Difference between revisions of "Not Exactly An Interview"

Latest revision as of 19:17, 6 October 2013

Lobby - Red Eclipse, Comorro Station

You enter a small waiting area first, complete with a couple of couches and some magazine-laden small tables. A holo-screen on the central table cycles through the latest news-briefs, focusing mainly upon the assorted tumultuous dangers of Hiverspace. There is a clear polycarbonate wall between the waiting area and the actual room, so one can see what is within without being able to hear it.

Through a set of double doors is a much larger room; the front left-hand side is the training/workout area, also behind a clear polycarbonate wall so that potential candidates and clients alike can observe the available mercenaries in their natural habitat. Music is usually playing at a boisterous volume, the playlist consisting of bass-thumping, parent-offending, wall-rattling tunes from many eras and planets.

Beyond the training area is a door marked "Captain's Office," and a mess hall/break area separated from the rest of the room by a chest-high wall. On the right hand side of the room is the reception desk; just beyond that, smoked polycarbonate cubicle walls designate a private area for interviews and consultations. In the far wall, a door leads into the barracks.

Jocaira downright wriggles. "Yesssss, yessss. I like," she purrs, clapping her hands. "I like se sings sat burn. It makes people scream and everyone else run away. Een-cen-dee-ery. Like a dragon's breath. Yes. Fire is damage and demoralize. I very much like a fire. Eehn, Monsieur Kethren and 'is nice Baile people are not... liking se violence. Except for leetle cranky bat. Se Capitan Aina, I do no sink she likes us around at all. But c'est la merde, you want sings done, you 'ave to do sings to get sem done, ne?" Micky and Joca are talking over by the reception desk; he is standing beside it, and she is sitting atop it, legs dangling.

Jocaira

She is a mostly perky-looking human woman, somewhere around the younger side of thirty years. Long, shiny strawberry blonde curls bounce in a lively fashion down her back, framing a pleasantly featured face with a healthy tan complexion. She has a healthy sort of figure, 5'6" and about 140 lbs, pleasant proportions without any unnecessary exaggeration. A pair of roguish, exotic blue-green eyes, the color of a clear ocean at noon, rove from place to place and face to face, never lingering long, curious and observant. A bemused, sidelong smile often crosses her features. Small touches of color, here and there, a bit of pale paint about the eyes, and lips the color of faintly blushing wine, provide a carefully composed accent to her natural features.

Today, she is wearing a pair of double-black boot cut low-rise jeans, and a black and red jacket that seems to be a blend of both outverser and inverser style. The majority of it is a matte black, with a 'Red Eclipse' logo embroidered right on the left breast of the poly-blend material. Behind the fancy script is a dark red crescent symbol, with what looks to be a droplet of blood falling from one end of the slim half moon. The silver zipper in the middle is open to just about the center of her rib cage, revealing a fitted dark red microfiber shirt underneath. Her boots are sturdy black leather, with dark red laces and a chunky, treaded sole and raised heel. A braided leather and gold chain belt, along with gold hoop earrings, rings, and bangle bracelets jingle as she walks; accompanying the rhythmic sway in her step. She smells faintly of sandalwood and sea breezes, redolent of the sun and sand.

"Omelettes," agrees Micky before he shrugs and adjusts his field jacket. "The monsieur still owes me my armor. I'll see what else I can get a line on. Thinkin' for the ship, though, you goin' to have to douse your pyro dreams in the cold waters of practicality, boss. I'll wrangle up some good stuff, though."

Micky

This grizzled old dude has a hard bitten look to his weathered features. His hair is cut into an iron grey flat-top with the shaved sides of his head reaching so high as to closely toe the mohawk hairstyle line. His eyes are bloodshot but granite colored. His nose is squashed and red. He's got a couple of scars on his face but nothing too serious. The shaved sides of his head reveal a couple of more. Mostly, though, he's intact other than missing a couple of teeth. Anyway, he appears to be in his in his mid-forties, but it is kind of hard to tell. He looks fit enough to be in his mid-thirties, but he's roughed up enough to look like he's in his late fifties. About six feet tall, he weighs around the neighborhood of two hundred pounds.

He's wearing a pair of loose fitting, heavily faded and stained cargo pants which have a couple of rips but plenty of pockets. The pants are held up by a nylon belt. The t-shirt he's wearing has a picture of a giant yellow smiley face with the words 'Have a nice day' stenciled around it. Over the t-shirt, he's wearing a field jacket sort of thing. He's got a second belt slung about his hips which packs an old school .45 in a leather holster and a beat up kukri in a nylon sheath along with a more traditional bowie knife. He's got to even out the weight distribution, though, so he's also got a tangler pistol strapped on. It's entirely likely he has more small weapons about his person. He looks like that kind of guy.

James Sterling comes in from the tradeport and pauses by the entry doors, taking in the room and its occupants. "G'day," he drawls.

"Ehnn, I know. Thermite is no for spaaace," Joca says, in a tone that indicates she's probably been told this before. "But... can you get maybe... se red smoke? And maybe... what is it called. Small flame? Just for maybe minor burn as opposed to many degrees?" She makes a flapping gesture at him. "Why do you just no wear our suit? Sey are good. Maybe you put too many new-fangles in it..." There is another perk, much like when 'grenades' were mentioned, when the Aussie drawl is heard over the muffled thumping from the workout room and the general conversational hub-bub from the mess. "Eeee, is Monsieur Esterling..."

"Uh, I dunno. Probably will. Just seemed like a good idea at the time," shrugs Micky after a pause during which he may or may not have been thinking of and discarding several other answers. "Probably can get my mitts on them." He then turns to give James a, "Howdy."

Sterling casts a toothy grin upon Jocaira. "G'day, ma'mselle," he offers, ducking his head slightly. If he were wearing a hat, he'd tip it. The grin recedes as he regards Micky. He gives the grizzled old mercenary a nod in greeting. "Not interruptin', am I?" he asks, looking back to Jocaira. "I heard this was a good place for a soldier t'get some work."

"Sometimes!" Joca perks to Sterling, hooking one leg over the other in a practiced gesture. There is a brief moment of eyebrow-working before she parses out Micky's answers. "Well, you can get one now and sen wear your custom one when it is done, Mickee. Is no, 'ow do you say, sat big of a deal." With a clatter of rings, she waggles her fingers at Sterling. "But non, you are no making interruption, unless you are afraid of grenade, whish I do not sink a fighting man is, ne? You want maybe to tell Monsieur Mickee and I what you can do?" This is punctuated by a 'tee hee' that does not entirely match the subject matter.

Sterling chuckles. "Nah," he says, "grenades're part o'me everyday." He approaches within typical conversation distance. "I owned and commanded a small military corp," he says, "until I was rifted out. We're special forces trained. Me, I trained with the Aussie SAS. We get sent t'places th'regular armies don't get sent 'cos it's too dangerous. With my lads, we did security gigs until the Rax showed up. Nothin' like a band of wild men rippin' through a city full o'civilians like it was a bloody buffet. The local cops couldn't deal with 'em. I was tryin' t'get hold of a minigun before we found a nest of 'em." He frowns. "That was where I got blown up and got sent here."

Jocaira squints at Micky. "Well if you like I can stop giving shit about your opinion so you can keep up carefully constructed reputacion of not being team player, but I'd really raser not waste a mind," she says, sticking the tip of her tongue out between her teeth. "What do you mean frog anyways you are no French." That handled, she turns her attention back to Sterling. "What is Rax? Enemy tribe or some sing?"

With a what can you do sort of shrug, Micky says, "I'd howl all dramatic like to prove my lone wolfishness, but I'm tryin' to let you do serious business, boss. It's hard on a fellah." He reaches - slowly - for a back pocket and produces nothing more dangerous than a flask which he uncaps and drinks to get himself through.

Sterling grins at Jocaira's comments to Micky. "The Rax're a group o'thugs," he explains. "Hopped up on some kinda mega-drug, some new thing. They're damn near impossible t'kill. Y'shoot 'em an' they keep comin'. They're bleedin' out an' they're /still/ stompin' their way toward ya. It's like they don't feel the pain or somethin'." He grimaces. "An' what's worse is they got a taste for human flesh." His right hand reaches across to rub at his left bicep. "Bloody monsters is what they are."

Jocaira eyedarts briefly at the part, perhaps oddly, when the talk of 'taste for human flesh' is mentioned. "Welll... sose sound -scary-," she says, sounding -mostly- genuine. "Sere are a lot of drugs in se 'ivairspace, but I would sink one sat would make people into crazy murderer would not get er... 'ow do you say, good repeat business? Nussing we eat or drink makes such a rage. Or, what is it. Immunity to pain. Nor 'ave we ever faced such. But, ehn, does not mean sey do no exist. 'ave faced giant spidair, sough, and monster dogs sat are 'ard to see, annnd, well all mannair of people, and sings sat can make psionique powairs, and robots. So, what is sis S-A-S? Is it like se one from se Britain of Earth?"

Meanwhile, Micky pockets the flask about as slowly as he produced it. Then, he sets about picking at something stuck between his teeth. Somewhat inappropriately perhaps but whatever. At Joca's last couple of questions, he offers a slight sidelong nod that way.

"Some people'll take anything if they think it'll get 'em somethin' they want," Sterling replies with a shrug. He makes a face at the mention of giant spiders. "Ugh, at home, spiders're nothin' t'mess with. But they're usually smaller than yer hand." He pauses. "Usually. The SAS, yeah, it's like Britain's. Special Air Service."

Jocaira purses her lips, thoughtfully. "...do you 'ave probleme wis, er. Proper drugs? Like, from se doctair? Nussing, I promise, sat makes se 'omicidal rage. Is -very- bad for morale. Also se spidairs are -very- big. Like... big as... a dinghy. Or, what is it called. Truck? Van? Very big. But we don't go to B'h-ira often anyways. It is very cold." She flicks a glance to Micky, dredges a cylinder of toothpicks from the depths of her cleavage and rattles it at him.

"I /know/ where those have been," alleges Micky as he backs up a step or two and jams his hands in his pockets. "I'll just brush 'em twice tonight."

Sterling shakes his head. "Nah, regular medicine don't bother me. I'm a soldier; I've been given all kindsa things fer pain or whatever." He fails to completely suppress a shudder at the description of the size of the aforementioned spiders. "Too big," he states. "Too too big." His attention is abruptly seized by the appearance of the toothpicks. His gaze is riveted on the container, then its most recent home, for a moment before Micky's response reminds him of the existence of other things. "Um," he adds, wrenching his gaze back to Jocaira's face with considerable effort.

"Mickee do no be such a big baby sey are in a containair!" Joca scolds, continuing to rattle the cylinder before making a "Paaaaah" noise at him and shoving it back down her front and clearing her throat. "Is okay we do no 'ave any giant spidair on staff. Sometimes we go wis one free lance but 'e is lot of fun. Er, so, what about recreation medicine? Is okay? And drink? We... we drink 'ere. Eat, drink, be merry, yes? Is good for morale. Well, not everyone drink, some people are fussy about it but as long as you don't go and try and make people stop drinking it should be okay." In the back ground, one of the mercs gets up from a table at the mess, presumably for seconds, and returns to find that not only is his seat taken, but his drink has also been appropriated, too. A mild scuffle ensues, including one calling the other "a bloody Pikey" and the other threatening to "stoat" the first bloke "in the wallies." It doesn't seem to bother anyone else, and ends with both combatants crammed into the same seat like squabbling siblings and the disputed drink walking off with a passing Zangali. "Hrrrm," Joca says, paying the kerfluffle barely a passing glance. "What else? Do you 'ave any... probleme wis... working wis people who 'ave genetic engineer? Psionique? Cybernetique? Certain species? Well, usser sen giant spider, I add sis to list."

Other than looking horrified at the concept of people trying to make other people stop drinking, Micky doesn't have a whole lot to add here. He does recover enough from that initial shock and indignation at the idea of keeping people from drinking to point and laugh at the duo paired up in the chair. "Amateurs."

One of Sterling's eyebrows lifts in a curious-but-disturbed expression. "You warn me when yer big spider's about the place, yeah?" He grins slowly at the scuffle in the mess. "Bit like me lads," he says quietly, chuckling at the name-calling and the ultimate ownership of the drink. "I gotta find out what happened to 'em," he mutters. He looks back to Jocaira, pausing to remember what she asked him. "Drinkin' don't bother me none either," he adds, with a glance to Micky. "If it's fun an' it don't kill ya, it's okay with me. Far as that other stuff... I dunno. Never met anybody with robot arms or ... or ..." He waves his hands in the air. "Mind readin' or whatever. I already met an old fox man on Baile who was real nice. He was definitely a fox man, though." He shakes his head. "So weird."

"Bollocks to you, ya soggy old twat," Bren yells from the mess, although it is somewhat muffled by the fact that he has most of Rennie's forearm in his face. Rennie, the aforementioned 'pikey,' just waves at Micky and prattles something to the effect of "Tain'tnothin, geezer. C'mon, tiltonebackwitus."

Joca nods, ignoring the 'boys'. "Oh, yes, I will make se effort to warn -everyone- if Monsieur Clank is around. 'e is... big, an' very boisterous. Will be 'ard to miss. But, good. Eh, what else. Well, I assume you will no 'ave probleme taking orders from a woman, and you already know I am primitive... you 'ave no much probleme wis mercenaire, obviously... also I don't sink you are going to 'ave moral objection, but it is good to check... I 'ave a lot of boys. Mostly -not- boys who work for me because I sink it is unprofessional, but I did bring a few of mine into se fold when I 'ad to drive off being taken over by corporation."

"I'm tryin' to be respectable," Micky hollers at those in the mess. Then, he goes over and starts making faces on the clear polycarbonate wall that seperates the groups. While he does get up to some strange window licking antics, he does have the common decency to keep his pants on.

Sterling shrugs. "Don't matter t'me who y'get up close an' personal with," he says, smirking. He laughs at Micky over at the see-through wall. "Love, you got some real live ones 'ere," he drawls through his laughter. "I'm a soldier," he says seriously, returning his attention to Jocaira. "I work fer pay. You gimme an order, I follow it. 'Cos I don't expect y'keep yer personnel if y'toss 'em into the fire fer no good reason. If y'did, y'wouldn't have an org. Same with me. Me lads were like me family. We looked out for one another, y'know?" He points to the mess hall with his bearded chin. "They scrap like kids, but they're t'gether on the field, when it counts, yeah?"

"Whysa?" Rennie replies, continuing to sit on the protesting Bren. "Capndinnaelooliketha'sabiiigwiiig. Looslikeyeraveragejohn." Bren finally manages to shove Rennie onto the floor. "Sounds like an' Aussie," he says, peering over with a territorial expression. "At least 'e ain't some toffy shitehawk. Don't like the way he's eyein' her." "Baaah, shetap, yegotyerownknobnow, feck." Apparently, the 'pikey' is content to sit on the floor, unwilling to give his perpetual rival the pleasure of his annoyance.

Joca just grins, gold flashing from a few capped molars and one gold-reinforced canine tooth. "Good. So. Usser sen 'whatevair I want,'" and she giggles inappropriately there, "What are you best at doing ne? Usser sen leading, whish is good, but of course."

"Yeah, ex-SAS," yells Micky at those in the darkest depths of the chowhall. The rumor mill gets started, "He says he used to be some merc in Belgium that specialized in huntin' down mutant vampire zombies! He had his left arm replaced with a mini-gun, but somehow it didn't come across when he rifted! He likes the fox people! It's kinda creepy, but you know, we're acceptin' and modern and all that!"

Sterling grins toothily at the inappropriate giggle, arching his eyebrows momentarily in an equally inappropriate manner. He opens his mouth to answer Jocaira's question when Micky begins shouting at the men in the mess hall. He listens for a moment and his expression performs a slow series of transformations from mildly amused through confused to resigned. He closes his mouth, shakes his head, and then shrugs, sighing. He rubs at his forehead with his fingertips. "Er, well, I'm a great shot," he replies to Jocaira. "Qualified Expert an' all that. At 'ome I knew mostly all there was t'know about any kinda small arms weapon y'handed me. Here, well, I guess I'll have t'study up a bit. I mean this is the future, yeah? With ray guns an' spaceships an' all that. Dunno much about that." He smiles. "But when it comes t'weapons, I'm a right quick study, t'be sure."

"Aw fookin' -Belgians-, really? What d'ye mean, -likes- the fox people? He ain't a squirrelfucker, is he?" Bren grouses, in his absolutely gutter-bottom British/Sivadian accent. He gets up to get a new drink, and Rennie hops up into his chair without skipping a beat. "Waharrfookinzombies? At'satouchabadassinnit? Heheh. Wouldntwannadamnminigun onmearm. Paah. Hoow'dyewriteyernameinnasnoow, eh?" There is now, however, an increase in the curious glances in that direction as though waiting for Sterling to do something impressive.

Joca flicks the tip of her tongue over that gold-backed canine tooth and continues giggling inanely. So much for professionalism. "So, aah, if I were to offer you a... job, ehn? Would you want full time, or se part time? Would you be needing se room and board? We 'ave standard armor for you to wear when on duty and we can provide good connections for weapon. Also we 'ave medical included. You would also need to pass aptitude test, you prove you can do what you say you can do, and sen live combat test as well."

Micky spins away from the window and offers up a cheesy grin while displaying doubled thumbs up tucked in close to his chest. He, apparently, is content to let the rumor mill simmer for the time being without adding any more fuel to the fire.

"If you got room fer another full-time soldier, I'm all for it," Sterling replies, still wearing that grin. "An' yeah, I'll need a place t'stay." He inclines his head to Micky as the old merc turns to face him again. "Mate," he asides to him, "yer a right mess, y'are." He chuckles. "I'd love t'get outfitted right," he continues to Jocaira. "An' o'course y'wanna check me out, make sure I got what I say I got." The grin becomes a leer briefly as he gazes at Jocaira. "Gimme the when an' th' where an' I'll be there," he adds, resting his right hand on the butt of the pistol holstered at his hip. "With bells on."

Jocaira leers back, in a manner that likely confirms any rumors that said Captain indeed has a 'fella in every port' and is prone to behaving in a rather male manner. "Aah-haahn, okay sen. I will show you around, give you chance to see what we 'ave, make sure it is what you li-ike, and in couple of days we will 'ave nice aptitude test prepared. You are familiar wis virtual suite technologie?" The mess hall gets back to its hustle and bustle, trickling down to an 'off-peak' level of traffic primarily consisting of people (and things that are also people) having coffee, desserts, or some combination of the two. "Nhee, bells," she says, intelligently. Or whatever the opposite of intelligently is. Behind her back, she surreptitiously makes a rude gesture at Micky.

Wearing a pretty crummy expression of baby faced innocence as comments and rude gestures are directed at him, Micky just says, in a mild as milk sort of way, "Foxy lady."

Sterling nods. "Sounds good. I dunno about this virtual suite stuff though. Like I said though, I'm a quick study. An' I'm eager t'please."

Jocaira's response titter falls to the depths of mindlessness, and her be-ringed fingers drum out the guitar riff to 'Foxy Lady,' via Jimi Hendrix. She hikes herself smoothly to a standing position. "Well, you can make crash 'ere for se next couple of days for your evaluation period, no need for you to 'ave to bunk down in se shelter? Get some decent food in you, maybe make use of se work out room, as you please." She grins again, the bridge of her nose crinkling with the force of her amusement and mischief. "Give me somesing to watch, ne?"

Snickering under his breath, Micky heads out to scavenge some chow from the mess hall now that the crowd has died down. He ends up with a strange combination of left overs piled into a single mass in a serving tray. He stops long enough to douse his concoction with plentiful amounts of hot sauce before ducking away in the barracks. He's forced to return a couple of moments later for a fork. Then, he's gone for real.

Sterling's grin hasn't faded yet. He looks Jocaira up and down appraisingly. "Be a pleasure," he says, extending his hand to her to shake. "A pleasure makin' yer acquaintance, an' a pleasure t'work with ya, I'm sure."

Jocaira takes the offered hand, and still grinning that coyote-wide grin, replies, "But of course. Very much a pleasure. Shall I... show you to a bunk, sen?"

"I'd like that," Sterling says quietly.

Jocaira keeps the offered hand in her own grasp, albeit loosely, and saunters on through the facilities. "Mess is over 'ere, workout is sere, virtual suite is srough sis door... annnd, sat one is my office... I bunk sere... -You- will be bunking sis way." The curious glances follow.

Barracks - Red Eclipse, Commoro Station

The barracks are split neatly down the middle of the room by a tiled hallway, with clearly marked accommodations for males on one side and females on the other. Doors at intervals lead into multispecies bunks, locker rooms, and the showers/refreshers. The walls are adorned with weapons and armor of many kinds. In the rear of the chamber is the infirmary, storage area, and a small workbench for equipment maintenance. While spartan in appearance, the barracks offer a reasonable amount of comfort and are sturdy enough to handle the rough and tumble lifestyles of the resident mercenaries and staff.

Sterling happily allows Jocaira to lead him into the barracks area, ignoring, or perhaps oblivious to, any curious glances being sent his way. He gives the area a cursory glance before returning his attention to Jocaira. "Looks good," he opines.

"Any unmarked bunk on se male side is yours," Joca says, seeming to silently revel in the curious glances and palpable clouds of innuendo. "Feel free to 'ave showair, get clothes wash. Bunk works easy, get in, controls are above pillow, and you can pull outer door shut for privacie? If you ehh... -need- anysing, you just drop by my office, yes?"

Sterling nods, ignoring anyone else in the room who might be looking. "Thanks," he says. "If I do," he adds with a toothy grin, "you c'n bet I will."

Jocaira titters again before waggling her fingers and jingle-sauntering her way back towards the main room. "See you, sen, Monsieur..."