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Franceza staggers back until she lands hard on her rear, stares up with eyes wide as saucers. "Figlio di pu-" Down like that, she crawls backwards further. Stops suddenly, starts giggling. "/Man/, am gonna have to snog that guy big time. Biggest trip every, no challenge."
Razorback steps out of his 'wreck', somewhat less aggravated than before, his ears up a bit now.
Altor takes a seat on the floor. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." he says with a grin.
"Startle..." giggles the engineer in the too wide shirt and too short pants, currently sitting quite unladylike on the floor. Glazed eyes won't leave Altor for a second. "Are you kidding me, I want this shit 24-7!"
Altor chuckles. "Name's Altor. Or, Mycerian Class Defense Automaton, Codename 'Altor' if you prefer. And you are?"
Razorback spots the unlikely pair and meanders over. This should be interesting. He watches the exchange curiously.
Franceza runs a hand over her face, grinning from ear to ear, confessing to Altor, "Wasted." Franceza's sat on the floor before Altor, still in Jane's too short pants, but in a new, if old, shirt. Stoned as a shrimp.
Altor pauses as if searching his memory... "Wasted... ah, yes. Under the influence." he says, finding the right data record.
"Hello again," Razorback says, nodding to both the stoned engineer, and the giant automaton.
The sleek black form of the Apollo swoops down into the docking bay, picking out the first empty spot that can fit a ship of it's size. Not too long after, pressurized air still blowing out of exhaust port does Vadim storm down the airlock ramp. No yelling or demands or anything of that nonsense, but he's making a bee-line for the Wreck.
Lifting a hand to keep Razorback at bay, Franceza runs her free hand over her eyes now, rubbing fiercely. "Quite. Not sure what he put in it but I'm lovin' every second. Morphing ships..." She barks a laugh, "Oh Madonna..."
Altor looks over to Razorback. "Heya, kitty. How's tricks?" he inquires, his optics watching Franceza curiously.
Razorback's eyeridge quirks up at Althor's greeting. "Lessss than ssatissfactorrry," he replies, somewhat grumpily. His mood sours even further as a familiar scent reaches his nostrils. He spots Vadim approaching and sighs, stepping away from the others for a moment. "I take it Zig carrrrrried my messssage to you," he says, his black-furred face expressionless.
A medium-sized Aukami transport ship comes in to land, a low hiss arising from the engines as she's powered down. Shortly after, the cargo ramp in her belly trundles open, revealing a short, skinny human female. Kestrel is stripped to the waist aside from a black strip of cloth keeping her decent, and is sheened in sweat. The Later is carrying a sizeable piece of cardboard with something painted on it in huge red letters, which she drops right outside the ramp: REPAIRS NEEDED. PAY GOOD. INQUIRE WITHIN. And then she disappears back up into the cargo bay.
"Oh da, I got the message." No cigarette, no booze, the Ungstiri is quite sober. "Are you outta your Demarian mind?" he starts, not letting difference in height deter him. "You have -any- idea what kind of position you've put me in? Both of you? I go to talk to a few people about making alliances and the next thing I know, I'm getting messages from the both, fancily worded I might add, to pretty much saying 'take my side because I'm right'." He looks away momentarily to spot Fran, and shakes his head before looking back at Razor. "You're making me choose. This is bullshit. You know, I know, and Mack prolly does too."
Bit by bit, Frank's giggles die and under so much attention, she scrambles to her feet, recatching her balance a few times while she's at it. Cautiously she reaches out to Altor, "You're shitting me..." she murmurs as the appearance of the others makes this less and less a trip.
Altor shakes his head. "Believe it baby... it talks!" he says with a grin. "Though I doubt you've ever seen my kind before. They died out millions of years ago."
"I am not making you do anything," Razorback says sternly, his ears swivelling back, "It is well-known how I feel on thiss ssubject. The rrrules musst apply to everrryone, orrr they mean nothing. I cannot allow thiss to be ignorrred." He sighs, shaking his head. "Do you not think I know the rrramifications of thiss?" he asks.
Kestrel reappears a short time later, this time lugging a bucket with her. It looks like it's heavy, whatever's in it. She fumbles with the unwieldy burden as she takes it down the cargo ramp, sloshing what looks to be dirty water on her boots and grumbling something under her breath.
The Phyrrian known as Dean exits the airlock of the Obsidian Dust, stepping down the ramp with a clank clank of each footstep. He reaches the ground, eyes observing the immediate area in a set of scans before he moves towards Razorback's wreck, observing those gathered.
"You're going to ask me, to stand infront of a group of Ungstiri and tell them we're working with Phyrrians?" Vadim states back, incredulous. "You may of the ideals of and morals of a saint, but not everyone shares your views. How much help do you think you'll get? Huh? Be realistic about this. You know what Ungstiri are like, hoop look at me. You have any idea what it took to accept their help? I -watched- Resilence burn. I saw millions of my tovariches die that day, and you think that my people are going to be able to look past in matter of two years. I want this just as bad as you do, but we cannot make everyone be friends. We -cannot- Not right away." the words are fierce, passionate, and angry. As a true Son of Ungstir would be. "I was willing to go along with them helping Mack build, every new alliace needs to begin somewhere. But Phyrrian ships over Materi Syna? Nyet, that is something I cannot do. Not yet. The wounds have not healed yet."
"Get outta here..." Franceza runs fingers over Altor's right arm unless he retracts it, a vague little smile fading however at the shouting match. "Fanculo, keep it down already. Discoverin' prehistory here!" Giggle.
Altor chuckles at Franceza, watching her check out his arm. "All real, down the the diodes."
"Which would you rrrather have, Vadim," Razorback replies, "Phyrrrrrrian sshipss with completely Phyrrrrrrian crrrews rrroaming about, orrr Phyrrrrrrian sshipss helping to defend uss with crrrews comprrrised of Phyrrrrrrians and my own men? Arrre you telling me that keeping them osstrrrascized ssomehow keepss you ssaferrr? Vadim, that ssimply does not make ssense."
The big Cliffwalker shakes his head, looking away for a moment before looking back towards Vadim. "Do you think I do not know what yourrr people have sufferrred?" he asks, "I watched the Krrretonians desstrrroy mosst of Ungsstirrr scenturrries beforrre you werrre borrrn. They alsso _descimated_ my worrrld and itss people. And that was not much longerrr forrr me than the Phyrrrrrrian Warrr was forrr you. I fought the Nall afterrr they attacked my worrrld, and losst my brrrotherrr. Who do we allow to help, Vadim. Who has no blood in theirrr passt? My people? SCerrrtainly not. Yourrrs? Harrrdly."
"If thiss is to worrrk, we musst be conssisstent in what we believe, orrr it sshall be worrrthlessss," Razorback says, "Have faith in yourrr own people, as I do. Gatherrr them togetherrr. Let Dean and I talk to them. I believe that they will take the higherrr rrroad, as difficult as it will be forrr them."
"Hrgk," Kestrel grunts as she sloshes more dirty water onto the ramp, then onto the docking hub floor. She seems to be headed generally toward a drainage grate of sorts in the floor. Her stick-thin arms are trembling with the effort of holding the bucket a mere few inches above the ground. "'Kari-cursed srzafrzagrkl..." The fact that she's cursing both under her breath and between clenched teeth makes her extremely hard to understand.
Franceza and Altor seem to be having a bit of a moment nearby, though the scene outside the Wreck seems to be the focal point of action, such as it were. Aside from all of the various things going on in a docking hub, that is. Alright, so the argument is probably going largely unnoticed as people go about their business, but it's still there. Dean is... somewhere, headed generally toward the wreck.
"Please show some discretion," Dean speaks firmly as he nears Razor and Vadim, "Perhaps another spot would be better?" The Overmind looks around, spotting Kestrel struggling with the heavy object. "One second." He jogs over to Kestrel, reaching a single hand out to take the weight of the bucket. "Need a hand?"
Leaving Sprocket on the job of keeping watch over Naoi, Anshera has decided to come out for some fresh air, such as it is. A look of sleepy boredom is plastered on her face, her time spent keeping watch over the injured crewmate quite uneventful. Not knowing that Kestrel's in the process of washing down the ramp the little fey steps carelessly out and slips on the damp surface, sliding the rest of the way down on her rear.
"Goddamnit!" is the only utterance that Vadim can coherently put together at the moment. "Where does it end then, Razor? What happens next? We ask the Nall? After everything that has happened, could you even look at Kretonian and not feel the urge to tear it's throat out, while at the same time trying to offer peace? This utopian paradise will won't exsist, nyet matter how much you, or I, or Mack might want it to. Races do not give up their old hatreds over night. It takes years, centuries maybe. We can't elminate all racial hatred in one sitting. We have to take what we can get, and be realistic about it. I'm not saying that they can't help, but you have to take in account the opinons and feelings of more than just us. This is a delicate matter, we can't just rush into it because know it'll work. It takes time and allowing a race that is so widespread hated is not a bad idea, it just shouldn't be rushed."
Feeling the rush slip, Franceza frowns and grimaces at Altor, then takes herself out of the equation, murmuring something about needing to find shit. Or maybe some doc. Or... She keeps to the edge of all the busy people, only pausing briefly to light a cigarette.
Kestrel isn't far from the ramp when the little girl slips. She's just looked up at Dean and is opening her mouth to snark (judging by her expression) when a few dozen pounds worth of scary little devil-girl slam into her from behind, causing her knees to buckle. The Later is bowled clean off her feet, ending up flat on her rear with her knees tented up over Anshera, and the now-empty bucket in her lap. The Later is soaked from head to toe, her dripping hair falling into her face as she hangs her head and gives a long-suffering sigh.
The Cliffwalker nods to Dean, turning to Vadim with a nod. "Yess," he says, "I would feel that urrrge. I have sseen Krrretonians herrre aboarrrd Comorrrrrro. Yet I have contrrrolled mysself. And perrrhapss you arrre rrright, but it will _never_ happen if ssomeone does not at leasst sstarrrt trrrying. I am willing to sstand down on the matterrr, but not until the attempt is made. Otherrrwise, yearrrs frrom now, people will look at what we did herrre and they will sscoff at ourrr hypocrissy, claiming to desirrre frrreedom and equality forrr all. Exscept those whose disstant anscesstorrrs hurrrt uss."
"Whoa," Dean says as he watches the proceedings unfold. He lowers himself down on one knee to take the dirty bucket away from Kestrel and set it aside. Next, he removes his shirt, wiping at her soaked hair a little bit, "A little too heavy huh?" He hands it to her so she can dry off. Next, he holds a hand out to Anshera to help her up. "You alright?"
Anshera is perhaps a little bit damn as well, the little fey wrinkling her nose and futilely brushing a hand over the front of her kimono. Her look of mild distaste remains as Dean offers to help, perhaps deepening a little bit even as she reaches out to take his hand and let him pull her up. There's no word of thanks, merely a comment, "You were the one She used as a springboard the other day. You were not as reactive as other Mortals." It's quite possibly some sort of praise mixed in with the misnomer than Dean's flesh and blood like the other people around.
Vadim blows out a breathe. "Again, I'm not saying that the Phyrrians can't help. I remember, but I'm also willing to work towards getting rid of these prejudices. It has to gradual, we can't just dive headfirst and expect the masses to go along with it. Look at from their perspective. If you were just another Demarian with no part of this, and one of your own said they were going to work with Kretonians to build a planet for Outversers, you'd be skeptical as hell, wouldn't you? We have to take it step by step." Sighing, he sets a hand on Razor's arm. "I -know- you mean well, I do. But you, me, and Mack can't be having arguments like this. Before we make other races work together, the three of us need to be on the same page." A small grin then. "Hell, how about next we work on Martians not being fucking xenophobic and Laters being tolerant of psi-races. Oh, then we should work on Sivadians and Solars not being so pissy at each other. If that's the case, we got our work fuckin cut out for us."
Franceza takes herself through a logical looking exit, leaving the shouting match and the cleaning crew to their own devices.
Razorback nods in agreement, "I agree. But all I am assking forrr is a chansce to trrry. If yourrr people cannot acscept it, I will keep the Phyrrrrrrian vessssels in rrreserrrve about the worrrld I disscoverrred. They will find itss lack of comforrrt ssomewhat lessss difficult than mosst otherrr colonisstss anyway. But at the verrry leasst, I assk that an attempt be made."
"Laters ain't got jack squat 'gainst psionists what stay outta our heads!" Kestrel hollers over, scowling. "Got three on m'crew, point'a fact." A sigh is given before she reaches for Dean's shirt, mopping off her hair with it. "...Uh... coulda jest got me a towel, y'know," the Later notes, grinning lopsidedly. She struggles to her feet and sighs, dabbing off with the shirt more. "Gonna be more bucketsa water, gotta whole lotta cleanin' ta do." Pause. "An' needa get a hatch fixed too, cause Miklos tore it clean off'a th'tracks. an' uh... threw it 'cross the engine room."
"If this is the closest thing to a comprimise that I'm going get, then I suppose I should be grateful." Vadim decides, now that tense part is over, he plucks out his smokes. "But -we-," he says, making a gesture between the two of them, "need to talk to Mack. He was more warry about this than I was and we need him on board. Or this isn't going to go well. There has to be a comprimise. We can't be having disagreements like this. We need to be a unified front if this is going to work. And it will work. Everyone just has to understand."
"The shirt was more convenient," Dean admits, and then points to the side of the docking hub, "They have cleaning hoses actually that are complimentary...Might be easier." The Phyrrian looks at Anshera, "Yeah, you caught me by suprise though. Didn't bother me much." A glance over his shoulder towards Razorback.
"Your surprise was reasonably contained." Anshera comments further, giving herself a little shakeoff as if she were an animal rather than people. Her nose wrinkles further and she reaches up to pat at her hair, "She supposes she will have to have another bath." Spoken to herself, the fey looks over to Kestrel thereafter, "You are not hurt, yes? One is afraid She slipped."
PS Hossy, Kestrel, Dean and Shera are at the Light's ramp, while Razorback is over near his Wreck.
Kestrel shakes her head emphatically at Dean. "Naw, don' wanna use a high-pressure hose inna engine room. It'll tear stuff all up. Cargo bay, sure, but I ain't got 'ere yet." The Later rubs a hand through her wet, lank hair, then sighs and scrubs at it some more with the shirt as she looks at Anshera. "Naw, m'a'ight. Li'l bit sore, but 'at's cause I stayed up late askin' our guest some hard questions, 'ey?" The Later flashes a feral grin at that, albeit briefly.
The Cliffwalker makes his way over toward the Aukam's Light, sighing quietly as he approaches. "My apologies," he says to Dean, "You werrre quite corrrrrrect."
"Ah, I see," The Overmind replies towards Kestrel, now standing barechested to turn towards Anshera,"Reasonably, yes you could say that." A one-eighty as Razor approaches, "Your doing all you can, friend, and that's all I can ask. And all I can offer. What's the plan then?"
"Quite," Anshera replies to Dean, his hand given a tug after a moment of thought, head canting as she stares up at the robot man, "She would like you to pick her up. You are all very tall."
"I ain't tall," Kes notes, chortling quietly. She wrings out her skimpy top the best she can without removing it, then tugs it back into place. A glance goes back into the cargo bay, and a surprised look crosses her face. "...Kanter's mercy. Reckon m'gonna needa hose ta reach 'at, yep." One would think that the dirty cargo bay wouldn't surprise her, as she's already walked through it. But *something* about it clearly did.
Razorback glances down at the fey for a moment before returning his gaze to Dean. "We sshall meet with the Ungsstirrri as planned," he says, "I have agrrreed that if we cannot convinsce them that thiss is a wise courrrsse of action, I will sstand down. Yourrr vessssels can rrremain in rrreserrrve on one of the worrrlds my people have disscoverrred. It is not a perrrfect solution, but I am confident that if we prrresent ourrr casse well, it will be resceived as ssuch."
Dean reaches down to pick up Anshera up with ease so she can participate in the conversation better. He holds her in one arm, nodding as Razorback speaks, "A good plan. And of course, your men are most welcome to help crew our ships for the time being at least. Perhaps we should host some class or the equivelant on organic-non organic relations, even I don't know what will happen if you throw a melting pot into the same ship." He looks towards where Kestrel is looking, the cargo bay, trying to see what suprised her.
Anshera settles one arm around Dean's neck, talons running harmlessly over his skin with restless energy. She takes a glance towards the cargo bay as Kestrel does, but her interest is lost but a moment later in favour of poking at Dean's cheek, "Your strength is considerable." She notes, "There was no effort to picking her up in the slightest."
Kestrel blinks and shakes her head, coughing a bit as she realizes someone else looked. "Uh... don' ask," the Later says, wrinkling her nose. "Toldja, I hadda ask some hard questions." She finally slings Dean's shirt across her shoulder and picks up the dirty bucket, moving gingerly back up the ramp. Whether it's because the metal surface is wet or some other reason is up for debate.
Anyone that looked that way would note that there are some very distinctive patterns of rusty-colored spatter on the upper parts of the bulkheads in the cargo bay. There's even a couple near and on the overhead. A couple of smears is all that remains below, ostensibly having been wiped away.
"It will be difficult," Razorback says quietly with a nod, "But we musst sstarrrt ssomewherrre. My men can learrrn firrrssthand the value of thiss alliansce." He then turns toward Kestrel, looking up towards the ceiling. "Ah," he says almost as if this happens to him all the time, "Mosst unpleasant. I may be able to get up therrre, if I might be of help."
Dean observes the dried splatters and then looks towards Kestrel, "Did you get the answers you seeked?" His attention goes to the fey, cradled in one arm somewhat, "You are also fairly lightweight."
"Quite so. Though you did not seem to show even the slightest sign of strain within your musculature as seems common." Anshera shrugs at this though, a mild gesture of 'but i'm no expert on this science stuff'.
"...No," Kes replies to Dean, sighing. "I knowed I was barkin' up th'wrong tree, so I didn't really 'spect ta get 'em anyhows. Felt a whole lot better after I was done, though." The Later puts the bucket down at the top of the ramp, turning it upside down as she does, and stops to pick up a cigarette and her lighter. On the way back down, she both lights the death-stick and shrugs at Razorback. "Eh. Cargo bay's kinda big, chief. S'a lotta scrubbin'. Don' wanna see ya break a claw, 'ey?" At this, she chortles quietly to herself and plunks down on the still-wet ramp. Hey, she's soaked, it's soaked, no big, right?
Razorback chuckles quietly, looking down at one paw as his claws snap out. "I doubt that would happen, but thank you forrr yourrr conscerrrn," he says with a fang-filled grin.
"I was built as such," Dean explains to Anshera, "I only look human." His attention goes to Razor's claw, "I'll have to protest...Most metals are much stronger than your claws there." A challenging, playful grin as he makes a scissor sign with his index and middle finger, "Kind of like how scissor cuts paper?"
Kestrel chuckles again, and shrugs. "Ain't gonna say no ta help cleanin' up," she replies. "But I wanna cig first." The Later takes a drag and pauses, pensive, before releasing it. "Kinda need a new spanner, too. Hafta go poke 'round th'tradeport later on, an' hope nobody needs it inna meantime." She looks aside to Dean, tilting her head. "So where ya been?"
"Ssome of yourrr anscesstorrrs would beg to differrr," Razorback tells Dean with a chuckle, "Anyway, I have ssome things to check on. I sshall rrreturrrn sshorrrtly."
Some time later...
Docking Hub - Comorro Station - Comorro Station
Comorro Station isn't exactly a station. It doesn't remain in any one place for a significant span of time. It is, in all accuracy, a massive starship - incapable of atmospheric flight - that has been roaming the stars on a voyage that some say has lasted for more than 90-million years.
The vessel is a Yaralu, a sentient spacefaring vessel. Her true full name cannot be spoken in a single day, but is shortened for convenience to Comorro. Several epochs ago, after her final era of fertility ended, she converted the gray-green ribbed chamber of her womb into a docking hub for smaller Yaralu and non-organic vessels. She made it known to the denizens of Hiverspace that she would serve as a neutral outpost for traders and diplomats. Use of energy and projectile weapons is prohibited aboard Comorro. Violators will be absorbed into the vessel's nutrient replenishment matrix. She is capable of monitoring almost all chambers within the station for illegal weapons, but some areas - such as the Forgotten Quarter - are lost to her neural pathways and sensory organs.
OOC: Please note, the Olympus is not readily accessable unless you know her co'ordinates, hired someone who does or arranged a pick up. If you would like to do the latter, please contact Olympus crew in order to arrange a scene. A list of crew members can be found on the wiki page.
This room can be tagged. See +tag/help for commands.
Tue Jun 15 21:03:35 2652 Contents: Badger Wolf Garviel Tin Man MacNamara
MacNamara returns the raised paw with his metallic hand. "Hello," he tells Garviel. "You work for Razorback, do you not? I think I've seen you before. But I don't think we've met."
"We've met," Garvi states with a slow nod, "You would not show me a starr charrt until we had been intrroduced," the Llivori states. His ears flatten slightly.
And speaking of the very Demarian, guess who makes his exit from the 'wreck' parked on the tarmac, reading through a page in his hand and talking silently to himself, almost as if practicing dialogue.
MacNamara Nods. "That's right," he says. "Excuse me for forgetting, it's been ... very chaotic lately. And what I was showing you was and is a closely guarded secret."
Those ears quickly return to their natural positions as Garvi dips his head, "Underrstood, I have been thrrough times like those," he states. He glances up when Razor appears behind him, "I have something to speak to you about, wheneverr you can find the time oh-fearrless-leaderr,"
The Cliffwalker stops as he looks up and sights both Macknamara and Garviel. Macknamara's greeting is a bit cooler than it has been as the Razorback offers him a dip of his head in recognition, then he turns to Garviel, nodding in greeting to him as well. "I have time now, Missterrr Fairrrsskinned," he says, putting his paper away within his cloak, "Have you had any luck?" The three seem to have met up near a nearly-wrecked Starfarer-class ship.
MacNamara lifts his chin rather than dip it as Razorback acknowledges him, and is equally wordless. "I will leave the two of you to it," he says, and steps back to resume his path towards the tradeport.
Garvi nods to Mack as the cyborg turns to go, before he glances back up at Razor, "Well, as you know I've been taking the scout out a good deal rrecently, and I appearr to have found something," There's movement from the Apollo. It's one tired looking Ungstiri, stepping out of the airlock and onto the ramp. He stands, pausing to light up his cigarette. Smoking more than usual lately.
"Missterrr Macknamarrra," Razorback calls as the man turns away, "Vadim and I have had a converrrssation you sshould know about when he nexst appearrrs." He then turns to Garviel, raising an eyeridge. "You found the location, then?" he asks.
MacNamara gestures to Razorback with two fingers, dismissively, over one shoulder. His path will take him past Apollo anyway, sooner or later.
"I did," Garvi replies with a nod to Razorback, the Llivori pausing for effect. There's a soft 'whump' sounding noise from inside his armor. Definitely his tail, "And morre, but that I fearr should not be discussed publicly...yet,"
Vadim is almost shrouded in a cloud of his cigarette smoke. And that's all he appears to be doing for the most part. Sliding his gaze to the side, he does take note of his two partners in crime and already he can feel his head start to hurt. Another puff, another exhale. "Mack, privet. Why, you're looking just -giddy-." he states dryly when the cyborg starts his pass of the Apollo.
Off in the shadow of the Apollo's underbelly, something stirs, and groans. The voice is low, most likely female. "...what in the..." It appears, indeed, that a wayward human has arrived at some point, and crawled under there to pass out.
Razorback bristles slightly at Macknamara's reaction, his ears laying back. He looks to Garviel with a raised eyeridge, though. "Did you now," he says, "Well, come with me, let uss ssee about finding ssomewherrre morrre prrrivate." He begins to head towards the Apollo himself, spotting Vadim and offering a nod to the Ungstiri.
MacNamara shoots Vadim a wry look. "Same to you," he says. "You smell like a shitty bar." He stops. "And you're popular today, I hear. So what's the word?"
Garviel nods, "Alrright," he states, the Llivori clanking behind Razor as he follows the larger being.
"Just a 'shitty' bar? I was hoping for 'Zangali' personally." Vadim replies, shrugging. "I'm not sure if that's the right word, but if by 'popular' you mean having a yelling match with a Demarian, then I suppose that'd be right. Either way, I made my point clear." he says, eyeballing the approaching Razor. "Didn't I?" Going back to Mack, he takes another drag. "The word is that I personally feel the same as you, but something like this I can't let personal motivation get involved. I wake up with my inbox with two mails, and I feel like I have to pick sides. I'll let you know right now, I don't pick sides. I told Razor earlier, if the three of us get our panties in a wad about something, we're not making progress. If we can't work together, this shit ain't happening at all, and we all know it. So a comprimise is going to have to work. And if we can't learn to compirse in general, then we're already hooped."
The groan from underneathe his ship, garners him a roll of the eyes and snort. "Great. Another drunk." he mutters, turning about to head under his ship. "Bar's closed, lady. Don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."
Alhambra sits up, ducking carefully as she snakes an arm out from under the Apollo to grab the battered khaki duffle bag that must have fallen a few feet away, pulling it close. "Every one all right? I'm a para... med..." Squinting out into the Docking Hub, the female human's voice cracks, trailing off to a faint, "...fuck me, Margaret," before she leans right back into the dark. There is a long, quiet pause after Vadim speaks, and then a grunt, as she once again levers herself into the light. "I ain't drunk, you..." She looks around, as though hoping that what she saw last time wasn't actually -there-, and her eyes alight, first on the cyborg, whereupon, after a brief struggle to process -that- image, she sees the Demarian. "...holy smoking head of John the Baptist in a rhinestone bowling bag..."
"We have come up with anotherrr possssibility," Razorback says, dropping in on the conversation uninvited, "Yourrr prrremisse has been that no one will acscept Phyrrrrrrian sshipss being used as parrrt of a defensse forrrsce. I merrrely ssay that we musst at leasst trrry. If we meet with the prrrosspectorrrs and I cannot convinsce them to trrry, then I will do as you ssuggesst. I can use the worrrld I disscoverrred as a militarrry headquarrrterrrs and the Phyrrrrrrians can keep theirrr vessssels therrre."
MacNamara exhales slowly. "Ah. Your military headquarters. My ships and a good chunk of my crew, but your military headquarters." He sets his briefcase down; he's speaking as quietly as Razorback is. "Vadim is right. If this is going to work, we need less 'I' and more 'us.' The Mare Tranquilis won't work, I would imagine, for much the same reason. If not Materi Syna, then some third place. And we will have to appoint a third party to work for us as the leader of our navy, or each of us pick someone, and those three will then get together and pick a fourth." He gives Razorback a long look. "I was never a politician. If Vadim insists on this deal, and you're convinced you can bring people onboard, then I will go along with it. But God help us all if you're wrong."
This conversation seems intense enough to distract MacNamara from the woman clambering out from under the freighter until she comes up with a creative curse to describe himself and then Razorback. At which point, he shoots her a wry look. "One more falls out of the dumpster of the multiverse."
Garvi pauses just a moment, glancing between the three of them, "My rreporrt can wait," the Llivori says simply to Razor. The badger-wolf puts his helmet back on, clamping it in place to obscure his face. Once that's done, the newly arrived Alhambra is apparently scrutinized by the armored Llivori.
"Another newbie." Vadim grunts, sucking back on cancer stick. "Off time jumpin, da?" the Ungstiri has what might considered a ancient Earth Russian accent. "So, what time you from?" he asks, looking to the other two. "Goddamnit, Razorback." he mutters. "This is a bigger gamble than I'm comfortable with. Hypocrisy be damned, I'm not interested in my reputation. So call me biast if you want. I'm not insisting on any damn thing. I just want something that all three of us would feel more comfortable in doing. Me and Mack prejudice against Phyrrians for damn good reasons. Going on just blind faith is a little hard for me to swallow and I'm being optimistic at best. So I'll lay it down now, what is each of willing to be okay with. Something needs to be agreed on. And I'm playing mediator because in the grand scheme of things, I'm going to be fine either way."
Alhambra stares for a moment at Vadim, spends a few extra moments staring at the cigarette, and clears her throat. "The eight-thirty flight to Fort Meyers." Her eyes widen somewhat at the scrutiny of the bipedal badger-wolf, and she draws back, defensively. "Damn, son... I don't think I made it."
"Forrr one who has neverrr been a politiscian, Missterrr Macknamarrra, you scerrrtainly have a way of changing the meaning of what is ssaid," Razorback says with a sigh, shaking his head, "If you and Vadim arrre unwilling to allow the Phyrrrians nearrr the holdings you have built and disscoverrred, I am willing to make scerrrtain that theirrr vessssels arrre not therrre, but available. A rrreserrrve, if you will. Unlessss, of courrrsse, I can convinsce the prrrosspectorrrs to give up theirrr prrrejudisce againsst them."
"I have rrreasons of my own not to trrrusst the Phyrrrrrrians of ourrr time, but these arrre not them," he adds, then suddenly realizes the presence of the newcomer for the first time. He must not be in very good nose today. "Good evening," he says, trying not to let it look out of place in the conversation.
Aukam's Light has been sitting quiet on the landing pad for quite some time with the cargo ramp open. Occasionally, water is sluiced out of it, obviously dirty. This behavior stops, however, shortly before a short, skinny human girl makes an appearance, descending the ramp. Kestrel is pretty well stripped to the waist aside from a black strip of cloth keeping her decent. The Later is whistling tunelessly to herself as she tosses a medium-sized spanner and catches it, letting it twirl in the air idly.
The spanner is bent noticeably in the middle. Oops.
"Let's keep talking, Razorback. I'll keep the Liberty Bell where it is until we reach a deal. We're getting somewhere." Mack clears his throat into his metallic hand. "No," he says to Alhambra, "You, uh. You're definitely a hell of a long way from Fort Meyers, wherever that is." He gestures between Garviel and Razorback. "Don't worry about them," says the massive cyborg. "They're cool." Leaving it unanswered: If they're cool, then what the heck is he? He, Vadim and Razorback and Garviel are talking near the Apollo; Alhambra is coming out towards them from under the freighter.
"I have duties to attend to," Garvi states in his normal low growl of a voice, before that helmet turns back to Alhambra once again, "I hope yourr trransition is not too overrwhelming, welcome to Comorrrro," he states. Finally, the Llivori turns and heads back towards Razorback's ship.
"At least we're talking." Vadim decides on. "I'm willing to give the Phyrrians more leeway when they prove that they can be trusted. They have a racial stigma they're gonna hafta to hoopin work at to get over." But his main concern is the woman that's still somewhat hiding under the Apollo. "You're fine, trust me. That's just one of the many things you're going to have to get used to, I guess. Look, I can tell you never seen..well, a non-human before, so that'd be what? Hoop my Earth history ain't ever what it as. So my guess is that you've made a two-thousand year jump. Or somewhere in that area, give or take a few centuries."
"Uh-huh," Alhambra responds, dully, her expression indicating that she is rapidly becoming detached from the situation. "Yeah, we're cool, right, 'cause I ain't Sarah Connor, right?" Working her face into a glassy smile for Garviel, she manages a thick, strained, "Thanks for that, er. Well. Fella. There." Raising herself to a more steady, standing position, she murmurs in Vadim's direction. "...hey Ivan, you got another smoke?"
The Cliffwalker frowns a bit as he is apparently not going to get the news he was going to, then turns towards the two humanoids. "I underrrsstand the why's of what you arrre ssaying," he rumbles, "I trrruly do. But I think we sshould at leasst trrry. That is all I assk of the two of you." He then turns to regard the young woman, smiling slightly, just the tips of his fangs peeking out. "What yearrr was it," he says, "When lasst you checked."
Kestrel keeps up her tuneless whistling and keeps on tossing the damaged wrench to herself as she gets to the bottom of the ramp and starts crossing the tarmac. "'Ey Razor!" she calls as she spots the Demarian. "Thought you was gonna help clean! What happened, ya get a hairball?" The inquiry's made goodnaturedly, and accompanied by a pert grin. She comes to a stop nearby and inspects everyone present, offering a nod, then blinking at Alhambra. "...Huh. Ain't seen you b'fore. Jest got 'ere?"
Her accent bears quite a bit of resemblance to a good old Southern drawl.
"The enduring questions," Mack says with a weary sigh. "Did you just get here, and what year do you think it is." He rolls his one organic eye and looks up at the overhead of Comorro's docking hub, itself the remains of the living starship's desiccated womb.
Vadim glances aside to Razorback. "These things take time. It will happen, but you can't rush it. Much like like hooking up with a new woman for the first time, not something you can just jump right into." Beat. "Unless they're drunk. Then it doesn't really matter because you're most likely not going to stick around till morning." he states with grin, all the while extending his smoke to Al. A lighter goes with it. "Da, it'll take some time getting used to. It's always a shock for everyone at first."
Alhambra attempts to stretch her shoulder, the muscles spasming. A fine sheen of sweat starts to appear around her jawline. She draws back a bit at the big cat's 'smile'. "1999," she responds, reflexively. "Flight 189 to Fort Meyers. Florida. United States of America. Water landing, although it looks like we frickin' crashed into Universal Studios. Yeah. I just 'got here'." With a grateful grunt, she takes the cigarette and lights it, pulling in a deep drag and letting the smoke billow out as she talks. "Yeah, shit... disorientation, narrowing of consciousness, tachycardia, hell. Figure 'dead' is a bit past acute stress, yeah? Where's my Handbook for the Recently Deceased? Ma said there'd be love and daisy chains an' shit."
"Amerrrica?" Razorback asks, "On the Norrrth Amerrican continent, yess I have been therrre. Beforrre it was blown out of exisstensce." He then turns to regard Vadim and Macknamara. "Give me until tomorrrrrrow," he says, "And we will ssee if the ssituation is as hopelessss as you ssay." The Cliffwalker finally looks to Kestrel with a bit of a grin. "I apologize," he says, "I will be rrright overrr to give you a hand."
The Later chortles gleefully at Alhambra's diatribe, shaking her head. "Y'ain't dead an' is ain't no studio, like," she replies. "S'twenny-six fifty an' we's in Hiverspace. 'At's all. An' don' worry 'bout ol' Razor 'ere. 'E's a big kitten." As if to demonstrate this, she leans up against the Demarian companionably. Kes pauses then, thoughtful. "Know what's good fer stress? Hooch. Got some if'n ya wanna nip'r two, yessir." With that, she looks toward Mack and presents the poor, abused wrench. "Know where I kin find one'a 'ese? It don' really work so good when s'bent like 'at."
"Oh no," Mack says. "You're not one of the dead ones. You were pulled through a rift in space and time and wound up here, two thousand years in the future, in an alternate universe." He grins. "What, you think we're angels?" He jerks a thumb at Razorback. "No way he's getting past quality control with those fangs. Plus, no wings."
The cyborg, presented with Kestrel's spanner, takes it and turns it over in his hands. "Wow. You did a number on this one." He twists it about until he finds the right angle, and *bends*.
"Da, pretty much. You can thank the Kamir for that." Vadim leans up against the bulkhead of the Apollo. "If this is the afterlife then I'm hoopin despressed." There's a moment between drags that he eyes past-born. "Look, it's obvious you haven't been here long, so I'll open up my ship for you to crash in. Nyet anybody is using it right save myself and my pilot." As if needing to point out the ship, he bangs on the black painted metal he's leaning against.
Alhambra fixes Razorback with a glassy gaze that gets progressively glassier. "...yeah, sure, I seen you in Vegas, right? Sigfried and Roy?" She raises a shaky hand to her forehead, still attempting to be jocular because, after all, the alternatives are far messier. "As much as I didn't think there'd be angels where I was goin'... a... a rift. In space... and time? Fuck me, what, like Star Trek? No, wait. The other one with the other nerds. Star... well, Starwhatthefuckever. Okay, so. Space marines. Sure." A breath, and another exhale of smoke. Absent-mindedly, she holds the lighter back out to Vadim. "Well. Shit, sure. You got an infirmary or something? I may need to lie down."
Razorback looks at Alhambra strangely, his ears laying back a bit. "I think thiss makes the fourrrth newcomerrr this month to go sstarrrk rrraving mad," he mutters, lookin around at the others.
Kestrel shrugs at Mack helplessly. "What kin I say? H'kaytis got hard heads," she replies. "Woulda used a bigger one but I wouldn't'a been able ta hit 'im as much." She *blinks* as he takes hold of the wrench and just bends it, her head tilting very slowly to one side. "...Uh. Reckon 'at works too." Still blinking, she looks up at Razor. "Got some'a it. Jest can't reach th'overhead, like." The Later grins at Vadim then, and turns to Alhambra while indicating the Ungstiri with a thumb. "Jest careful ya don' let 'im getcha drunk." That particular observation is punctuated with a wink and a sly grin.
MacNamara grunts. He holds the spanner out back to Kestrel. It's still bent a little bit, but not nearly as bad. "That oughta work," he says. "But I can loan you one the next time you come out to the Tranquilis ..." his voice trails off at Kes' innuendo.
Alhambra shakes her head, carefully, and makes what is obviously intended to be a dismissive gesture but gets a little unsteady at the end. "Nah, it's just acute stress reaction. I'll be fine in a few hours, if I don't wake up in a hospital somewhere before then, preferably -not- in the future." As she turns to follow Vadim, she shrugs at Kestrel. "Honey, if I'm dead, hallucinating, or lying somewhere in a coma, some Russian dude in a space ship is the -least- of my worries." With one last smoky exhale, she follows the Ungstiri onto the ship, still muttering in disbelief. "Fuckin' a, you'd think I could at least dream of Harrison Ford..."
"Alrrright," Razorback tells Kes with a nod, "Sshall we head overrr therrre now?" He nods to Mack then, "I hope to ssee you tomorrrrrrow."
"Fair enough," Mack says with a nod. "Until next time."