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| - This massive round pad is suspended over the sheer gray mountainside. Wind whistles around the weathered structure, which shows little evidence of recent, consistent use. A protective railing serves as a meager barrier to the panoramic view of the rocky mountains that the outpost clings to. Far below and sprawling along the base of the peaks, a rich growth of navy blue pine trees covers like a blanket. A small lake is also noticable among the pine forest immediately below the outpost, reflecting the green-tinted sunlight. The sky itself is a tumult of green plasma tentacles, wrapping across the sky like a fantastic spaceborne highway with the flaring emerald star of Volir at the center. A small structure has been built of the rough gray stone of the mountainside. It stands near the stairway which pierces the protective railing and leads down the mountain. Through its thick plastic windows several Vollistans can be seen; they politely check to be side no visitors to the planet carry psi blockers with small handheld devices they carry. Another crazy look at Nix. That's two he's racked up in the Jay department today. "I'm not made o' money," the pirate chuckles. "Or time, or crew, goddamnit." Reaching over one shoulder, she employs her rolled-up parchment in a role it was never intended for -- a back-scratcher -- while she ponders the wreckage of the Cause. "Wasn't plannin' on payin' fer a good chunk o' th' parts," she informs Ace after a moment. "Or rather, I was plannin' on bein' reimbursed." Built like a bird and maybe fifty kilograms soaking wet, this rangy young humanoid female looks as if she's seen better days. One vibrant green eye sparkles like the waters of Regreb beneath butterfly lashes, but the other would appear to be missing altogether, replaced by a simple black eyepatch. The better part of the left half of her face is marred by a series of grotesque scars which tear several brutal, blackish-brown lines from mid-forehead to nostril and from ear-to-ear along the apple of her throat, combatting the soft features of her squarish, freckled face. Spilling to the small of her back is her glossy auburn mane, straight as nails and bleached ever-so-slightly by the sun. Both ears bear a ladder of three studs which descend to a single gold hoop dangling from either lobe, and her hair is tucked behind them, bound in place by a solid black headscarf whose tails flutter to the small of her back. Her top is scoop-collared and sleeveless, its ebon hue broken up by the glint of silver dogtags strung around her neck and the dusty olive field jacket slid lightly about her slight frame. Low-slung cargo pants show wear about the knees and pockets, and her boots aren't much better, the black leather scuffed and stained and laces frayed. Her left arm is wrapped from the elbow down, tight enough for security but comfortable enough for long fingers to move freely. At a glance, she appears to be armed. A holster housing a small firearm is strapped just above her right knee. "Reimbursed by who?" Ace asks Reilly with a frown. Looking to be in her late 30s, Ace is tall for an Ungstiri, an inch or two shy of six feet, but the way she carries herself gives the impression of even greater height. She is rather broad shouldered, and, though lean of build, very well muscled, with a healthy tan that accents her perfectly smooth, unmarred skin. Her movements are smooth and graceful, like a panther ready to spring at any given moment, every step an economy of motion with no energy wasted. Her face is partially hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, high cheekbones framed by a curtain of long, raven black hair that falls to the small of her back and shines softly in the ambient light. She is dressed in clothes that look as if they've been cut to fit her, her white shirt blousy at the sleeves and open at the throat, neatly tucked into loose fitting pants of midnight black. The pants, in turn, vanish into leather boots, dull black and soft, that reach two thirds of the way up her calf. Close at hand she carries an energy pistol that is slung to hang about mid-way down her thigh, a narrow strap binding the bottom of the holster to her leg just above her knee. At her other hip, a nightstick hangs through a leather loop at her belt, her fingertips often brushing against its grip. "Why, Ace," Jay chirps, moving to catch the Fauxite by the hands as if to sweep her into a dance -- she twirls herself, if possible, "our b'loved Imperatrix an' 'er Battleclaw, when we BRING 'em things." And her features are set alight with a lunatic, wolfish smile. Ace holds Reilly's hand and graciously allows her to spin under her arm, "Things, they have changed a bit since you have been gone. We are not so much in favor with Demaria at the moment, or did you not notice the wreckage of the Faux lying unanswered in her desert?" Kit emerges from the Everstar for the first time since its return, blinking and looking mildly irritated by all the natural things of the world she is forced to endure now that she is outside the cozy, artificial environment of the ship. An unnoteworthy face is framed by haphazardly cropped black hair; short and bristly near her neck, with the longer locks above feathering every which way in wayward wisps, some long enough to fall into light brown eyes. Slender and lanky, the young woman's exact height is hard to estimate due to a habitual, defensive hunch of her shoulders, though she falls obviously between five feet and six. A loose, long-sleeved ivory shirt with attached hood is drawn over another; the bottom garment's dark blue hem peeking out along the collar and the bottom edge. Faded blue jeans, thin and comfortable from use, half-cover battered sneakers. The question, and the train of thought Jay thusly boards, clearly does not lead to a happy destination. She deflates a hair, countenance falling steadily. "Well..." she falters somewhat. "I mean... I read th' NEWS..." Of course, there are some things in the Outside which might provide nearly enough recompense for the effort of disembarking. Spying the distinctive figures of Jay and Ace, Kit makes her way down the ramp and straight toward them. "Bah, am not saying we cannot make ourselves useful," Ace says, frowning a touch as she sees Reilly's enthusiasm dim. "Is only that we can no longer count on Demaria for such things." She nods to Kit as she approaches, "Look who has decided to come out of her cave," she grins. Jay does not appear satisfied with the lack of explanation, and gets halfway through prodding Ace for the full story before Kit comes grumping on over. "You stink," she opines to the cyberwitch. "Ye needa go change yer clothes, bollocks. Did ye see what I bought?" Gesturing grandly with her rolled-up blueprints, she indicates the totalled heap that is -- or rather, was -- a midsized freighter. "I have been working, not slumming," Kit answers acerbically with a narrowed look toward Jay before she turns the same look upon Ace with a muttered, "Do not encourage her." Finally, she turns to face the large metal contraption indicated and asks in a deliberately bored tone after a pointed period of silence, "What is it?" "Will let the two of you talk shop while I go make certain Raz, he has taken his bath and gotten to bed," Ace says, looking between Reilly and Kit. "Will talk more tomorrow, da?" She smiles at Razorback on her way to the streak, patting his arm on the way by. "Da svidaniya, everyone." Razorback's ears fold limply against his skull a bit as Ace passes him in the Streak's hatchway, but he offers her a faint nod. "Ssleep well, Captian," he says, a sigh escaping him as he returns his attention to the landing pad. He spots Reilly and a slightly grim expression comes over him as he begins to pad towards her and Kit, his tail twitching restlessly. You see a tall black spectre that resembles, on closer inspection, an immense (over seven and a half feet at least), bipedal panther. With the exception of a dark red line that runs from snout to tailtip, this Demarian is jet black; his mane is grown long, down past his shoulders, impeccably combed and tied back with a wrapping of leather. Grey eyes contrast his fur color with a grim intensity, seated in a chizeled leonid face. There is a proud, but not haughty air about the felinoid, showing in his gait and his bearing. His massive frame and powerful limbs are encased in a billowing pale yellow shirt that gathers at the wrists and a pair of dark red trousers which tuck into his footwear. His heavy, digitigrade boots each seem to have three evenly spaced holes cut in the front of them. Over this is a floor-length, velvet coat that flairs out at the knees, adding to the Demarian's feline grace when he moves. His clothes are manufactured from expensive, but worn fabrics, somewhat faded and threadbare in places. Only their excellent quality has allowed them to last as long as they have. The clothes covering his upper body seem far more tight than they should be, indicating some kind of bulky garment beneath. "Such a bloody mum," Jay comments with utterly feigned disdain at Ace's back as the good kapitan departs, though she doesn't appear to have taken note of Razorback's arrival on the field yet. Glancing back to Kit, she answers flatly, "it's a ship, goddamnit, don't gimme that." Flicking her wrist, the scarfaced scoundrel offers the free end of the rolled-up parchment to the other woman. "THIS is what I been doin' while ye jerked off on blinkin' 'ancock." Kit snorts, loudly and derisively - obviously milking the moment for all it is worth before finally accepting the rolled schematics and spreading it out to eye with a jaundiced look. Only to blink and then peer at the diagrams with a sudden interest as she actually absorbs the items sketched out. "It must have been *all* you were able to do in that time, considering all that you have crammed in here," she mutters, but the retort is half-hearted as appreciation of what she is looking at grudgingly steals over her features. "Go suck off a scaleback, Kittianna, that's workable an' ye KNOW it," Jay shoots back, woefully unaware of her own success at impressing her arch-rival and therefore -- agony! -- unable to relish in it. No, she leans in closer, tracing her finger along the draft as she speaks. "Look there. What d'ye think? Starboard compartment's a bloody wreck, bollocks, blinkin' slagged th' outrigger all ta shit, but see? She's dual-load, but if we jus' forfeit some cargo space -- completely take out this cabin 'ere, midbay -- like this -- might be we coul' outfit portside engineerin' right nice an' blinkin' rewire 'er inside an' out ta operate outta there. Get what I'm sayin'? Problem is, she's got this bloody fossil where 'er goddamned onboard comp coul' be, an' fer some unknown bloody reason they stuck a buncha wires inta that rock and blinkin' 'xpected 'er ta run. Bollocks. That," she stabs at the sheet with a fingernail, "is where I need YER 'elp, wot?" Razorback shakes his head with his ears folded back tightly and decides against turning around, instead, continuing until he reaches Reilly's side. "Good evening, Captain," he says, trying to get the irritated edge out of his voice. Kit, having squeaked by that dangerous bend, certainly isn't going to be enlightening Reilly after the fact as to the brilliance of the design-work now that she has full control of her reactions again. "I hope someone else shops for groceries on your crew...I would not want you picking the ripe fruits from the rotten," she mumbles, frowning as she simply crouches down to lay the sheets flat upon the ground so that she may trace the thin lines and type with a finger. All else on the landing pad visibly fades from her perception as she considers this new puzzle. "I can install an Ariel system in here," she abruptly pronounces with a scarily gleeful grin. Well, *that* name gets a reaction. "Ariel," Jay spits the name out as if it were spoiled milk, her green eye dilated and the size of a dinner plate. "I said I needed a better COMPSYS, not a SADISTIC BLOODY AI. Raze," she finally addresses the Demarian, beckoning him with a crook of two fingers, "disembowel Kittianna." The Cliffwalker looks back and forth between the two women, his arms still folded. His ears twitch in confusion until he finally sighs in resignation. "Captain, I would sspeak with you if I could," he says. Kit turns a bland look upon the Demarian, patently unimpressed, before sweeping up the schematics and tucking them under her arm as she stands. "I suppose, for free room, board, and entertainment in the guise of insulting you whenever I drop by, I can be convinced to leave out the electrocute-Jay-whenever-she-curses module." "I 'onestly don't even know," Jay muses with an exaggerated squint at the woman, yanking her schematic back if she is able, "why I even talk ta ye. Christ." Regardless, there does not seem to be any real agitation behind her end of the banter, despite the harshness of the words chosen. Furrowing her brow, she rolls up the parchment -- assuming she has it -- and lifts her chin to peer up at Razorback. "Somethin' wrong, me fine furry friend? It's not that 'AIRBALL thing 'gain, is it? 'Cause ye shouldn't eat Nix's grass ta cough it up." "In fact, it is not," Razorback replies with a snort of amusement, most of the tension having fled from his body by now. "It is actually about the inscident herrre lasst night." "Because heaven knows you would not find quality saracasm anywhere else," Kit drawls, allowing the papers to be retrieved without cmoplaint - simply giving the other woman a small, vulpine smile. One that reminds Reilly that she had most likely already memorized all the key aspects of the ship's restoration...and that no doubt she would find it remiss if she didn't stick her fingers in the process directly. This time, the harshness is very real. Jay's jaw sets resolutely, and she meets Razorback's words with a brooding frown. "What 'bout 'em, mate," she prompts evenly, her verbal warfare with the security specialist abandoned altogether, for the moment. A glance flicks hither and thither, mentally ticking off anyone within earshot of the Cause. "I would prrreferrr a lessss ... public location, if you do not mind, Captain," Razorback says, some caution in his voice. What mirth was in his expression disappears for a more business-like attitude. Kit arches a brow as she looks laconically between the two. "Well, I suppose I should tour Ariel's new home in person to ensure that everything that it needs will be accounted for," she muses, turning on a heel to head for the wreck. Jay shrugs her shoulders, watching Kit go through half-lidded eyes and scratching at her scarred neck while she weighs the request. In the end, it would appear she has no compunctions about leaving the cyberwitch to her own devices within her starship, junked or no, and the former captain offers palms to the heavens when she looks to her onetime crewmate again. "Lead on." Razorback nods, turning towards the wrecked starship and vaulting up onto the head of the boarding ramp before ducking through the hatch. His tail twitches erratically as he disappears into the battered hulk. "Oh-kay, guess we're followin' Kit," Jay observes, mostly to herself, the rare usage of the Sivadian's nickname rolling strangely from her tongue. Kit walks ahead of them, giving no acknowledgments that she registers Razorback's following, except to adjust her pace to match theirs as they enter the decrepit hulk. The huge airlock assembly fills the aft section of the ship's primary hull, with a large boarding ramp opening downwards and a dorsal hatch swinging upwards and away to allow oversized loads aboard. The space is wide and deep enough to hold a pair of cargo vehicles. Each surface is rugged and industrial, framed by hydraulic struts and reinforced metal panels. A large set of pressure doors leads down into the cargo bay, while a steep ship's ladder leads up into the ship proper. The lights are set at their dimmest level, simulating night and signifying the last watch of the day. Well, the airlock is intact, more or less, save for some scorching and dents in the fore hatchway and a rope ladder -- presumably hand-fashioned by Jay -- where a steel one should be. Oh, and a big hole in the deck. "Watch yer step," the owner of the heap warns, maneuvering around the yawning chasm which plummets below decks and into the cargo bay. Kit walks up to the edge, peering down into the depths before walking around its lip. "Love your ideas for the decor," she remarks as she follows the others. "Very modern. Are you going to be putting in a pond, too?" The Demarian has little trouble navigating either hole or ladder. "Sshe has a grrreat deal of potential," he says, a hint of mirth in his voice as he follows Jay. "That's where I kick uppity programmers what put 'omidical flyin' ferretmonkeys on me bloody systems monitor," Jay fires back, hefting her butt up onto one of the struts and crossing her legs at the ankles. "Alright. Whatcha got fer me, fuzzball." Kit smirks but does not settle for her own perch, but begins to explore more deeply into the wreck's exposed nooks and crannies, correllating what she sees with what she remembers from the schematics while listening in unabashedly to the meeting. Razorback leans back against a bulkhead , turning to meet Reilly's gaze. "Asce has assked me to help herrr with keeping orrrderrr amongsst herrr crrrew," he says quietly, "Thiss is no easy tassk, as all have gone thrrrough a grrreat deal, and ssome feel that they arrre no longerrr rrressponssible forrr acting ... well ... rrressponssible. I have come to assk that you rrrefrrrain frrrom ssuch epissodes as that which took plasce lasst night. If therrre arrre futurrre alterrrcations herrre, the Vollisstans may assk uss all to leave. As therrre arrre childrrren aboarrrd the Ssilverrr Sstrrreak, we arrre doing ourrr besst to avoid thiss." Jay stares at the Demarian outright. "Raze, mate," she almost laughs, disbelief stealing over her features, "d'ye 'ave any blinkin' idea-- th' GRAVITY o' what 'appened las' night?" "What happened last night?" Kit chips in, crouched on the edge of a strut near Reilly, one hand braced against the bulkhead, and completely heedless of the drop down to solid decking below as she examines some half-mangled panel and the wiring revealed behind it. "Prrrobably not," Razorback admits with a faint nod, "But what I do know is that you had a weapon trrrained on an unarrrmed man and could have been arrrrrressted. The two crrrew memberrrs of the Ssilverrr Sstrrreak who werrre therrre could have been taken as well. In the end, a thorrroughly unpleasant ssituation all arrround. If you tell me what caused thiss, I would be glad to help howeverrr I can, but my rrrequesst sstill sstands." True to form, some degree of irritability begins to take footing in Jay's tone, capitalized in a brusque, "I understand yer request," and a jerky dismissal of said request with a flutter of her perpetually-bandaged left hand. Leaning back against the dirty grating, she folds her arms across her chest, summing up the situation for the both of them. "That 'unarmed man' came outta nowhere -- found me in all that crowd -- and knew me name right off th' bat. Me OTHER NAME," she elaborates. "'e said 'e knew I was Mika Tachyon, bollocks, an' started yellin' all britches-an'-fuckin'-knickers" -- she takes a moment to wave her hands about -- "'bout 'ow 'e wanted ta know if I really DID buddy up with Volari in th' blinkin' ATRV scare, an' 'ow th' Demarians inked that deal with us in th' war, an' gee-golly-whiz 'e sure was bein' right bloody LOUD 'bout it, bollocks." She is gesturing angrily now, sharp chopping motions and dramatic waves with each hand. "'e knows an awful lot 'bout Ace, too, an' th' Doc says 'e was sniffin' 'roun' th' Osirians. Minin' fer info. Knowin' things 'e shouldn't." The Demarian's jaw shifts to one side as he considers this information. "In that casse, I do not fault you forrr what you did," he says, his ears folding a bit, "But if you musst do ssuch things, can I at leasst assk you to do them _quietly_ and in a way that does not drrraw the attention of law enforrrscement?" "And you did a bloody fine job of shutting him up and keeping attention off the issues in your own brilliant way, eh?" Kit remarks, though the look she slides toward the other woman is unusually considering, lacking the usual inflammatory slyness. "Where is he now? Did you at least get a name?" "Vasco Coelho," Jay supplies. "Wald'eimer, 'e says, think 'e's got this big ol' blinkin' grudge over th' slug epidemic. Th' media played up Jackal as bein' in Volari's pocket when we fled Ungstir. Might be 'e's got it out fer me," she ventures further, adding with a shrug, "might be 'e's in cahoots with Arnassis. 'e was sniffin' 'roun' th' Streak, too, that one. Christ knows 'E wants a piece o' me..." Kit shakes her head, glancing one last time at the wiring before she pushes herself away, casually walking down the beam toward an adjoining girder. "Just can't leave the rogue behind, can you...I like the atmosphere in here, Reilly. I don't think you should change a thing." "I underrrsstand yourrr ssituation, Captain," Razorback replies, his voice calmer now, "But rrreally, on the Landing Pad? I would think you of all people would know betterrr than that at leasst. If you musst kill him, then at leasst have the ssensse to do it quietly." "I don't do ANYTHIN' quietly," Jay snaps, and with a toss of her head to glare in the general direction of Kit's voice, she adds with annoyance no less palpable, "an' some of us don't got new bloody lives PLUGGED RIGHT IN." Kit halts upon the beam, turning with an acrobat's sure-footed balance to face Reilly with the ghost of another woman's smile. "I could teach you...I'm sure Haskins would be happy to accommodate the request, on the house," she purrs, the words honed to a much more dangerous edge this time than their normal banter. The Demarian's eyes flick back and forth between the two women until he gives up with a frustrated grunt. "Captain, what purrrposse would it sserrrve to get yourrrsself arrrrrressted. You would sstill not know wherrre he got the inforrrmation frrrom. You arrre an intelligent woman, I am scerrrtain that you can find a lessss public way to deal with the prrroblem." Jay endures Razorback's lecture with all the resentment and defiance of a sixth-grader trapped behind the unyielding doors of the detention hall... but somewhere toward the end he begins to lose her, and the sweet stink of dread settles about her, subtle but very much present. Her brows lower and green eye searches for the Kit-but-not-Kit among the overhead rafters. "Not funny," she calls out, every syllable sounding out the extent of her dislike of this turn of events. "Bring back Kit." "Why? If you don't want to play nice, why should I? Besides, it's always much more fun playing with you directly than through some vicarious second-person perspective," the woman amongst the steel girders drawls, eyes narrowed in callous amusement as she clasps her hands behind her, tipping her head toward the Demarian. "But the poor kitty's trying to be all earnest-like and you're making him sad. Sad kitties are a crime in this universe. Would you like me to take care of your little problem for you? I'm sure it shouldn't take long to track down Mr. Coelho." The Cliffwalker's gaze shifts upwards into the beams for a few moments, listening to the humanoid up there with confused concern. By this point Jay is tense, on the edge of her makeshift seat, visually tracking the silhouette as it glides above. A sidelong glance flickers to Razorback, and she unconsciously lifts an arm as if shielding him; a nonverbal /leave him out of this/. "I dunno, Tannia," she responds. "Ye offered ta 'take care' o Arnassis an' 'ere 'e bloody well is, still bein' a snoop, with one less goddamned finger. Might be yer losin' yer touch." The Kit-seeming tilts her head, crouching down to one knee, one arm braced negligently against the other one before she bares her teeth in a mirthless smile. "Is that a challenge? Maybe I can start from there and just take him one piece at a time. Something else interfered, and then he just didn't seem that important anymore." Her gaze flicks toward the Demarian at Reilly's gesture, and she gives a derisive snort. "Ah, Mika, it's always amusing seeing you jump into mothering-mode. Make sure you've got your head on straight and your chicks in a line, hm? I've got my own life these days, you know. Can't be picking up after yours all the time. There's some things I still want to do before I give the finger to my maker personally." The Cliffwalker sighs quietly, shaking his head. "Thiss is all indeed fasscinating, but I am afrrraid that I have otherrr matterrrs to attend to," he says, shifting his weight forward as he moves towards the pit that lies in wait before the airlock, "If you would at leasst conssiderrr what I have ssaid, I would apprrresciate it. I have no wissh to consstantly be worrrrrrying about who is sstarrrting a brrrawl orrr a gunfight. I am not againsst you, Captain." With a barely noticeable crouch, he leaps lightly over the hole in the floor, coming to rest all but momentumless on the other side. "Raze--" Jay starts, the very beginnings of a plea, but she eventally just lets him go, to be attended to at a better time. When she looks up again, it's right on cue to meet that wicked Cheshire smile. And the scoundrel just scowls back at it. "Don't matter what I gotta say 'bout Mr. Coelho, or anythin', does it," she accuses, "yer jus' gonna do whatever th' 'ell ye bloody well feel like. Don't ye dare get Kit 'urt while yer doin' it." The shadowed gaze follows the Demarian's leap with mild interest, waiting until he is well on his way to departing before returning its attention to the woman below her. "You know, I wanted to bust out laughing when he said you were intelligent. But maybe you've got at least a smidgen of smarts after all. And you're adorable when you get all concerned over us, you know that?" she notes with an over-bright smile. "Clashes completely with your lifestyle. I'll let her know you cared." Reilly is on her feet, having slid down to plant boots on the gridded metal. "What would YOU know 'bout givin' a damn 'bout somebody?" the spacer asks. "You CAN'T. Yer fundamentally incapable. Yer a speck on a computer chip in a goddamned lab-grown meat-sack tuber, an' th' only blinkin' person that'll 'old a bloody civilized 'uman conversation with ye 'thout goin' fer that bit 'tween yer legs is tellin' ye ta get lost. At least I CAN do somethin' bloody crazy an' contrary ta me goddamned-- what'd ye say-- lifestyle." Tannia sucks in a slow, hissing breath as her eyes narrow before she gives a slow, remonstrating cluck of her tongue. "I must say, you've outdone yourself, Mika, Jay, bitch, whatever you're calling yourself these days...glad to see we still know each other so well, even after the hiatus. I suppose you'll be glad to know, then, that you won't have to put up with me that much longer then...one year. A year and a half, tops. The infrared range of our vision's already degrading...what's next? The memory? Motor control? Maybe our ability to control the switch between us..." She smiles with intimate menace. "It's been fun, luv." And between one blink and the next, the smile vanishes, and Kit grimaces before she looks away, seeming uncomfortable and vaguely...apologetic. "She made herself a nuisance again, didn't she?" Revulsion and terror twirl a double helix up Jay's spine until both are apparent in her face for the duration of Tannia's tirade, and she takes a single step backward, as if that short distance somehow creates a barrier between them... but she doesn't go for the gun at her side. And when it's over, it's over, and the tight-nocked rogue lets the tension drain away, visibly relieved by the re-emergence of the cyberwitch. "Not yer fault," Jay assures her, likewise averting her gaze, before turning away altogether. After an uncomfortable moment, she remarks, "I got... I got 'alf a mind ta shoot this galaxy with all its bugs an' robots killin' ev'rybody left an' right th' bloody ol' bird, an' jus' work on fixin' you." With the rogue's back turned, Kit's expression wavers; softening in a rare moment of regret before she straightens and makes for the closest path back down to deck-level. "Better stick to saving the universe - it's easier," she retorts, trying to restore their more comfortable banter. "Besides, you have more than enough drowned kittens to look after out there. I will bet you a bottle of the best Cognac out of the Black and White that the whole lot out on the landing pad have worse survival odds than I do right now." "I used ta manage th' Black an' White," Jay reminds the Sivadian, tucking her hands in her pocket and sending a familiar -- if somewhat grotesque from the myriad scars -- and lopsided grin over her shoulder. "An' I wouldn't bet anythin' on their cognac." "Is that so? No wonder I always stuck to the Brown Label," Kit muses as she finally hops the last few feet down to land lightly upon the deck. Tilting her head as she eyes her sometime-friend, she asks, "What happened to your face? Would you like that fixed?" she asks with offhand courtesy - as casually as if she might ask if Reilly would like some tape to mend a tear in a piece of paper. A small laugh shakes Jay's wiry little frame, and she fidgets with her eyepatch, not adjusting it so much as just plain fiddling. "Some people coul' consider that a great topic for d'bate," she admits, a certain hollowness entering her tone then. But that's not the weird part: the weird part is when she actually slides the patch aside to reveal not a dead socket, but what appears to be a flap of discolored, sickly-looking skin. More horrifying is when she picks at it, a nail finally catching under a thin sheet after a try or two, though peeling it all away does not prove to be an obscene test of Kit's tolerance for gore. Instead, it reveals the other green orb, fully intact, hidden away under a phoney-baloney masque of elaborate stage makeup. "I don't need 'bove Nature," she remarks, once and if her companion has taken a look. "Only th' marks on me neck an' back're real." Kit does grimace, but the expression is more of one for Reilly's seeming poor taste than in true distress when the woman pries about the distorted skin. But when the facade is revealed...she grins in rare appreciation for the disguise. "I will ask you about the real ones some evening, then, over what you *would* be willing to bet on from the Black and White. Your aim's going to be off if you keep the eye covered that long," she remarks as she heads toward the hatch leading back outside. "Well lucky you," the not-so-scarfaced rogue quips, rearranging the facial elements of Jay Reilly back into place. "Guess I'll miss when I finally snap an' blast yer ass." Thusly re-re-constructed, she carves a path through the debris, around the gaping maw of the cargo bay, and toward the main hatchway. "Morgan forwarded me coordinates. We can leave anytime over th' next few days, when yer ready," she calls back, raspy voice bouncing off the corridor's thick walls. Just before the hatchway ker-thunks to signal her departure from the ship, Jay pauses, footsteps abruptly halting, and yells back: "Ye can set up Ariel in th' meantime." And slam.
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