sail3695

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Happy Sunday, all. I hope everyone is enjoying a great weekend. Like Abby, I'm currently being held against my will in our Dallas corp. offices. With an insane level of business and scraping the bottom of the barrel for backup resources, I can assure you that I feel every bit as black and blue as our deckhand's face at the moment. It's been a crazy, crazy week.

Likewise within our 'verse. While this week's departures were abrupt and not on the best of terms, I will remind everyone that what we do here is a game, a world of respite for busy adults who wish to escape the pressures of life in 2022. In that spirit, I offer my sincere hope that wherever our former shipmates clear timber and set up camp, the place they create rewards them with the same joyful respite.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

I know there's a time sensitive JP in the offing. After that will come the shipwide JP for Cal to drop the 411. If work releases me from its' clutches at a reasonable time tonight I'll fire up a doc and send invites. In the meantime, Yuri will find his way to the galley, as will Ms. Wyman, our NPC passenger. And we will doubtless see the first installment of "The Perils of Abigail Travis" unfolding when I get time to live in my right frontal lobe.

Quoting Stan Lee: "nuff said." WWIF.

sail

Firefly - Second 'Verse

The Terms

JP/collab from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

Rex Black is a character created by @Psych0pomp.

The First Mate made all haste to join his Captain on the bridge. As he bounded up the stairs, Rex could hear Cal in earnest conversation with the mysterious Samantha AI. He’d never voiced curiosity over the oddity…over their years, Cal and Rex had learned the art of “some things better left unsaid,” As he stepped onto the bridge, he saw no need to go challenging that norm today.

Cal was bent over the pilot’s console, palms resting on its’ surface as Sam captured the inbound transmission.

“Hey…China Doll.” The face onscreen was that of a man in his middle forties. A chiseled countenance was made all the more daunting by a scar whose path from forehead to chin was broken only by a patch worn over the left eye. “You took two things from us. Now, we got something of yours.”

The image shook, then whirled at a dizzying pace as the stranger redirected his capture. A compartment, dimly lit, scattered with refuse and various scrap parts, was the scene in which China Doll’s captain and first mate caught sight of their missing deckhand. Abby lay on one side, her head lolling to the deck. Arms pulled behind her back told of her bound wrists. The capture moved in, jittering slightly as her face was framed in the image. A large welt crept from beneath her hair and down her left cheek. The girl’s right eye was swollen shut, her face a macabre mask completed by tousled hair and a duct tape gag firmly over her mouth. Her open eye revealed both fear and fury as she offered a subtle shake of her head.

“Damn, they really did a number on her,” Rex whispered to the stone-faced captain. Cal didn’t need the overture his first mate offered to cotton the twist of this particular knife. After a few moments of seeing red, Strand shook his head to square up to the man who held Abigail’s life in his grimy palm.

“She’s alive,” the voice cut in as the vid jerked away toward her captor. “If you wanna get her back that way, here’s what you’re gonna do.” The erratic jittering of the image settled as the kidnapper seated himself at a table. “You poached the Osiris run from us. I’m pretty sure you don’t conjure just what you’re carrying, so you’re probably doing it on the cheap. You’re gonna load it up, and you’re gonna haul it all the way to the drop…just like you told Nadal you would. Couldn’t be simpler, right?” His face broke into a crooked leer. “We’ll be there, and so will she. You deliver without any Alliance or cops taggin’ along, and your little lost lamb will make it home. But we catch one whiff of tomfoolery…I conjure you know what happens next.”

The capture whirled again to offer a glimpse of the deckhand.

On a screen adjacent to the capture, a colon-backslash appeared in apple green with the words: “Probability of rape, loss of limb or life to Abigail Travis: 87.33%.” Cal’s eyes bounced from the grim cautioning of Sam to the capture of Abby’s stubborn expression, even beneath the duct tape and bloodshot eye.

“One more thing.” The image lurched again. This time, a still capture swam into view. Joe Hooker was front and center, his face a mask of rage as he clutched a handful of another man’s blue polo shirt. The cook’s right fist was slightly blurred on it’s way to deliver the next blow to his opponent’s face. “That guy,” the kidnapper’s voice spoke once again. “Have him at the meet. He skips out, you can kiss your little girl goodbye.”

Cal fixed Rex with a look which his first mate knew to mean ‘bring me the hide of Joseph Hooker.’ Without a word, the solemn-faced mate backed off from the capture into the inky, black bowels of the China Doll to deliver the cook to the captain.

The grizzled face appeared once more. “We conjure you touch down in Capital City next Tuesday at midnight. Don’t be late.” He fumbled with his capture, palm covering the screen as he struggled to cut the feed. “Get the Angel ready. Tell C-mouth to…”

As the feed died, Cal slammed a heavy fist onto the console, sending his tin cup to the floor of the deck, and with a swift kick, all the way down to the crew berths.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

One Walked, One Was Dragged

JP/collab from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

Rex Black is a character created by @Psych0pomp



For Rex, the act of opening one eye required superhuman effort.

Though his mouth was sticky dry, his cheek and the underlying pillow, were soaked. He groaned at the weight of what he felt certain to be an anvil sitting on his head. The pain radiated downward; his body threatened open revolt as he clawed himself up to a sitting position. Rex blinked, dulled wits slowly coming to grips with the alien surroundings. He was in one of the Doll’s guest berths.

A small trash can stood by the bed. There, on the night table, lay 4 aspirin tablets. Standing guard were a pair of tall glasses, beads of condensation sweat trickling down their sides. As a man in the desert might do, he gulped the first, water cascading down his chin as he drank the glass dry.

He waited for the signs of a rebellious stomach. When none came, Rex downed the aspirin. This time, he sipped from the second glass as the cobwebs cleared.

“The kid,” his voice rumbled as if he hadn't spoken in years. She must’ve put him to bed. He had some memory of last night…couple yahoos throwin’ down in the street til she came along. Money…something about the root of all evil. If he remembered right, it was his other root that brought the evil down upon him.

As if on cue, Rex’s bladder throbbed an overload warning; time to drain the lizard. A quick lurch across the corridor had him in the lav to enjoy the first sweet relief of a morning he’d rather forget. After tucking ‘the weapon’ away, he busied himself with a few righteous splashes of water from the sink. The face staring in the mirror had more to mar it’s image then the customary red rimmed eyes and three days’ stubble. There was a puff to his cheek. His lower lip was swollen and flecked with dried blood. Yeah, now he remembered. He’d had himself a time, alright. And the kid had come out of her pocket to square him up.

After a quick face wash and fingers winnowing his hair to some kind of order, he made his way across the cargo bay. This hour of the day, Cal usually had the deckhand’s little pi gu parked in her lawnchair to scare up fares. “Hey, Cal Junior,” Rex squinted, blinking in the harsh morning sun as he stood in the opening. “They say sex sells. That why you can’t make any bookings?”

When no answering retort came, he shielded his eyes. It didn’t take more than a glance to conjure that whatever took place here, it was sure no Yúrén jié. “Kid? ABBY!” he shouted. Only the clipboard answered with a silent rustle of pages. Now awake and sharp, Rex hurried aft, toward the nearest intercom.

“Cal,” he keyed the mic. “Cargo ramp. We got trouble.”

From the pilot's chair, Cal leaned over one of Penelope's parting gifts, a pair of knit gloves he'd donned for the freezing ride to the Greenleaf. He slipped one on as he sipped coffee from a tin cup with the other. Rex's concerned voice echoed off the steel bridge, chasing away the early morning stillness.

"Roger," came the reply as Strand stripped off the glove and made his way through the crew births. The tone of Rex's call, being so counter his regular nature, was warning enough. As he approached the ramp, the scene Rex stood among began to tell a story.

The first mate looked up from his study. “Never been a gumshoe,” he said to the silent figure atop the ramp, “but it’s all pretty clear. Can’t suss out tracks, but somebody hauled her outta here on the double quick.”

Strand watched the pages of the abandoned clipboard curl and fold in the morning breeze. "Looks that way," came his reply from tight lips as he took in the chair, the colt, the cortex. A few steps carried the Captain to Abigial's device, which blinked an incoming message:

<tjinks>
Is it something I said?

Looking up from the cortex at the tracks that led away from the ramp, Cal added "Close this up and get everyone together in the galley; I want to know what's goin' on. Meet me on the bridge in five." Strand turned toward the bow, taking the cargo bay stairs two at a time. "Maybe Sam saw somethin'..." he hoped in vain.

“Yeah…shiny,” Rex’s eyes followed Cal for a moment. As the captain disappeared into shadow, his first mate picked up the clipboard. Abby’d had one delivery…the two pallets strapped in the aft end of the bay. One-fifty in coin…enough to steal, but he couldn’t see anything beyond a street holdup for that.

After folding the lawnchair, he lifted Abby’s revolver from the dirt. With surprisingly gentle hands he wiped the dust away with a shirttail, before slipping the gun into his pocket. Rex Black lifted his eyes to sweep the surrounding port for any sign of the missing girl. When none came, he collected the things and headed inside.

Once there, he flipped the intercom to ‘shipwide address’ and keyed the mic. “Attention, all hands and passengers. This is the First Mate. The Captain’s called for a meeting, fifteen minutes from now, in the galley. Be there.”

<Open tag>

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Happy Mothers Day from the cargo bay!

It's been a week, and we've got the writing to show it. Everybody made it home from Bungalow Bill's in one piece. Cyd had her table dance interrupted by what looks to be some serious work. Pen's reunion with her father has resulted in her departing the boat for a Happily Ever After.

Unfortunately, it's not all roses. Driven by an inner demon, Hook went looking for a fight which left a bike gang's 'money man' lying dead in an alley. Exercising their connections, the Headhunters MC did the math. In this case, 2+2= China Doll. They came around, looking for payback, and found Abby.

After looking over the scene at the foot of the ramp, Cal ordered Rex to call an emergency meeting of all crew and passengers. Y'all head for the galley to hear how it is.

@Aalakrys has chosen to leave the game. She will be missed, and we hope that she finds nothing but happy writing along her road.

ALL HANDS JP/COLLAB: As mentioned, Cal has summoned everyone to the galley to talk about navigating the rough times ahead. This week, we'll be sending doc invites for each of you.

So, it's Mothers Day. If your mom's still in the picture, show her some love. If you are a mom (or mom to be), here's hoping you get to put your feet up and relax for a change! On our front, I cooked breakfast for my Beloved, and will soon deliver her to worship from her adult children.

Adult children...an oxymoron if ever I've heard one.

WWIF,

sail

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Story Note

The scene of the crime…

Anyone who glances toward the foot of the cargo ramp will notice the following:

The lawnchair is knocked over, on its’ side.

The clipboard is lying open, its' pages flipping in the breeze.

Abby’s cortex reader is several feet away. A closer inspection will reveal the following message:

<tjinks>
Is it something I said?

Finally, Abby’s prized replica Colt Navy revolver is lying in the dirt.

There may be tire tracks, but no sign of the vehicle that made them.

<Open Tag>

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Special Delivery

“Snakeskin,” Abby cocked an eyebrow as she checked tha order on ‘er clipboard. “Two pallets. Hunnerd fifty.”

The driver offered his coin. “Here you go.”

She took payment, then wrote out a receipt. “Bein’ picked up on Osiris by MacMillan Leather Goods,” she read aloud. “Jest over three an’ a half days’ flight…gonna put us in ‘bout midnight on Tuesday. They can come git it next mornin’ after eight.”

“I’ll let ‘em know,” he tossed a friendly wave as he climbed into his truck. “Safe travels.”

“May tha road rise,” she replied as the truck coughed an’ rattled away. "That’s one,” the girl pondered as she jacked an’ strapped tha pallets inta place. Second truck was comin'…some kinda cosmetic skin cream that Cap’n said keep an eye out for. Tha big haul was due in at noon. A dozen pallets full ‘o’ stuff like hair growth tonic, boner pills, somethin’ called ‘skin re-jeoo-vin-aters,’ an’ scads ‘o’ diff’rent diet pills, pain pills…even stuff tah keep yer dog from gettin’ all anxious. ”They got a drug fer ever’thin’,” the deckhand shook ‘er head as she settled down front in tha lawnchair tah wait.

She parked tha clipboard on ‘er knees, afore pullin tha cortex outta her pocket.

<tjinks>
Sooo…hung over today?

Abby smiled an’ put ‘er thumbs tah work.

<abn8tr>
Nope. Right as rain. Yuri gave me a good tip.

<tjinks>
Yuri Yuri Yuri! Ima get jealous.

<abn8tr>
He’s a good kisser, too.

<tjinks>
WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?

It was hard tah type fer all her gigglin’.

<abn8tr>
JKJKJK. You know who I’m saving all my kisses for.


<tjinks>
Oh yeah. So when do you get that puppy?

<abn8tr>
Dumbass

A high revvin’ truck engine caught ‘er ear. Abby looked up from her messagin’. A white cargo van come whippin’ up, swung it’s nose away from tha boat, an’ then backed right up tah tha ramp. ”Ain’t wastin’ no time,” she conjured as she got tah her feet.

Back doors come open an’ three fellas jumped out. “Hey,” Abby greeted ‘em. “Y’all deliverin’ some kinda..”

The flashlight clocked ‘er straight on tha left temple. Abby staggered; her cortex an’ clipboard gone flyin’ as she tried tah reach fer tha Colt. A boot caught ‘er in tha solar plexus, takin’ all ‘er air as a fist pummelled straight intah her right eye. She thought she had tha Colt…thought it was in ‘er hand, but as she collapsed in tha dirt, it weren’t nowheres in reach. Tha boot come again, this time given’ her such a kick as tah knock away ‘er senses.

She kinda felt hands on ‘er. They’s pickin’ ‘er up, afore piitchin’ ‘er like a sack 'o' taters. Hard rubber deckin’ pressed intah her face. Her hands was pulled behind ‘er an’ zip tied at tha wrists, but loopy as she was she couldn’t figger a move tah save ‘er life.

Doors was slammin'. Voices all from folk she couldn’t see, face down’s she was. “Call Root,” one falla barked. ‘Let ‘im know we got one.”

Abby weren’t sure, but it felt like they’s movin…fast. An’ then it all went black.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

A Bigger Game

Rules was rules.

Rules was what kept the MC in order. Rules was what made the coin flow. And after finding one of their own dead in the alley outside the Twirling Rabbit, it was rules what kept them all alive while they sussed it out.

The Headhunters’ clubhouse was in full lockdown. Husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends, not to mention an army of kids, had been shuttled from their beds into the direct protection of the MC. For hours, the air was filled with the smell of breakfast cooked for dozens of innocent mouths whose owners all wondered just how long they’d be stuck in this place.

In the table room, Root and his lieutenants hashed out their next moves, and waited for news from their eyes and ears all over Khao Yai. Momma Ellsbeth had handed over the bar’s security capture. The biker chief and his war council studied the images again and again.

“I know Lip didn’t help himself none,” Roach was saying, “but we all been around enough to spot a man lookin’ for a fight.” He backtracked the scene. “See right there? Dude’s sizin’ up his marks.” The image froze. In the bottom corner, Lip, the gang’s money man, jostled for a place at the bar. Not four meters away stood the dark stranger, eyes locked on their brother’s polo shirt with deadly intent.

Root pulled on his cigarette. “So this wasn’t a hit.”

Cheesedick spoke up. “I’m with Roach. None of the other MC’s was out. The Mau-Maus were throwin’ a divorce party for their V-prez and his old lady, and the Chupacabras were layin’ low since Booth got a few of their three-strikers out of stir. This guy,” he pointed toward the screen, “was a one-off.”

“Who is…this guy?” Root studied the face, a murderous intensity on the big screen. “Nips? We pickin’ up any cortex chatter?”

“Not a word,” she replied as she pushed some image prints across the table. “I put the capture out to all our friendlies and anyone who owes us. Hit all the banger turf, the port, and we got a couple barefoots watchin’ the jungle trails. He sticks his head up,” she continued, “we’ll know.”

The biker chief grunted his acknowledgment. “Word from the funeral home is ‘closed casket.’ Not enough of Lip’s face left to rebuild.” He straightened in his chair. “Til we got this guy, we’re buttoned up. Four man rides to check leads. Full pressure on the streets.”

A quick knock at the door announced Ellsbeth. The old woman entered, and settled into her customary seat along the wall. Though she didn’t warrant a place at the table, her confident presence was undisputed among the outlaws in this room. Root offered a grim, deferential nod to his mother.

‘Whatcha want us to do when we find ‘im?” Roach asked. “Make an example, or a quick kill?”

“Lip wasn’t patched,” the boss rubbed his jaw, “but he was still one of ours. Unless our boy’s runnin’ with a crew,” Root answered, “take him down where you find him. Blood for blood.”

“Copy that, Prez.”

Root’s eye landed upon a silent lieutenant. “C-mouth, pick three and saddle up. Sun’s up now. Cover every inch of ground around the Rabbit. I want to know…”

A persistent chirping interrupted the leader’s command. “Sorry, boss,” Nips grabbed her cortex reader. Tucking it to her ear, she turned away from the table, her conversation a hushed whisper whose intensity grew through body language and gestures. Though her brothers often found reason to stare, on this morning her usual distractions didn’t enter into their attention. “Thanks,” she said as her chair swiveled back to face the table. “That was one of Lucchesi’s capos. Our guy’s in the port. Rent-a-cop saw ‘im sleepin’ in a mud puddle, and took him for a sailor who couldn’t finish the walk home.”

The chief leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “And did the donut eater see where home was?”

“Yeah,” his lieutenant gave a single nod. “Said a woman came along and handheld him to a boat on Row J.” She checked her cortex as the vibration announced incoming traffic. “China Doll. Not twenty ticks ago.”

“China Doll?” Root asked as he caught his mom’s eye. “You sure?”

With a swipe from her screen, Nips ‘tossed’ an image onto the table capture. China Doll lay serene in the morning light, a pair of figures making their way up her cargo ramp. She zoomed in, clarifying to reveal an attractive blonde in the act of helping the blood streaked killer shamble his way forward.

“Now I got two beefs with that boat,” the chief grumbled. “C-Mouth,” he turned toward the enforcer. “Change of plans. We’re doin’ this on Lucchesi’s turf. His rules. No sleds, no cuts. Take the van. I want it quick and quiet. First one of China Doll’s crew you see, you shank ‘em and roll out. You feel me, L-T?”

“That’s a rodg.” Cottonmouth took to his feet, hand resting upon the haft of his knife.

“Cheese,” Root waved his cigarette. “You’re still Plan A. Get your posse ready for the black. Nips, you, me, and five watch the gate in case our boy’s crew try to chase C-mouth.” The MC president rose from his seat. “Roach…home guard.”


“You know,” Ellsbeth lifted a hand, “we may have better options.”

“Go on.” Root waved the henchmen off to their errands.

The old woman rose to speak. “You were planning to hit that boat when she broke atmo? Breach a hatch and take her when she depressurized?”

The biker chief settled back in his chair. “S.O.P. Put ‘er down on Bryson’s Rock. Pull the cargo, eighty-six the bodies and sell the boat to scrappers. Then we’re back at the table with Hafez.”

“S.O.P,” she nodded her understanding. “Predictable. Predictable for us, for Hafez, for Five-Oh. Tricks of the trade that no one expects an MC to ever grow beyond…which is why we’re trapped within our margins and losing out on upper tier employment.”

Root scratched his jaw. “I don’t like where this is going, mom. We gotta show strength. One of our own was cut down…”

“...by some offworld bèndàn who just signed away his crew’s future,” Ellsbeth interjected. “Blood for blood” is still a viable move, but it shouldn’t be your first.”

“What have you got in mind.?”

“You’ve just been handed a bargaining chip,” she said. “Pick it up, and others will follow.”

Root fixed his mother with weary eyes. “I hate it when you talk in riddles.”

Ellsbeth smiled.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

The Road Home

OOC: These events take place before Hook tries to head for the boat. Rex Black is a character created by @psych0pomp. Cameo by Captain Strand, courtesy of @wanderingwolf.


Once they’d managed to wrest their mechanic from the arms of a woman on the dance floor, the crew of China Doll made their departure. Everyone chose to exit Bungalow Bill’s via the knotted rope, though few understood the act of climbing down required a level of care that alcohol might inhibit. Abby patted the dirt from her bottom as Yuri took the stairs, under the stern countenance of the Doc. As the little party trod the jungle path back toward Khao Yai, he fell in beside the deckhand. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

Abby cocked ‘er head. “Tolerable well,” she said. “Thinkin’ a walk’ll do us both some good,”

“Just remember,” he whispered, “before you hit your bunk? Double dose of aspirin and two tall glasses of water. Might not avoid the hangover,” he added, “but it’ll make the morning better…dohn mah?”

”Ku,” the girl answered. “Who was that woman yew’s daincin’ with?”

“Her name was Drucilla.”

“Y’all know each other?”

“We do now,” he smiled off into the darkness. Yuri caught sight of unanswered curiosity. “I met her at the bar. She’s a working girl.”

“Workin’ girl,” Abby frowned as she thought on that. Presently she smoked out tha meanin’, and with eyes wide she whispered, “Yah mean she’s a whore?”

“Simply put. Never really liked that word, though,” Yuri said as they walked together.

“But…” Now she’s all confused. “I conjured whorin’ was jest ‘bout sex. All yew did was daince…’cept fer a goodnight kiss.”

“You’re not wrong,” the mechanic smiled. “Most folk like her’ll tell you their entire coin’s earned between the sheets. But tonight? All I needed was a dance.”

“Yew paid fer a daince? Shoot, I conjure Doc an’ me both woulda said yes if’n yah asked.”

The smile became a good humored grin. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he chuckled. “But I had the right music, and a woman whose eyes I could gaze into without it getting creepy.”

“Well,” the girl give it some thought, “yah got me there.”

“So hey,” Yuri shifted the topic, “I heard a rumor that we don’t get cargo til noon tomorrow?”

“That’s what Cap’n says,” Abby nodded. “Got a couple small things comin’ earlier, an’ a passenger or two, so I’m on the lawnchair most tha mornin’.”

The mechanic nodded. “Is there a good time for you to walk me through preflight checks?” Ahead lay the lights of the city, and a dazzling clear sky full of stars. The crew found themselves on pavement once more. At this hour, many of the shops were closed, and the lights of personal dwellings were steadily winking out. His bunk would feel good tonight.

“Sure,” Abby piped up. “Gonna scare up breakfast ‘round oh-seven-hundred. Gotta clean tha lower deck lav at eight. I conjure we could squeeze a few minutes somewheres.” They came to the intersection of Harbor Street. As the crew turned toward the port, the girl said, “I got a stop tah make, first. I’ll see y’all back at tha boat.”

Yuri stopped. “You need company?”

“Meetin’ a friend. Don’t worry,” she give tha Colt a pat, “I’ll be along presently.”

There’s Cal, eyes all serious. “You remember what I told you ‘bout bartenders an’ waitresses, Abigail?”

She smiled, part from his expression, t’other part from the worry he’s showin’ her. “My drinkin’s done fer tha night, Cap’n…’cept fer lotsa water. I’ll be there in two shakes.” With a wave, she set off in tha opposite direction, toward Hap’s La Frontera, and tha chance tah learn more ‘bout ‘er parents.

…………………..

Hap’s was still closed.

Shutters was all locked, doors was bolted, an’ ain’t a sliver ‘o’ light peekin’ out from between. “Gorramit,” Abby muttered ‘neath ‘er breath. Story was Hap’s was always open, so she’s curious as tah what might cause the old man tah miss their git together an’ close up shop like this. But that part didn’t matter. Now she was against tha clock. Skids up tomorrah meant she’s on post all day aforehand…

Abby stood on the warped front stoop, ponderin’ her next move. Across the street, Tampico Royale was goin’ full tilt, with music an’ folk caterwhallin’ echoes down tha block. Mayhaps she could go there, borrow a pen from tha bartender, an’ stuff a napkin with her message inta Hap’s mail slot…

The front doors burst open. Two stacks of hardened muscle emerged, dragging their near limp bundle until they could pitch him into the street. Then, both bouncers set upon the victim, raining blows and kicks upon the man who raised feeble hands to ward off the assault. A woman had followed them. She was naked, but for a sheer robe she attempted to clutch about her. “You piece of la shi!”, she screamed at the man, who covered his head as he tried to wrap himself into a ball.

Abby’s eyes looked on tha deadbeat an’ that gaudy floral shirt gettin’ all messed up. That shirt…she seen it. Hell, she done washed it a time ‘er two… “Oh, shit,” she muttered as she come inta tha street. “Whoa, fellas….WHOA! STOP”

One ‘o’ tha bouncers looked up. “Mind’jer business, Cutie Pie. Step on.”

She laid a hand on tha Colt. “He is my business!” Abby retorted as tha gun slipped free ‘o’ tha holster. “That’s my crew! Leave ‘im be!” The bouncers now stood straight, eyes on the skinny teeager with the big gun. “I’m talkin’ tah yew!” she barked.

From his place on the ground, Rex Black shook himself off, releasing a combination of bloody spittle and dust into the street. “Cal Junior?” he squinted upward. “That you?”

“Rex,” Abby’s eyes didn’t waver. “Why come yer out here gittin’ dusted off by these gorillas?”

“He didn’t pay!” the woman shouted as she clutched her robe together.

The deckhand rolled ‘er eyes. “How much?”

“Fifty,” the First Mate answered in unison with the woman who shouted “seventy-five!”

Abby cut loose a disgusted sigh. “Tell yah whut, fellers. I’ma put this away so’s I can go fer muh coin purse…but y’all git sketch an’ it’ll come out agin real fast. We good?”

The biggest ape waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah…we good.”

“Thank yew.” Once the Colt found leather, she set tah countin’ tha last of ‘er money. “Twenty…forty…sixty…five,” the girl pulled all her cash out. “Plus change…sixty-five twenty-seven.” Abby held the pay out fer tha whore. “That cleans me right out.”

“He owes seventy-five,” the second bouncer objected.

“He ain’t got it,” Abby tossed ‘er hair as tha money disappeared from ‘er palm. “And now I’m tapped. Looks tah me like y’all give my shipmate ever bit of a ten credit ass whoopin’. How ‘bout we call this done an’ even?”

The bouncers traded glances, then turned toward the prostitute. She was so engrossed in counting money that she hadn’t noticed the neglige gown had fallen open. “I conjure that’s as good as it gets,” the Alpha dog decided. He dropped to one knee, a thick index finger jabbing Rex in the chest. “Make sure you never show your face in my bar again…capiche?”

“On my mother’s grave,” Rex nodded solemnly.

The bouncer glared at Abby. “Take out the trash, girlie.”

“Shiny.” Abby bent over Rex, an’ took an’ arm for tah help ‘im up. “C’mon, jackass,” she grunted, “I cain’t carry ya back. Git up.” The man was powerful unsteady, wobblin’ to an’ fro til she th6wed an arm ‘round ‘is waist. He hooked a thumb in her gunbelt, an’ the pair of ‘em set off, staggerin’ a weak sorta zigzag path back toward the port. Rex was covered in odors…stale perfume, his own arm sweat, liquor, and a musky sorta stink she conjured must be what sex smells like if’n yah don’t wash. “Do me a kindness,” she said as she helped him along. “Take a shower when we git back.”

“Been at it for three days,” Rex slurred. “Sleep first.” After they stumbled together for another few minutes, he asked, “Did you take care of Lucky?”

“Yes,” she answered all annoyed, “I took care ‘o’ Lucky.”

His arm tightened around her a touch. “You know, Cal Junior, I do have fun teasin’ you…but you’re okay.”

“I still want muh money.”

“You’ve got my word,” his voice took a serious cast. “I really appreciate you gettin’ me out of that scrape.”

As they wobbled along the dark street, Abby thought on his words, and them as she’d heard tonight with the rest of China Doll’s crew. Family. The word played on her mind as she kept Rex movin’ toward home. Family. Finally, she spoke. “We’s shipmates. I been told that’s how it’s done.”

“You had a good teacher.”

“The best.” She could see the port entry gate, just ahead. The pair hobbled forward, the much larger Rex draped over Abby as she struggled to keep him moving. For a time, the silence between them broke only for labored breathing and grunts. Eventually, Abby spoke. “Rex.”

“Yeah?”

“Gitcher hand off my ass.”

Firefly - Second 'Verse

In Vino Familia

Part 5 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Gunther, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

At the Doc’s comment, Cal couldn’t help but notice she’d dove headfirst into the party spirit; that made him smile. More than that, it meant he needed to catch up. After a trip to the bar, Cal returned to the crew with a round of shots of something called ‘Synthquila’, one for each of them with an extra for himself.

“If it’s advice you’re lookin’ for, I’ve heard one or two of these will help your game after a certain point. But I’m no doctor,” he flashed a wink as he set down the tray of shots. “Here you go,” Cal placed a shot in each of the women’s hands, before joining Hook with a pair of shots; his last catch-up shot sitting lonely on the table for his return.

Joe took one of the shots and knocked it back without a problem. He was starting to feel the alcohol and it was making him very happy. He had a big smile on his face and could quite easily be talked into dancing or singing if that should be the case.

Abby looked into the amber gold what swished in the shot glass. She’d read in one ‘o’ her books that drinkin’ was akin tah datin’. “Dance with the one who brung ye,” said tha old prospector from “Gold Fever.” Not much of a yarn, but seein’s she had scant experience with both booze and boys, the girl took tha old man’s wisdom for true.

Til tonight.

Took two on board, she ruminated on the vodka that now held a two tah one lead over rum in ‘er bloodstream. Might’s well give ‘synthquila’ a try. The deckhand lifted ‘er shot glass. “We toastin’ anythin’?”

The crew wasn't slowing down any, that was for sure. She nodded as a thank you as Cal handed her the shot, a small smirk forming from his comment. Staring at her poison, Alana attempted to remember the last time she'd had this much to drink, and how she'd felt then. But her memory wasn't the best right now, so she looked over at Abby and raised her shot glass as well.

“To a night we hopefully don’t forget…”

Strand raised his glass, "And to a mornin’ we hopefully will... Don't s'pose you got a cure for hangover?" he asked of Hook by his side.

“The best way to take care of a hangover the next morning is bah consumin’ two or three shots of hard liquor, Cap’n!” Joe stated matter of factly with a smile. Then he tossed back another shot of rum followed by several gulps of beer. He smacked his lips and let out an exaggerated yet satisfied sigh. The ground did start to swirl a bit. He knew he was entering his happy drunk phase.

“No truer word’s ever been spoken,” Cal replied to Hook’s sage advice and knocked back the first shot, grinning at Joe.

Hook’s smile had spread. It was one of those contagious smiles that let everyone know Joseph Hooker was not just in a good mood, but a great mood. The music playing on the jukebox was getting to him. He started singing along.

Abby tapped ‘er glass down on tha pool table’s edge, then raised it to her lips. Smooth, was all she could think as it slipped right down easy like. Hook’s singin’, Cap’n an’ Doc was makin’ secret eyes fer one another, an’ if tha racket comin’ up from below told true, Yuri jest got beat at arm wrestlin’. She leaned on a handrail, crooked little smile teasin’ as she watched ‘er shipmates. “This is what it’s like,” the girl rekindled ‘er musings from last night, ”bein’ from someplace.” Jest ‘cuz that place moved twixt worlds in tha black didn’t make it no less home…long’s these folk was on board. “I won’t fergit,” she answered Doc’s toast in a whisper, afore joinin’ in tah sing with Hook.

Hook's response elicited a laugh from Alana. He was throwing 'em down like juice, which Alana found impressive in its own sense. Once they got to singing and whatnot, she placed the empty shot glass down on the table, the aftertaste a tad unpleasant but not long lasting. Looking over at Cal, she walked to his side and noticed the additional shot glass. "Trying to play catch up or just showing off?"

That brought a smile to his face. “Showin’ off? Now why would a Captain need to go and do a thing like that? Au contraire, I’m just doin’ my best to catch up, but just so’s I know how far I’ve yet to go, how many might that be?” He asked, finger wrapped and poised around the shot glass a–glimmer in his eye. “By the way, looks like you went easy on Hook; s’at ‘cause you made another win-win wager I ought to be jealous of? Just for the record.”

"Oh I don't know, that'd be between 2 and 20, somewhere along there..." she shrugged playfully, unable to detect the slightest hint of inebriety as them two interacted. And of course, once more he had managed to catch her off guard. Alana's jaw dropped in response, paying him back with a playful shove. "So you think a girl like me would have multiple wagers of that kind floating around simultaneously?" Alana looked him in the eye as she posed the question, eager for his response.

Cal evened up her gaze with one of his own, “I see no reason a strong, vital woman such as yourself shouldn’t keep her options open.” He offered a smug grin that touched his eyes as he followed up with, “Well, well! Looks like I’m behind by quite a few.” Strand raised a hand to the bartender with the universal sign for another round.

It wasn’t just Alana’s gaze that set him in a proper mood; tomorrow he had a clear direction in a job from Hafez Nadal. That direction would see the China Doll to her next port and keep her flying with all the supplies he’d been neglecting for the last two legs. That alone was enough to set a smile on his face.

But there was more than that now, standing among his crew. He wouldn’t cast himself as a sentimental man, but this bunch had surely grown on him. The one within arm’s distance even more so.

"You've got the talent for leaving a girl speechless, that's for sure," she retorted, poking him in the chest with a finger. "I can only imagine how much more of a handful you'll be once you stop babying the drinks." Alana leaned to one side to use the table as support, briefly looking over the rest of the crew and contemplating getting herself some water.

Joe listened to the song come on. He had heard it before and thought he knew the words well enough to sing. He started in when the song played,

“Well, in the North of Cackalacky,
way back in the hills.
Me and my ole paddy and had him a still.
He brewed white lightnin' 'til the sun went down
And then you'd fill him a jug and he'd pass it around.
Mighty, mighty pleasin',
paddy's corn squeezin'
Sh, white lightnin'”

He didn’t know all the words, but did his best, “Well, the "G" men, mmm…mumble mumble mumble.”
He did seem to know the verses a bit better, “Well, ah asked my old paddy why he called his brew
White lightnin' 'stead of mountain dew.
ah took a little sip and right away ah knew.
As my eyes bugged out and my face turned blue.
Lightnin' started flashin', thunder started clashin'
Sh, white lightnin'
Well, the "G" men, "T" men, mmm…mumble mumble mumble.” More indiscernible sounds. A lot of this next portion of the song got lost in shoults and mumbles that resembled the song the singer was singing.
“The "G" men, "T" men, Sh, white lightnin'” then he fell quiet for a few seconds and gave a shout, “Woop! Woop!” He raised his beer into the air and took another swig.

Joe Hooker was one man of many talents, but surely as the black was wide singing half-pissed weren’t one of them. That didn’t keep that infectious grin of his from passing along to just about anyone laid eyes on him, including the Captain.

At just that moment the jukebox switched up its rhythm to play something a little slower. A group of bearded men sang at full volume near the bar, and Cal raised his glass toward his crew.

The Captain’s baritone rose steadily as he intoned the first bar. “Of all the money that e'er I had, I spent it in good company…” Eyes met eyes as the group circled up, Hook, Alana, and Abigail. From the bar, the bearded men’s rendition of the soft and willowy tune took on a boisterous male bravado that Strand heartily obliged in, wrapping one arm each around each of the three.

“Of all the comrades that e'er I had, They're sorry for my going away…”

The bartender, watching the group around him degenerate into loud and cavorting fancy, stood up on the bar and placed hands around his mouth to project a warning:

“Last call on the deck!” to which the rowdy group of men only raised their glasses higher.

To that Cal assented with an emptying of his own glass, “C’mon you three, I conjure we ought to see how many pieces Yuri got himself into this time.”

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Win - Win

Down below at the bar, Yuri was holding his own. As the shouts and laughter grew apace with the betting, the wiry mechanic observed a change in his opponent. The Greeter, a man of nearly twice his size and weight, harbored a dawning frustration over his adversary’s refusal to budge.

“Hey, Shrimp!” one of the boisterous gawkers slurred in his ear. “Whatcher name?”

“Yuri.”

“TAKE HIM DOWN, YURI!” the drunk reeled on his feet as another credit slapped the bar. “YU-RI! YU-RI! YU-RI!”

The smaller man heard the chant rise around him, and personal bets doubled down. The winner-take-all open kitty had also risen to a respectable height. He’d begun this contest with the notion of ‘winning’ a free triple soursop and rum. But now? With the chanting crowd and the fact his beefy opponent hadn’t already forced him down, the arm wrestling match had taken a whole new interest. Of course, the smile of the mocha skinned woman down the bar presented other motivations…

“Wrap it up, fellas,” the bartender-cum referee admonished. “I got thirsty customers.”

“Shiny,” the Greeter said. Yuri felt the man shift tactics. Suddenly, the match became a tale of two wrists, one pushing hard to flex the other backward, a move intended to ultimately drag the entire arm down to defeat. Greeter’s bulk was perfect illustration of his familiarity with both bar and barbell. His greater pectoral and arm’s muscle mass would, with patience, exhaust the mechanic. But what this weightlifter didn’t conjure was the wrist strength of a man who turned wrenches for a living. “Gorramit, kid,” the man grunted, “you on some kinda ‘roid?”

“Just clean living,” Yuri’s teeth gritted as he fought to hold his position. A tremor in his forearm told him this contest was moving toward an end, until the bartender swooped in to the rescue.

“Guys, you've got one minute,” the barman presented his watch. Sixty seconds. Go.”

Greeter heaved, pitting the full measure of his strength against the scrawny upstart. The sudden thrust nearly toppled Yuri’s resistance, setting his forearm to quiver as he rallied to blunt the assault.

“Fifty!”

The roar of chanting and laughter grew around them. As the clock ticked down, a flurry of betting ran through the crowd. Sweat was now rolling off Yuri’s arm, making his elbow’s purchase on the bar ever more tenuous. His wrist strength had bought him time, but now he was forced to lean into his trembling arm.

“Thirty!” the bartender shouted above the hubbub.

In traditional contests, both competitors’ free hands would grip firmly mounted pegs to help steady them. With none available, Yuri resorted to pressing a flat palm to the bar as he struggled to hold steady. A grim confidence shone in Greeter’s eyes as his massive arm began the final push.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!” The crowd picked up the count, their shouts echoing loud enough to persuade the band to take a break. The lead singer smirked as he tapped a selection into the bar’s jukebox. “Five! Four! Three!”

With a smile, Yuri relaxed his pressure. The Greeter’s arm did the rest, slowly pushing over and down, until the mechanic’s decline knocked the triple glass over. Howls of anguish and raucous laughter exploded in the air around them as the two men shook hands.

“Not bad,” Greeter was all grins as winning gamblers slapped his back. He scooped up the pile of coin as the crowd set to clearing up their own bets. “Now, drink up!”

The mechanic eyed the remaining tall glass. “Drink it?” he laughed. “I don’t even think I can lift it!” With a good natured chuckle, he hoisted the “Nancy Boy” triple rum and soursop to his lips, setting the crowd to a new chant.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!”

The glass steadily inverted, its’ bottom rising with each swallow, until Yuri held it aloft for the boisterous crowd. As if on cue, the jukebox kicked in.

Who’s Sorry Now?

As the crowd dispersed, Yuri thanked the bartender with ten credits. He thought to ask where the pool tables could be found, until his eye rediscovered the mocha skinned woman. With a grin to light the room, she patted the stool next to hers. “By my count,” she purred as he joined her, “you’ve knocked down six healthy shots of rum.” Slender, perfectly manicured fingers pushed a tall glass of water toward her guest. “You might want that.”

“I might,” he offered a grateful nod. “I’m Yuri.”

“So I heard.”

He laughed. “I guess you did. And you are?”

“Drucilla.” She offered her hand, which he accepted with a formal nod. “So, how’d you break that arm, Yuri? Lose another match?”

”She really is lovely,” he smiled as the answer rose to his lips. “A few days ago, I was a castaway, adrift on a stormy sea. Now, thanks to some really fine folk, I’m sailing through the black, with this arm to remind me of my good fortune.”

“Oh merciful Buddha,” Drucilla cracked wise. “A poet sailor. Tell me, does that line of la shi get you anywhere with the girls?”

“You tell me,” his playful grin answered. “What are my chances?”

“In the law of averages,” the woman smiled, “it’s a sure thing.” She hooked an index finger to beckon him close. As Yuri leaned in, Drucilla placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered her truth.

“Ohhh,” he settled back, nodding his understanding. “But how does that work? It’s at least twenty minutes’ walk to get back to civilization. When does the clock start?”

She crossed her legs, allowing the slit in her skirt to reveal a shapely thigh. “I can be quite generous with my time. Most are in a hurry, though, so I’ve got a little spot set up in the jungle.”

His eyes widened in mock terror. “The jungle? With the snakes? And the pumas? What about the pumas?”

Drucilla’s chin dipped, a subtle move that accentuated eyes whose gaze could ignite a man’s passions. “Treat me right,” she whispered, “and you won’t become puma food.”

“Sold,” Yuri smiled in return, his good hand fishing pockets for the agreed price. “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Please.” This time, Drucilla pressed close to Yuri, her hand falling to his knee as he whispered his desires. “Of course,” her smile was genuine as she drew back to face him. “I’d love to.”

“Alright,” he eased from the barstool. “But fair warning. The rum is really starting to hit. You may have to hold on tight.”

Drucilla laughed, looping her arm in his. “You’re not my first drunk. Oh…and since we’re being honest? While we’re out there, I’d like to hear more of your ‘poet sailor’ la shi…dohn mah?”

“Anything for the Queen of Pumas.” The band was still on their break. After a stop at the jukebox, Yuri and Drucilla strode arm in arm toward the dance floor.