sail3695

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Episode 1 - “Gateway” Finale

Scene 3 - “All’s Well That Ends”

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

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Episode 1 - "Gateway" Finale

Scene 2 - "I Fall To Pieces"

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?”

Firefly - Second 'Verse

SEASON 1 FINALE, Scene 1, "Fish and Chips" has been posted!

We're good to go for Scene 2 tonight at 10PM. You can find the GDoc and Discord links in the FF2V Chat.

Hope to see you there!

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Episode 1 - “Gateway” Finale

Scene 1 - ”Fish and Chips”

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...............................

Firefly - Second 'Verse

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.”

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Time Skip: New Melbourne

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.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

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?”

Firefly - Second 'Verse

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.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Happy Thursday night, you lovely people! We have a couple "heads up's" that'll affect all of you over the next few days.

On SUNDAY NIGHT just before midnight, Wolf and I will be dropping a post or 2 that'll point us all right toward the climax and conclusion of Episode 1. If you've got JP's or character subplots brewing that you were planning to have completed before we land on New Melbourne, now's the time to get them up and posted!

(NOTE: We're not total nazis...if you've got something really good cooking and need a bit more time, PM or GChat us and we'll take it up with our attorneys.)

TIME SKIP: The aforementioned Sunday night, after Wolf and I post, we'll jump ahead...roughly a 48 hour period, though surface time on our slice of NM will be roughly 3PM.

CLIMAX/CONCLUSION and YOUR PART IN IT: We've broken the episode finale down into 2-3 JP/Collab sessions. We're looking to run these next week, Mon-Thu, depending upon who is available any given night. Plan on beginning 10PM EDT (Sorry so late, but we're accommodating as many time zones/work schedules as possible.) We'll try to keep each one brief, hopefully no longer than 1-1.5 hours.

WHAT WE NEED FROM YOU: Please let us know which nights you're available. PM, OOC, or GChat.

To accommodate schedules, we may be writing this out of sequence (like shooting a TV episode.) Looking forward to seeing how this goes, and this crew in action!

Regards,

Your humble GM's/Mods/Hosts/Megalomaniacal Fiends

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Thanks, Aalakrys!

Ship time's a bit fuzzy in this episode, but from what I can see it hasn't impacted character subplots or the overarch. From what Wolf and I know at this point, we're pretty close to our first "Time Warp." (It's just a jump to the left...consult with Cyd for the entire dance.) After that, the thrilling conclusion of Episode 1..Gateway!

So...Episode 2. We're starting out on New Melbourne, laying over for a few days while we await a nice load of fresh tuna to haul for a customer. That means everybody can get some time on planet. Here's what we know:

1. Hook and the Cap'n are going fishing.
2. The Skyes have got some skullduggery planned.
3. Abby needs to go buy some socks.

What trouble are you getting into?