William Harper
Location: Corridor, upper level -> Quarters
Harper gave Anisa's words some consideration. Especially the part where she not-so-subtly threatened his freedom with information he had just divulged to her, ironically for the purpose of displaying openness and the beginnings of trust. The rest of her words had some merit to them, granted, but in the three "conversations" he'd had with the woman, he had been threatened by her three or four times. Looking into his own recent history, one did not survive for three years in the frigid hell that was a penal mining colony floating in the middle of the Halo belt by cowing to the threats of a single tyrannical authority figure.
Were he still imprisoned, this would have set off a chain of events that would have ended very badly. Probably for both of them. Seeing as he no longer had the need to club people out with a big
tÄ mÄ de wrench over protein nibs and non-irradiated water, he probably didn't need to enact dire plans of revenge to save face. Saving face for the sake of survival was one of many things he found himself doing that he never would have dreamed about in his earlier life. But to remind him of his status as an undiscovered fugitive because he complained about the removal of his personal belongings? Hell no. There was no way he was going back there alive, if he could at all help it. This was a line cross. At the
very least, this was a reason for aggressive negotiation.
Naturally, his surly disposition followed up the stairs and down the corridor to his room. Along the way, he passed a person he would consider a highly unlikely ally. He was accompanied by one of those people in Browncoat employ. Yes, it looked like Foy and Atticus were cruising the hallway. Of course, it meant he couldn't speak plainly right then.
"Mr. Coiffeur?" he started.
"Hmmmmmm?" acknowledged Foy with a tight-lipped smile.
Harper's voice was level and even, but his eyes still held a sliver of intensity from earlier.
"I'd appreciate it if you would key me in for a shave tomorrow morning, before first shift begins. You know how the little ritual clears my head." Foy's polite smile turned into a wry look.
"Indubitably, my good man. I've no appointments on the morrow, merely present yourself and we'll get started, yes?" He didn't wait for him to respond,
"Excellent! Tomorrow morning then, sir. Brave my chair and join me for a cup of caffeinated delight." Harper returned to his room and kept the lights dim. He indeed ensured that his service pistol was in easy yet concealed reach, then engaged the electrical and manual lock on his door, both. Stripping off his Alliance uniform, Harper grabbed the blanket from his bed and spread it out on the floor nearby. Carefully, he lay down upon it an stared up at the ceiling, trying to process this day. Yeah. Maybe he'd even get a little sleep. Maybe.
Foy Coiffeur
Location: Corridor -> Quarters
It was a polite nothing extended to Atticus. Any fool could see that there was tension among the ranks, though admittedly it was less between the Shepherd and the Barber.
"And you are joining us for a drink, yes? Well, perhaps we can put all this ugliness concerning multiple shootings and the like behind us, yes? I would find that a rather satisfactory outcome of our time well spent." He continued down the corridor, meeting the most oddly expressed Lieutenant William Harper coming back in the opposite direction, mumbling something unintelligible about a
shave? It took him a few seconds to realize that he was asking for an appointment, of all things; not that he'd expect the man to request his services. He seemed the type to stare into a mirror and scrape his face passably clean with a mass-produced, disposable device. Nasty things, those. So maybe he had an ulterior purpose. Yet, he still needed to respond.
"Indubitably, my good man..." he began.
That awkward little conversation out of the way, Foy resumed his brisk walk down to his quarters. He kept his space immaculate, as if one merely stored bedding and a rollaway wardrobe chest inside, minor personal effects placed with deliberate action; staged almost. The kind of setting that belonged in an issue of "Better Bunks & Gardens". The level of organization present made finding his stash of Londinium Brandy very short work, followed by a moment to observe the liquid with its proper reverence.
"Ah, flawless... Now, to locate my equally well-attired associate and a set of neutral drinking vessels that shan't bruise the flavor of this most excellent distillate. Galley, I suspect." Well, either the Galley, Jahosafat's quarters, or some other locale. Foy had two such glasses, but not three. At least, not three that matched. Anything else would be slightly uncivilized.
