William Harper
Location: Newhope - Lady Luck (Backroom)
Skills: N/A
The room looked seemed designed for intimidation as much as business. Not just because of the placement of the doors, but the placement of the people within it. Obviously the older man was in charge here. You don't sit behind a desk in a room that looked like the setting of a snuff film, surrounded by persons of questionable morality, unless you were in charge. But that was a given fact by the way he casually insulted the both of them in the opening salvo of conversation.
Harper maintained as neutral an appearance as he could, though he was still in something of his Lieutenant persona. It was comfortable and easy to maintain, being as a lot of his actual history was with the Alliance Military, not to mention that up until a few days ago he was
actually a Lieutenant in the Allied Fleet. True, he didn't have his peaked cap and black-on-grey uniform on at the time, but it was rather obvious by his demeanor. Only now, his Captain was a brunette spitfire who proudly claimed to be a Browncoat when she wasn't threatening to have people murdered for minor infractions. Nonetheless, she
was his Captain, and she did have an amazing amount of leverage on him if she chose to exercise it.
His decision to stay on with the crew of Prometheus was not overly influenced by that potential threat, however, nor were his actions in the situation to which he was now committed. This was his duty now, to see it through to the bitter, screaming end. He wasn't extremely worried about it this time. Uncertain as it was, the older man behind the desk started things off with speech designed to put them at the defensive and/or provoke a reaction. From him or from Anisa, he could not say. And while his instinct had him zeroing in on the largest man in the room to set a quick and dirty example before they had a chance to react, logic pulled him to a different course of action. There were five men against their two. Anisa had been drinking heavily, and while damned handy with a pistol, Harper was not a gunslinger in the traditional sense. He relied on his wits to keep him alive. That and a fairly recently acquired hairline sliver of nigh batshit insanity that he dipped into from time to time.
He did notice the attention of the woman that worked for the establishment. A split second of baser impulse hit him before he forcibly stamped it back down. Harper allowed himself the barest of smiles; a tilt of one corner of his mouth paired with an acknowledging nod as she left. It occurred to him then that he hadn't experienced the touch of a woman in years. Over three of them, to be precise. That was a hell of a distraction. If he let his mind linger on it he might put them both in danger. No. The pursuit of such things was not on the menu. Instead, he chose to react to Anisa's insistence to their new acquaintances that he was perfectly capable of speaking for himself.
"It's fine, Captain." he said coldly, enunciating every syllable clearly.
"I'd rather we skip formality and get to business. We are here for business, right?" As he spoke, he walked the remaining steps to the chair Anisa claimed for herself. He remained standing, resting a hand on the back of her chair and leaving his other at the ready in case the situation prompted him to go for a weapon.
At this point, Harper really wanted to be back at the table in front of his baozi. Not that it showed.
Foy Coiffeur
Location: Newhope - Lady Luck (Table, Main Room)
Skills: N/A
Philistines! Absolute philistines! Giving it ample consideration, Foy was certain that, without context, most of these people had precisely zero idea what a "Madison" was, let alone the distinction of them from other, less appropriate forms of footwear. While extremely suited to formality when buffed to a solid shine, their ankle-high cut and reinforced stitching made them very suited to more strenuous work, with just enough heel to present a forward, classy appearance without being inappropriately gaudy. Foy was fond of those shoes. These people just didn't get it.
Jahosafat understood, that was obvious from his breeding and demeanor, and of course the superior community in which he was raised. Good, stately Farraday. Foy gave a lightly exasperated nod in his direction, being as he was very likely the
only person at the table that truly understood his plight; the loss of a custom pair of cobbler-fitted Madisons. Perhaps when this was all over and he had amassed enough personal contacts to do so, he would cut the good doctor in on his plans to expand his business and establish a series of Haberdasheries suitable for men like themselves - or those who wished dress the part.
But enough thought into the future. That was a possibility that had nothing to do with their sub-ideal present. At present, he was holding a hand of cards surrounded by people with guns as he brandished his singular sense of style and jovial nature. Perhaps he
should have brought his revolvers with him. It seemed quite the hot spot, packed to the brim with opportunities to perforate individuals that may or may not deserve it. Also in the present, two interesting things happened: A question was posed to the table by means of the increasingly vocal Dr. Townsley, and Daphne joined the conversation!
"Why, young Miss Pender, I am magnanimously pleased that you have found continued use of your verbal facilities! It is an occasion worth note, to be sure. If I may give consideration to the future of our merry troupe of clandestine specialists, I might pose a query: Now, please do not answer immediately, you understand, as we are within mixed company... however, I find myself without a valet. Would you consider the benefits of proper edification thusly? But later, Miss. Now is not appropriate to the environs." And to the other matter,
"Why Dr. Townsley, what an interesting bit of conversation, particularly as it concerns myself, you see. Whilst I agree with the assessment of my dear friend and associate Dr. Moreau on the exemplary aesthetic qualities of our, ah, commanding officers, I must admit to reasons more diverting and potentially lucrative than to which I have been set in recent weeks. Additionally, opportunities to spread civilization to the uncivilized. If I may?" Foy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small tin of moustache wax. He popped it open, taking a second to apply a minuscule amount to the tips of his fine facial hair, then capped it and slid it across the table to Fitz. There was a slightly caricatured image of himself on the lid, a tiny Foy head, if you will.
"You may have seen these fine products in certain higher-end vendors' establishments, places in the grooming trades, or in the water closets of the discerning and well-to-do." Foy regarded his last statement, shrugging,
"Or maybe you have not, as is more likely. I wish to change this, you see. Expand marketing and products to those who wish refinement but have not been exposed to it as of yet, all the while plying my familial and personally acquired professions for one who offers opportunity. And thusfar, it has not been a bore." Foy certainly seemed pleased with himself.
"Oh, you may keep that, if you prefer." Spoken to the table broadly,
"I shall see the wager and stay." 
