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| - Cafeteria - Demaria Orbit - ........................................................................... This simple, square room is divided into two roughly equal sections. On one half there's a small kitchen and food storage compartment. The cooked food is laid out, buffet-style, in hotplates near the kitchen. The other half consists of two long metal tables and accompanying set of benches, all bolted down. The ventilator filters work noisily in this room, attempting to remove all the particles of grease and food from the air. ........................................................................... Through the busy station the trio goes. Down the lifts to the fourth deck and along the passage, threading their way through the off-duty crew to enter the cafeteria. Dinner is still being served for the workers, with cooks and kitchen aides tending to the food line quickly and efficiently. Mika takes up a tray and a roll of silverware and starts loading on up. "So," she begins conversationally, looking to Boomer, "'ow long y'been workin' fer 'thena?" Mika Voluptuous, curvaceous, well-endowed: these are all words that are completely inappropriate for this humanoid female. Capping off at about five and a half feet in height, she's a rangy little alley cat with a decidedly cocky air about her. Swinging just about chin-length is her straight sandy blonde mane, framing a face that is a sickly pale but bear a scattering of freckles common to one who at some point spent a great deal of time in the sun. Standing astride a small, beak-like nose are a pair of large, vibrant eyes, their sea green irises every bit as expressive as her thin lips and generous mouth. She's wearing a deep bluish-grey hoodie and a pair of ragged jeans. The former is about a size too big and printed with fiery, stylized red and orange dragons, the latter cut off carelessly at mid-thigh. On her feet are knock-around leather sandals, old and battered. Her loyalties can be picked out in the modest sapphire and diamond ring ornamenting her left hand and the jackal tattoo inked on the connecting wrist. Torr walks out of the lift and along the corridor that leads to the cafeteria, his pace matching Mika's. He too takes a tray, and steps into line behind his partner, cigarette lifted to his mouth with the hand which doesn't hold the tray. He remains silent for now. Torr This man is fairly tall, broad in shoulder and deep chested. He has green eyes, which always seem to be sharply attentive to the situation at hand. His hair is fairly short, and rises in dark spikes over his forehead. His face is tanned to a golden tint, and it is marked with a few scars which never saw enough medical attention. The most noticable scar is thin, though runs about two inches down the side of his face from below his eye to just above his chin. He wears a blue button up shirt on his torso, the top few buttons left undone. It reveals his well tanned skin, as well as a silver chain - about a centimeter wide. Over this shirt he wears a heavy black jacket, which appears to have metal plates woven into the thick fabric. Hanging from an eyelet at the shoulder of the jacket is a sheath, utilitarian knifegrip protruding. Around his waist is a leather belt, a few compartments hanging off of it. Slung low on his left hip is a black holster, the butt of a gun sticking from it. He wears gray pants, they look tough and descend down his legs. On his feet are black combat boots. When his sleeve rises or his arm is bared, a tatoo of a Jackal's head can be spotted on the bottom side of his wrist. "About a month or two." Boomer responds, picking up a tray and silverware, falling in line behind Torr. "Shit's not bad most of the time." He studies the row of food from his distant position, frowning thoughtfully. Boomer A broad man, muscle beginning to replace fat, but still far from skinny or in peak physical condition. A beard, trimmed very recently, surronds a somber pair of lips that seem to be caught up in a frown. Dull brown hair has been greased, slick back on his skull, sideburns trimmed to ear length. A comm ear piece sits in his right ear, the only electronic equipment he seems to be carrying right now. His clothings are standard citizen stuff, black shirt, blue jeans, running shoes. At his belt, a long black stick hangs, an activation button set near the handle. Mika loads up with generous helpings of dribgib stew, a sweet summer salad tossed with grilled jestleahna, and a whopping corn muffin the size of her fist. Snagging a carton of milk from the end of the line, she hovers around the others and waits for them to finish before moving to one of the long tables. "Yeah? Y'like it?" she asks. Torr snorts softly, flicking some ash from his cigarette with a deft motion of his thumb. Forget healthy food, Torr piles his plate high with several pieces of straight fried dribgib. He grabs a bottle of some sort of juice from the end of the line, moving along toward one of the cafeteria tables. One helping of dribgib stew, two helpings of dribgib stew, filling a pair of bowls, and heading to fill another when one of the kitchen aide pulls the spoon out of reach. Boomer glares at the Demarian, but doesn't argue, grabbing a pair of sweet muffins to throw on the side and some sour bread. He also spots Torr's chosen prize, filling a plate with fried goodness, then grabs another plate of lathered fat." He glances down at his plate, and if he isn't happy with what he got, he doesn't have much of a choice. The last little spot is reserved for his drink, grabbing a bottle of water, muttering something about cutting carbs before heading to join the pair at the cafeteria table. Apparently, Mika takes Boomer's lack of response as a negative, not realizing that her words probably went in one ear and out the other while the fat man lost himself in the trance of hoarding vittles. She takes a seat alongside Torr, popping open her milk and fixing the Athenaut with a vaguely interested smile. "What'f I toldja we coul' offer ya somethin' far more... ah... lucrative?" Torr leans on the table, both elbows supporting his weight. He sets his cigarette aside, it still smokes slowly. He lowers a hand, lifting a piece of fried dribgib to his mouth. He chews and swollows, chasing it with a sip of the juice. "Who the fuck doesn't like lucrative," he muses. Boomer looks up, setting his tray down on the table. "You tryin' to recruit me?" Boomer ask, sounding suprised. "Here I thought you didn't fuckin' care for me." The rotund human chuckles, opening his bottle of water, not touching his food yet. "I'll fuckin' hear you out, anyway. Ain't gonna hurt me." "Fifty gran' fer a day's work," Mika says simply, sniffing at the milk before she has a taste. Torr nods slightly at this. He rubs greasy fingers against his thumb, the universal sign for money. "How the fucks that for not hurtin' you?" An eyebrow goes up, dipping his head toward his stew, blowing on it to cool. "What you fuckin' want?" Boomer stuffs the stew into his mouth, tasting the food, before dropping it back into the dish. "The fuckin' retro, I bet?" Mika has a glance around their immediate area before she leans in, her face inches from Boomer's. Her eyes narrow and her raspy voice lowers to but a whisper. "Three samples. S'all we ask, bollocks," she tells him as quietly as possible. "Jus' get inta that medbay an' get us jus' that li'l bloody bit. An' y'got me word that y'll getcher dough." Torr nods slightly at his partner's words. He leans in as well, staying with the conversation as it goes more quiet. He takes another bite of dribgib, silent while Mika speaks. Boomer takes a bite out of his fried dribgib, "Shit's pretty good." He saids, speaking with food in his mouth. "I like Ranix and her crew. It's a good job. What I don't like is some of the restrictions. You want 'em, promise me a job and the check, and you got a deal." The sea-green eyes of the Jackal's captain travel sidelong to her partner, communicating hesitation at the counter-offer, but it's a hesitation that does not last long. "There're three bloody cap'ns in on this, mate," she negotiates, "an' I'll blinkin' see t'it that y'ave yer pick've any'a their crews, bollocks." Torr takes another bite of the dribgib, chewing it down and then adding more juice. He remains silent still, though a frown flashes across his face. He lifts the cigarette and takes a drag, then exhales. "Lots of fuckin' cash to be made amung the three, 'less it for us. Fuckin' repairs." He shakes his head slightly. "You can afford to pay me fifty 'kay for three testubes, though? Don't fuckin' insult my intelligence." Boomer responds. "If I get fired for this, I want a job with one of the other fuckin' ships. If I'm to much of a burden for you, then maybe Ace." He starts cutting up his fried dribgib, focusing his attention there. "Now that you got your answer, mind if I eat?" "I said y'd 'ave yer pick, an' I goddamned bloody well meant't," Mika retorts to Boomer. "M'a lot've things, but a liar ain't one've 'em, bollocks." She draws back a bit to make steady eye contact if possible, then leans in again to issue further hushed instructions. "As soon's yer done eatin', I wantcha t'fin' a Mystic named Katriel. She's with th' Faux, mkay? She'll 'elp ya. She might not look like much, mate, but she's blinkin' mustard." "Met the bitch. She knew her way around gears." Boomer responds, still busy cutting up his fried steak. "And as for you," He looks over at Torr, "Fuck you." The man shoves a fork into the dribgib, spearing it ruthlessly. "How's Kat supposed to help me? Ranix got the shit on security four, crew recognition and biooptical scan is the only way in." He keeps his voice low, about the same volume he's used since they sat down. Mika finally shovels a bite of stew into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully and stabbing her fork in Boomer's direction to indicate that she has a response ready and waiting once she swallows. "Kat's clever'n she's a powerful psionic, bollocks, an' she'll watch yer back, mate. Jus' trus' me on this one." Another bit of milk, a wipe of the whitish 'moustache' that accumulates on her upper lip, then she's speaking quietly again. "Th' second y'got't, get on th' Gen Space chan an' broadcas' 'I want a beer', a'ight? When we reply, means we're good t'go an' y'can 'op 'board with either me'r Ace an' we'll get th' 'ell outta blinkin' Dodge." Torr snorts, "I'd rather fuck Mika, thanks. I'll take a pass on that one." He takes another drag from his cigarette, then sets it aside. He takes another bite of the fried demarian dish. "And you're crew. So what the fuck's the problem gettin' that shit anyway? Easy plan. Not hard." "I'm crew, yeah, but shit ain't easy. I don't spend alot of time in the medical bay due to the work by the doctors. Ain't fuckin' impossible though." Boomer shrugs again, looking over at Mika. "A'ight, you gotta fuckin' deal. Good cause and good fuckin' money. What's not to like." Boomer snorts, stuffing his mouth again. "I would like a fuckin' beer, come to think of it." A smile of pure satisfaction spreads across Mika's face once the deal is sealed. "Good show, mate, righty-o," she praises. "Finish eatin' an' we'll booze y'up as much's y'bloody like, wot? We ain't Ranix." A cheeky wink. "One look't our liquor cab'net'll tell y'that." "We got cases," Torr comments, smirking slightly. He takes a swig of the juice, as if wishing it were beer. "Well, fuckin' stocked, don't worry about that. So fuckin' finish up eating there chubs, lets get a move on this shit." Boomer nods absently at the pair, not taking offense at the nickname the pair are using for him, digging into his food. It's at this point that Mika rises, making it perfectly evident that she was never hungry in the first place, and opening the talks with Boomer the only way she knew how. Through his stomach. "A'ight then," she acknowledges, "we'll be 'waitin' yer call, mate." Without further ado she crosses the mess hall to empty her tray into the trash can, slide it into the autobusser, and make her way out. Lift - Demaria Orbit - ........................................................................... Cast of dark grey metal and reinforced structural ribbing, the freighter's lift system is utilitarian rugged and grimly pragmatic. Diffuse light from ceiling panels above provide a pale illumination, casting dull shadows across the wall access panels and tight gridwork flooring. A row of sturdy handholds are provided for anchorage, and a line of green telltales follow the lift's motion. A small reinforced keypad sits next to the polished doors, directly below the lift directory. ........................................................................... Katriel looks around the lift, and then looks at Boomer. "So... Ummm... You wanted to talk to me 'bout somethin'?" she asks curiously. Katriel You see a young Mystic, and may even mistake her for a child at first glance, since she is only 5'2". She is wearing a pair of well-worn moccasins, faded jeans, and a cropped button-down shirt that matches the pale lavender of her eyes. The jeans are patched with a curled up kitten on one knee, where they have apparently been worn through, and the sleeves of the shirt have been rolled up to about length. A new patch seems to have been added relatively recently, just below her back right pocket, and now a red butterfly with yellow spots flies across blue skies there. The perceptive might notice a glint of silver chain around her neck, disappearing beneath her top. Long, silvery hair is held in a loose braid which flows down her back. Her facial features are delicate, but well-defined, with silvery pale lavender eyes that are set just a bit too far apart in a slightly heart-shaped face. It is easy to read her, as expressions quickly flow across her face in response to virtually everything. There is an odd dichotomy of both fragility and resiliency about her, but it's beginning to look as if fragility is winning. Her skintone is more gray than olive these days, and appears almost translucent, pulled taught across the bones of her frame. Boomer withdraws a cigarette from his pocket, setting it alight, turning his gaze to Katriel. "Yeah, how much to get you naked?" The man smirks, taking a long drag. Katriel turns right back around, heading out of the lift. "That's just... You better not let Mika hear you ask me that," she tells him. "Hold up, seriously." Boomer saids to her back, "Mika told me you're the chick to talk to in getting some help in getting the retro for Volari's little gift from Ranix. Sides, I woulda asked Mika the same question, but I already got to." Katriel is almost out of the lift, and she doesn't move any closer to Boomer, a wary look in her eyes as she turns back around. "What?" she asks succinctly. "I know you ain't deaf and I don't think you're stupid. You heard me." Boomer responds, taking another drag. "You gonna help me stir up some shit and get the samples or not?" Katriel stares at Boomer, more than a little dumbfounded. "Mika told you to talk to me?" she asks slowly. "To stir up some... You want me to try an' make a distraction?" "Bitch, I don't know. She said you were smart and would come up with -something-." Boomer responds, throwing his cigarette in the Lift's WDU. "I ain't the best thinker in the world. If you think a distraction will work, make a fuckin' distraction." Katriel's expression becomes a little distant, her eyes glazing for a moment as Boomer talks, and she does not immediately make an answer to him. Boomer snaps his fingers in front of the Mystic's face, attempting to draw her attention back. Katriel bites her lip after a moment, refocusing her gaze on Boomer, and frowns at the snapping. "Okay... Well, first, where IS it?" she asks. "Medical bay on the Athena." Boomer responds, dropping his hands away as she seems to focus again. Katriel nods slowly. "You can get to it? Can get in and take some out?" she asks, rubbing her forehead a bit. "And then you'd need a way to get it to me, right?" she continues after a moment. "Sure. I can fuckin' try." Boomer responds, "Doesn't matter who delivers the cure, really." Katriel nods slowly again. "Would it be okay for me to talk to you telepathically? That way I can know for sure if and when you need some help?" "Oh, you wanta get in my head?" Boomer coos, before offering a semi-serious nod. "Makes it easy. You hear me over the comms say, I want some beer, I got the cure. Keep me updated with your voodoo stuff. Now... how are you gonna distract the Athena group?" Katriel grins. "I'm sick. I get sick a lot. If'n you need me in the med bay, I can likely get there, or I can just make sure everybody has to watch me for a while," she answers. "An' failin' that, there's always Mika. She can distract anybody," she continues. "Yeah, if all else fails, we can get Mika to rip her shirt off and dance to some fuckin' Nialesia tribal music or some shit." Boomer agrees, "I don't think takin' you in will work... Marlan will demand to come along. Just get everybody's attention, I'll say I'm runnin' in for some medicine, grab the shit, wham bam, thank you fuckin' Ranix." Katriel bobs her head up and down. "I'll make sure we stay out outside then," she responds with a small smile. "So... We came in here to talk about some engineering question you had? If'n anybody asks?" "Engineering... ummmmm, go with what works?" Boomer saids, before lookin' Kat over. "I don't know about you, but this shit's got me all hot. Maybe after this is over...?" Katriel stares at Boomer, and then makes the universal 'Eww' face. "Umm, I think maybe I'm gonna be real busy," she replies, shaking her head. "We better go now," she adds. Flight Deck - Demaria Orbit - ........................................................................... The huge, pentagonal chamber opens out directly into space, the barest shimmer of the force field used to maintain the flight deck's pressurization visible across a backdrop of stars. Transports, fighters, and cargo haulers constantly taxi in and out, scheduled according to flight control which occupies an observation room situated near the top of the deck. The other four sides of the chamber lead to a fighter bay, a hangar for civilian craft, a cargo bay, and engineering. Thick blast shields flank the flight deck's entrance, ready to close off the bay in the case of attacks or other emergencies. ........................................................................... A group of assorted Athenauts and Fauxites, with the odd individual thrown in for good measure, is gathered near the row of docked ships. ~It is a terrible mistake,~ emits Anorel, correcting Innoketevna. ~So long as he is at large, there is a constant risk of new disease or terrorist acts being committed. I do not understand why OATO has ignored him thus far and made no efforts to stop him.~ Though Marlan has turned away from it, Anorel still gives a great deal of its attention focused on her. Anorelezuixal This creature is, to anyone with even a remote knowledge of the starfaring races of the Orion Arm, quite clearly a Centauran. It resembles a jellyfish that lived in the oceans of old Earth, except it masses over three hundred pounds and is six feet in length from the top of its bell-like head to the tips of its six tentacles. The texture of the creature's body is ver much like glass and it has a light green, almost eerie, pigmentation. Around the central body trunk is metallic ring of a dull grey colour; the ring has several life support systems, a vocalizer that allows for human speech and numerous storage compartments. Kastaprulyi wanders around to Pavlo, who is seated with his back to the large group, and inquires uncertainly, "Is this meeting for deciding anything?" Kastaprulyi The young Centauran's bell is a pale translucent blue with splotches of lavender around the crest, perhaps half the size of an adult's. It is painted here and there with faintly luminescent frost-like patterns and covered entirely by a protective layer of transparent gel. The gel seems not to have prevented a now mostly healed stress fracture. A few smoky wisps of condensation drift down from the breather gear wrapped around the trunk; a vocalizer and a somewhat bulky storage pack are also tucked inside the bell. (The usual voice synthesized in speaking Terran Standard is that of a human girl.) Drifting under the ring of glittering eyes are eight crystalline tentacles. The bell is further covered by a hard plastic helmet and the tentacles and body by the tough fabric of Sivadian Public Health Service biohazard suit. The suit, whose warning-orange color contrasts with the blue crystal, seems to have been designed for a somewhat larger Centauran and is therefore cinched at the top of each sleeve. Katriel walks back out of the lift, shaking her head and eyeing Boomer a little dubiously. She makes her way directly to stand next to Ace, taking a deep breath as if to calm herself. Boomer comes out of the lift ahead of Katriel, drawing a cigarette from his pocket, setting his last smoke alight as he heads over to study the Jackal. Pavlo pops a little bud earphone out of one ear and looks up at Kaz. "Is meetink for talkink lots and tecitink nuffink, far as ya can tell." He replies to the young Centauran then pops the bud back into his ear. Pavlo Given only a casual glance this boy looks no older than about five but could be as old as seven, though he is a small seven year old if he is, even for an Ungstiri. On closer inspection the boy has the typical Ungstiri pale complexion and contrasting raven black hair which has been allowed to go a little bit wild and shaggy. His young face bears a look that takes some time to get a full picture of, as it seems to vary constantly. Expectant one moment then lost and alone another and those are only a small selection of the flux of emotions his face displays. The boy is currently dressed in a ships crew uniform which is worn proudly most likely so the boy stands out from others his age. The uniform consists of dark purple pants, a blue grey shirt under a purple jacket and black boots. The jacket has the ships name, UKT Athena stiched into one breast just above the pocket and oposite this is a badge with the name Ranix in neat block capitals. "Faux, Jackal, Wolf, Horse...all the ships we can manage would be good," Ace replies non-committally to Katya. Just someone tell us where to start and I will be glad to get to it." Anastasia 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. 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, revealing a heart shaped locket suspended on a chain of liquid silver. The shirt is neatly tucked into loose fitting pants of midnight black, an ebony belt bound through the loops with a simple silver buckle holding it closed. The pants, in turn, vanish into leather boots, dull black and soft, that reach two thirds of the way up her calf. Over it all she wears a grey longcoat made of a supple tanned hide that flows with every move, each step she takes a gentle swirl of mist and fog. The only splash of color comes from the small but elegant diamond and sapphire ring she wears on her left hand. 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 it's grip. Her hair hangs straight down to the small of her back, a curtain of raven black tresses that softly shines in the ambient light. The jagged scar that once marred forehead and the burn scars down the side of her face and neck are now miraculously gone without a trace, leaving a rather beautiful, ebony-eyed woman in their wake. LeBeau rolls his head over to look at Anorel "Day hav no egnored hem. He jus has a very talended gif fo hiding under rocks an finding da mos snake like groups to ally wit." LeBeau Before you stands a humanoid male, he appears to be in his mid to late twenties. He stands just over 6 feet in height and looks to weigh between 170-180 pounds. His hair is a red-brown mix, the top in a spiked mop and the back pulled into a ponytail that reaches to his shoulder blades, and it is the first thing to catch your eye. His eyes are compleatly black with nothing more then a red spot in the middle where the pupil would be. His face has a bit of a tan to it but most of his jaw is tucked away under an ever present 5 o'clock shadow of stubble which tries to conceal his lips as they curl into a grin. In his left ear lobe he wear a blood red ruby stud ear ring. On his feet are dark black boots which are built up the front of his shins like shin guards. The midnight material of his pants seems to meld seemlessly into both his boots and the shin armor that works its way up the front of his legs. Over his chest and arms her wears a deep black body hugging top that starts at his wrists and throat, and works its way down into the pants, all secured with a black belt which is marked occaionally by utility pouches. Over this body hugging top is a vest, made of a deep blood red material. The vest is secured over his chest with the type of locking clasps you find on a back pack, leaving a strip of about 2 inches running down the center of his chest of exposed black shirt. He wears a a body length midnight black leather trenchcoat which ends just above his ankles. Black gloves cover his hands which appear to be fingerless except for the fact that the middle and ring finger portions are intact. And just sometimes, if you are lucky as he walks and his coat flares open you can catch a quick glimpse of a holster strapped to his mid-thigh, though just what it holds you can not make out. Boomer looks over the beaten ship briefly, frowning, before turning back to head toward the Athena, one hand clasped around the cigarette in his mouth. Katriel sways a little unsteadily, bumping against Ace. The deep breath she took doesn't seem to be quite doing its job, as she can't seem to catch her breath, try though she might to pretend everything is normal. Marlan's hand reaches out, attention drawn by Katriel's swaying, "You alright?" Marlan asks, tone worried. Marlan A battered leather jacket wraps around the frame of the woman that stands before you. At first glance the woman appears thin, no more then 130 lbs yet from what you can see of her legs it appears what may be lacking in fat has been made up for with lean muscle. A pale complexion contrasts with dark raven hair cut short to just above her ears and eyes that glow cerulean blue. The leather jacket is old if appearances are any sign, the leather in various places already having begun to crack. Under the open jacket is a blue cut off which exposes what appears to be the bottom quarter of a tattoo. The tattoo is only parially visible but it seems to show some sort of small four legged creatures and vicious looking dogs. Around the woman's neck on a beaded necklace hangs what appears to be a small purplish stone. This same stone adorns the wide leather belt that fastens her khaki shorts in place. Climbing boots complete the ensemble, yet another tattoo this one consisting mostly of different colored dots appear just above her socks on both feet. Kastaprulyi returns a feeling of acknowledgment to Pavlo and drifts away from him a bit. Kas rises a couple feet as it apparently attempts to get a better look at the adults' discussion, or perhaps, among other things, what appear to be three red birds overhead. The little Centauran remains quiet for the moment. Ace looks to Kat and puts an arm around her to help steady her, looking at the little Mystic with concern. "Katriel?" Pavlo has yet to notice that anything potentially out of the ordinary has occured, but then he did separate himself from the situation earlier and so that's to be expected. Katriel nods, eyes a little wide. "I'm fine," she replies breathily. "Just a little... outta breath," she asserts, leaning against Ace. "Maybe I should sit," her knees buckle, "down," she says belatedly. Boomer raises an eyebrow at Katriel's display, "I'll go grab a scanner and some water, Blue Eyes. Be right back." With that the rotund Quartermaster moves up the ramp at an unhurried walk. Medical Services - GMF Athena - ........................................................................... The medical facility is a sharp contrast from the rest of the rugged starship. Here the lighting is bright, spilling softly from recessed coves coffering the ceiling. The wall panels are white and grey composite ceramics, hermetically sealing this bay from the remainder of the ship. The port wall is taken up by a long workstation, providing both computer access to the medical backbone and basic laboratory services. Cabinets above and below house the larger pieces of medical equipment as well as expanded first aid and trauma supplies. Against the starboard wall are five fully equipped medical treatment beds, each fitted with full diagnostic sensors and life support devices. Curtains on a ceiling track provide a modicum of privacy. One bed station has been heavily supplemented, serving as an emergency surgery suite. ........................................................................... The Athena's medbay has not changed at all in the past few weeks; decontamination units are separated by heavily-secured airlocks with racks for biosuits. Just to the right of the entryway, however, is a mechanism that keeps the exam room locked down -- a bioscanner that verifies the identity of the subject as authorized Athena crew before allowing him entry. Boomer looks around, shakes his head, and moves up to the bioscanner. "Damn I hope this goes well." Breeeeeeep.... boop. Boomer's finger is pricked, and twin beams are projected from the unit to scan his face and fingerprints, collecting his biological data. A computerized voice buzzes from the speakers. [USER CONFIRMED AS MIKEL BOOMER.] The hatchway unlocks with a dull clank, and cycles open. "Fuckin' awesome." Boomer saids at the display, chuckling to himself, before walking through the hatchway, keeping his eyes open for the secured antivirus. It is immaculately clean in here -- this is the medical facility to end all medical facilities. The hum of the ventilation systems is loud, but not overwhelmingly so; the steady blip of the various equipment hooked to those patients that are undergoing the reversal underscores each of Boomer's footfalls. There are many cabinets at the stations, but one is locked down tight with an electronic failsafe and a trio of key-operated locks. One secret of burgarling. Often the best swag is locked in by the best security. He moves over to the cabinet, looking over the safety locks with a frown. "Fuckin' locks. They couldn't cut me a break." With that, he glances around for someone that would have keys, or better yet, if some are nearby. Indeed, there would be keys nearby. Boomer is the quartermaster. Where does he keep the keys? The electronic locks, those installed by Lind and Marlan, however, are another story. Boomer blinks, as if remembering something, reaching down to his belt. Keys! "Well, that's one shit down." He gets to work unlatching the more mudane variety, while studying the electronic failsafe. "Damn, I wish I had some fuckin' electronic training." It is a standard electronic lock controlled by a keypad, in which one has to enter the proper code to be granted entry. A plain black display has a bright green number on it: 3. "Three." Boomer saids, staring. "Fuckin' great. Fuckin' three. This fuckin' sucks. Fuckin' Ranix has to make everything difficult. Well, Boomer. Not to late to back down." He stares at the keypad and then smiles. "No fuckin' way. Fifty 'k is just to sweet a deal." He puts the keys back on his belt, reaches down to the keypad, and tries putting in the correct code. The indicator switches to 2. "God dammit!" Boomer snarls, typing in the code again, eyeing the new number. The indicator switches to 1. Boomer spots the countdown go to one, shaking his head. "I think I don't want that fucker on zero." He bites his lower lip, looking at the cabinet itself, to determine just how sturdy it is. It is a standard medical cabinet, painted white, and reinforced with plastisteel. Boomer frowns, reaching down to his belt, drawing the stunstick that hangs there, but hesitates. "Can't do that. Might fuck the antivirus up..." He sighs, scratching his neck, thinking. "What the hell, why not? At least some of them will make it." His dialogue, directed to himself, is an obvious sign of his tension. Boomer pull backs the weapon, and tries to give the container a good whack near the hinges. THUNK! A nice dent is placed along the edges of the cabinet door, and a hole is wedged open. Boomer reaches in, hamsized hand scrabbling to withdraw a handful of the sample tubes. With prize in tow, he stuffs them into his pocket, patting it comfortingly. Then he goes to his commlink, sprouting Mika's innocent little phrase into the machine. Crew Quarters - IND Jackal - ........................................................................... ........................................................................... >>> COMMNET Big Man on GEN_SPACE: I want a fuckin' beer... Mika suddenly sits up, grabbing her commlink and speaking into it. She nearly topples over in her chair. >>> COMMNET Shotcaller on GEN_SPACE: "We got some beer over 'ere mate," Mika replies, "c'mon over, bollocks." >>> COMMNET Marlan on GEN_SPACE: Negative. We have reports to go over Boomer. You can take your leave another time, da. "Lets get this fuckin' show on the road," Torr states as the message comes over the comm, and he stands. Once relaxed, he is sprung back to alertness now, ready to move if the need be. At the first sound of the message from the commlink, Swifty stands up from where she's sitting at the table, and gives a leisurely stretch. "So... is it time to move out?" Swiftfoot There's something strange about this particular Demarian, something very strange indeed. Not only is she a seven foot tall, bipedal felinoid - she's almost completely bald to boot. A few tendrils of orange and white remain, strewn across her lithe frame in a pitifully sparse parody of fur. A tiny bit of new growth can also be seen, a light fuzz that doesn't do much to cover her pale, white-pink skin. Her feline face also shows a startling lack of fur, and also seems to be completely devoid of whiskers. Her paws, ears, and tail are in much the same condition. The only thing that looks normal about the felinoid is her eyes, a shimmering gold that seems even brighter because of the surrounding pale skin. The big cat has picked her clothing to be fashionable, despite her current condition. A long, turquoise robe of some light, shimmering cloth covers her furless body from neck to ankle. A series of whorls and spirals, embroidered in golden thread, can be seen along the collar, sleeves, and hem. Her pale pink paws can be seen peeking out at the bottom, as can the end of her poor bald tail. Around her left wrist is a single golden bracelet, and a pair of tiny golden earrings adorn her pointed feline ears. Mika is on her feet in a heartbeat, moving as swiftly as she can for the forward compartments, her hand suddenly slick with sweat as she grips her comm. "We wait fer th' fat boy, bollocks," she replies without looking back, stepping through the hatchway. "'e's got th' goods. Ev'rybody t'their stations, wot?" Torr moves toward the bridge with his partner, a slight smirk on his face as he goes. "Fuck, about time lardass got his ass in gear. Christ." He walks quickly, soon passing through the hatch. Swiftfoot finishes what almost appears to be some kind of universal feline stretching ritual, and pads easily towards the forward hatch. "I hope you know what you're doing," she states, casting a sly glance at Mika. Cockpit - IND Jackal - ........................................................................... The hatchway opens up to a small metal platform which overlooks a compact command center. Light filters out from hidden coves, evenly illuminating the bridge consoles. A rainbow of telltales and monitors add a touch of color, breathing life into the maze of metal and machinery. A few steps down, the main terminals are arranged in a rough semicircle, following the curvature of the ship's bow. Twin stations centered beneath the main canopy face forward, while another pair face the port and starboard, situated on either side of the cockpit just before two bulky turrets outfitted with the gunnery controls and targeting computers. The whole space is tight-packed, with little room to move when all positions are occupied. ........................................................................... Leading the way into the cockpit, Mika practically throws herself into the pilot's seat, quickly running through pre-flight and plotting their course. She's still yammering into her comm. >>> COMMNET Shotcaller on FOXHOUND: "Ace, d'ya read me? Tachyon t'Ace. Get t'th' bridge an' be ready t'depart on me bloody mark," Mika's voice suddenly instructs. "Boomer comin' with us or Ace," Torr questions as he strides along, his steps carrying him to his usual console. He drops down and straps in, glancing sidelong at his partner. >>> COMMNET Ace on FOXHOUND: Ready when you are. Swiftfoot ambles over to the starboard gun turret, getting herself settled in. "You know, this is a hell of a lot easierr this time," she says, with a wry smirk. >> Outside the Ship: Boomer boards the DMS Faux. >>> COMMNET Shotcaller on FOXHOUND: "Boomer's en route t'Faux, doll," Mika says. "S'go soon's yer ready." Mika is furiously working at the controls, pausing only to flailingly buckle herself in, not sparing a single look for either of her cohorts. A glance at the viewscreen is enough to answer Torr's question. "Finish plottin' th' course fer Junkyard. We're bloody off," she orders.
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