on and off the water.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Joe smiled. “I do like me some fishin’. I may go out at some time while we’s here on New Melbourne. Ahm thinkin’ a doin’ some lake fishin’ tho. You all charter lake fishin’? Or jus the open sea?”

“I know some guys who run the lakes just north of town,” Jinks replied. “They’ll give you the choice of a boat charter with a guide who knows the good spots, or they’ll turn you loose with a skiff and fresh water tackle.” He pulled a business card, and set to scribbling information onto its’ back. “This guy...Aldrich? He’s sorta nuts, but if his charters can stand him they come home with plenty of fish.”

Jerome had gone back to the lorry. He returned, wheeling a pair of hand trucks. As the two men talked, he slipped the first crate onto his dolly and moved toward the company truck.

Joe, always aware of his surroundings, allowed a side glance at the young man wheeling the crates onto his vehicle. He didn’t want him taking one too many crates. He looked at the young man offering the card. “Thanks, Tom. I will look up...Aldrich then.” He looked at the card for a bit as if he could glean more information than what was printed upon it. “Does he rent fishin’ equipment too?”

“Wouldn’t know,” the younger man shook his head. “Tell you what, though. If you’re lookin’ to fish off a bridge or a pier, we got some small salt rigs that’ll work fine in fresh. Come on by an’ have a look. We’re on the foot of Palafox street, right at the docks.” He smiled. “I’ll cutcha a break on a couple rods for you an’ anybody else goin’ with you.”

“Sounds good, Tom,” Joe smiled at the young man. “You can call me Hook. That’s my nickname.”

“Nickname like that,” Tom chuckled, “gotta mean good luck with a fishin’ rod.”

Hook laughed at that comment.

“You should ask Tom his nickname!” Jerome volunteered as he scooped up another blue crate.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Jinks grinned, “but I do know whose name is on your paycheck!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Not yours!” came the reply.

“Guess that means I should show that guy I actually can do a little work,” he quipped.

“No worries, Tom,” Joe responded to the young man. “You and your friend, have a good day.”

With both hand trucks working, the two young men quickly had all of their cargo loaded. Soon, the loading tools joined the crates in the back as Tom and Jerome slipped the stakesides back into place. “We’re open at seven in the mornin’!’ Tom called out as he turned toward the cab. “See ya soon, HooK!”

“Take care, boys!” Joe Hooker waved as the two men drove away.

The truck pulled out, wheels cutting hard as it began the trip back to the Outfitters. ‘That Hook,” Jerome observed. “Nice guy. Gonna take care of him?”

“Sure,” Tom passed a nod. “We got the right rig for what he wants.”

“You’re sorta quiet all of a sudden.”

“Oh, nothin’,” he shrugged. “Just thinkin’ about what I have to do next.”

She hadn’t shown up. He hadn’t seen her. Guess I’m watching the docks for a day or two, Tom thought to himself.

OOC: JP between @Winters, @MK Blitzen and @Yule





Mathias stared at the sink as the steam front he water fogged the little mirror in the bathroom he had escaped to in order to clean up. He splashed his face working to erase the evidence of the violent events that took place in the cargo bay.

His hair ended up being next and soon after he realized his shirt had not been spared either. He switched out and cleaned up the remains with a grim frown. Then silently wiped up any stray speck of red that escaped around the sink and looked back in the mirror.

Fresh and clean.

Like it never even happened. Mathias convinced himself, his knuckled white as he gripped the edges of the sink. He wasn’t a guy who really drank, at all, but if there was a time to get shit face today was it! Gathering his things up he slid open the door, fully intending to go to his room and hide from the insanity bubbling from all the nooks and crannies on this cursed ship.

Cyd turned the music up louder. Make it louder, until everything melts away. Turn your brain off. She’d have downed a red devil if they didn’t have ruttin’ work to get to. She turned it up one more notch before sitting down on the edge of her bed. Out of the three of them, she was the only one dressed and ready, white button down, black skirt just long enough for her fingertips to graze the hem when they hung at her side. ‘Regulation.’ Too long for her liking. They still had to pick up a shirt for Isaac, two now that Mathias’ was ruined for sure. She bumped the music up one more notch. Not like anyone on the ship would be sleeping that time of day- well, as far as she knew, anyway. Truth be told it was four days. Did they really know anyone on the ship?

Isaac sat on the floor, his board clenched tightly between his thighs for stability as he applied firm steady pressure to the wrench until the nut on the first wheel gave way. That's how you don't strip it. he thought as he buried himself into the task at hand. He felt kinda shitty that he didn't have something comforting to say to his brother. What the hell do you say?? "Sorry you got some dude's brains on your shirt"?? It seemed like nothing he could think of felt like it would be enough, not to mention how he felt about having a front row seat to that horror. So, he chose to say nothing for now. Not like anyone expected comfort or sagely advice from the 'baby' anyway.

The door to their room slid open and a scrubbed Mathias walked in closing the door behind him and jammed his gunky shirt into their laundry bag. Which was now getting cleaned sooner rather than later before letting himself fall on the bed with a heavy sigh. It seemed the four of them were all working hard to avoid talking about the issue at the moment. Isaac and his new trucks, Cyd and her music, Mathias staring blankly at the wall and the 600 pound gorilla sitting awkwardly in the middle.

Cyd watched Isaac for a bit, him working on his longboard diligently, before swinging her eyes to Mathias. Mathias. If that deck’s aim was off, if he missed, if the bullet had gone through and hit him, hit Isaac, stop thinking it, just don’t! Music wasn’t making it stop. But they had work to do. Ag![ “Let’s hear it, Yobo."

“What the fok were you even THINKING?!?!” Mathias exploded sitting up. “Have you genuinely lost your damn MIND?!”

"Hey!!" Isaac reflexively shouted in an attempt to defend his sister, but then realized he had nothing else to add in that moment.

Mathais glared down at Isaac. “Got something to say do you?”

The younger Skye let his empty challenge hang in the air uncomfortably before quietly going back to his work while making quite the stink face.

“No,” Cyd chuffed, standing up and waving a hand toward her brother. “On me - He didn’t do anything.”

"Never do." Isaac muttered under his breath, disgusted with himself that he did nothing in the moment of truth to come dashing to his brother's rescue. It wasn't anything like in the movies.

OOC: JP between @Winters, @MK Blitzen and @Yule





“Don’t defend him! If he wants to speak he can and he can defend himself particularly if he defends his sister who nearly busted us all and oh right … NEARLY GOT US SHOT! Shot as in filled with gorram lead.” Mathias fumed angrily.

“Reg! That was me, - not him, me. It’s me you’re mad at, I’m the one who near got you…” Cyd’ words got caught in her throat, her voice cracking. “If you got shot, if --She shook her head, that was one ‘if” she couldn’t even consider.

“... I would be dead.” Mathias finished his tone cold. “I think we deserve an explanation why you thought it was a good idea to put us all in the crosshairs of a fed … sorry … A DEAD … fed.”

"Ha…'Fed'." Isaac scoffed at the idea, only glancing up to make sure he didn't draw any unwanted heat in the exchange.

“It don't matter he was a law man and I got brain on my shirt!” Mathais said sharply to his little brother.

“Just ain't no way is all." Isaac said softly with a shrug as he avoided eye contact and buried himself in his work.

“You know damn well I wouldn’t do anything on purpose to put you or him in harm’s way,” his sister protested loudly.

“But you did! Cyd, you don’t even have the excuse that you were high! You did this stone sober! This amateurish neglect! Dog het gedog hy plant 'n veer en 'n hoender kom op!” Mathias ranted. “What compelled you to even be in the cargo bay! How was that a good idea in the land of fokever!”

“Oh come on! Baker asked for help! I thought … it was like reaching something off a high shelf or something,” Cyd replied, trying to find levity where there wasn’t any. “That’s what I do! Help out, make nice, smile pretty, maybe I get us better rates or get the bearings for Isaac, and before I knew it, there was an open hatch and shit being tossed overboard, and shouting and a gun --”

“So this stranger ‘Mar-Bake-Chav’ who's supposed to be a passenger but yet had been working in the engine room the whole time … comes to you … another passenger … for help … in the cargo bay? And your street shuffling sense not once went off?” Mathias said, crossing his arms as he sat firmly planted on Clip-Clop the high horse.

Cyd rolled her eyes, irritated at being dressed down by her kin. “Ag, man! Sies! I coulda been a fed for all they knew! Kiff wheels and smooth sided crates! I didn’t think it was going to be anything shifty! I was looking to get a deal on our next ride. So no, it didn’t ping my radar ‘til I saw what was in the crates and what we were doing.”

“Bull! She marked you and you know it! She had the pick of crew to help with her shady side hustle and picked you and you acted like some backwater rube and you fell for it.” Mathias accused.

"Weren't no Feds." Isaac sighed, focusing on the pesky 3rd wheel whose stubborn nut wouldn't budge.

Cyd raged, but Mathias knocked the wind from the sail of her argument. Her ears burned with embarrassment as she grasped for some reason, some valid excuse - even though he was right. “I said I was sorry.“ She huffed and looked at the ceiling. “I thought it was different. And maybe I wanted it to be something different. Sein jou gat.”

“This …” Mathias said with a wave. “... are a dime a dozen suster! This crew are strangers, a one time ride we’ll likely never see again, thankfully! Worse, all greener and newer than spring! They are not our friends, they ain’t family and have nothing but trouble to give, today proved that! No one has ever had our back ‘cept for us. Shame on you for forgetting that.”

His words stung, tiny little daggers digging into her, each barb a little sharper than the last, and hot tears formed behind her lids. “After everything we’ve been through? Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare say that! There’s nothing, no one I put before you an Isaac!”

“You just did! You walked in, saw what was going on and you could have bailed! You didn’t! You could have called one of us for help but instead it took a gunshot and me running like a psycho at a Fed thinking the worst! The problem Cyd is you didn’t at any point THINK! Like at all! You got lucky today.” Mathias stood staring Cyd down against her challenge.

Isaac threw down his wrench as it clanged loudly on a bit of exposed metal flooring. He'd had enough. "It weren't no fokken FED!!" he shouted. The anger was out of character for the teen but he was tired of being ignored.