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| - "Oh that Mika lady or someone else?" Izzy grins. Jaswinder is in the pilot's chair, lounging back, giving an upside down and quirky smile to Izzy. "Does it matter?" "Not really. Gossip is just another way to kill the time. But yeah... doesn't matter to me who you're screwing." Jaswinder smiles. "That's the right attitude," he says cheerily. "Not going to answer?" Izzy grins. Not something one generally tends to walk in on, but other than a glance thrown their way to see who is speaking, Kit ignores them roundly as she heads toward the comm console. It would seem not, as Jazz's attention is diverted. "Well, hello," he purrs. "Do we leave soon, d'you think?" Izaeza shrugs her shoulders and says something to herself and checks her watch. Kit casts him a second look as she is addressed and she shrugs one shoulder indifferently as she crouches down to retrieve a data tablet stowed in a compartment nearby. "Not yet," she states laconically, untangling a few cables as well to connect console with tablet, sitting directly upon the deck as she works. Jaswinder sighs. "They haven't changed their mind or anything, I hope?" he asks. "Perseverance is a very exciting place to go." Izaeza stands up lazily then stretches out with a small yawn. Kit pauses with an arch of a brow toward the male before smiling thinly. "Perhaps your definitions need some adjustment, then. And once Mika has made up her mind, there is little in this galaxy or the next that can pry her off of it; more's the pity," she concludes dryly as she pries a panel off the console to reach the circuitry directly. Jaswinder smiles. "It was exciting last time," he says. "Flying in with the Fox. That wasn't long ago. Are you up to something interesting again?" "Gonna go check my plants." Izzy waves. "No. Just an upgrade - I was dissatisfied with several items from yesterday's work when I reviewed the logs," Kit says, paying Izaeza only a quick look of acknowledgment for the farewell before she is reaching into the console's depths to fiddle with something, watching the tablet's screen as she does so. Jaswinder gives Izzy a wave, his attention - curious but without understanding - on Kit and whatever she's doing with the panels. Izaeza has left RP mode. Izaeza has left. Without further questions, Kit seems just as content to refrain from further explanations, tapping at something on the tablet before finally extracting her other hand from the console. Then, pushing the connected tablet onto the deck, she wraps her arms loosely around her knees, waiting patiently as she watches some sort of status update on the screen. Jaswinder ...just turns over, and watches, with the same blank sort of fascination a kitten gives to a hand holding a string that is not *yet* moving, but surely will soon. Having had far too much experience at ignoring uninvited observers while keeping Mika's company, Kit maintains her serene air of patience, focused completely upon the tablet...at least, until she abruptly asks without looking, "What skills do you possess?" Jaswinder grins at this display. "I sing. I fly. I fight. Sometimes, I fly and fight. Some people think I'm pretty to look at. Does it matter?" "Perhaps. It is always good to know what capabilities are at hand," Kit muses, reaching out a single digit to send an acknowledgment to a query on the tablet before settling in to wait once more. "Do you have experience in a spacer's suit? Zero-gravity? Will you be joining the salvaging efforts - if there is anything to salvage?" Jaswinder wrinkles his nose. "Haven't been in a spacer's suit in a long time," he says. "Better to just throw me a line and let me lean on that in zero G. But I can help a bit with salvaging." Hossomi has arrived. Hossomi enters RP mode. Jaswinder is watching Kit from the pilot's chair; Kit is doing something involving wires and having panels off. Hossomi made some drinks! With umbrellas in them, tilted at a rogueish angle. Having handed out servings to others, he comes to track down the last two. He is unaware of Kit, buried underneath one of the panels and all. He can see Jazz though, and moves toward the man. "Drink up." Jaswinder's latest response finally draws Kit's attention long enough for her to cast him a halfway amused look before she is typing something out and then reaching into the comm console once more. "Good enough." Jaswinder snags the drink cheerfully enough, but doesn't sip just yet. "Are we working tonight?" "You asking me?" Hossomi asks almost incredulously, before wandering over to Kit. The glass is placed near to hand, hopefully the soft clink is heard cause... that falling into the console could be something bad. Kit pauses when the Timonae's shadow falls over her, and then carefully ducks out of range of the console's edge and leans back to peers skeptically at what has been placed nearby. "What is it?" she asks suspiciously, making no move to take the drink yet. Jaswinder nods towards Kit. "Asking her. In lieu of asking Maza's chosen. One kind of fun at a time, and all." "Poison." Hossomi responds, wandering back to a nearby chair. "Or, rather, herbal tea with a full day's worth of vitamin. I'm introducing it into a dietary regiment as the lifestyle of a ship crew, and frankly the food the two captain's make a habit of purchasing, is somewhat lacking. It taste fine and it's good for you." He reclines in his seat, apparently lingering to make sure it goes down the hatch. "I thought I said earlier that nothing was planned for tonight," Kit answers Jaswinder with a frown for having to repeat herself, while Hossomi receives an even more scrutinizing look - for the part about the vitamins, not the poison - before finally reaching for the drink. Decision made, she does not mince actions, simply taking a large gulp as she is disconnecting the tablet, moving to replace the panel. Jaswinder shrugs. "Just being sure. No idea what you're doing there, after all." And with that he tips the contents of the glass back into his mouth. HE'S A LIAR! THE SHEER FILTH AND DRUDGE OF THE THICK SYRUPY BREW TASTE LIKE HELL WOULD TASTE. YOUR INSIDES BURN, AND YOUR MOUTH IS SOUR! Or something. It is REALLY bad. From the Timonae, there is an apology. "I am sorry, but you'll get used to the taste. Lollipops?" The first indication of something wrong comes in the pause as Kit presses the panel back into place. She does not reach for the fastenings yet, though, as distraction no longer keeps her from registering the reports from her taste buds...and after a heartbeat longer verifying it, she slowly reaches over - one hand still holding the panel in place - to retrieve the cup, and calmly spit the stuff back into the vessel. "I would rather die of malnutrition," she says darkly before moving to finish fastening the panel in place. Jaswinder ...chokes. Gracelessly and sputterifically. For a good two minutes. "Fuck, I think I've sucked off hormonal G'hanli that tasted better," he manages. "If that's health I'll stick to sinful living." "Well, Lady, you have a choice. You can drink it, or you can refuse. Just remember, that when you get injured, who most likely gets to be inside of you, deep in all your precious bits. I don't like patients refusing my good suggestions. Now are you going to drink it or not?" Hossomi responds, leaning back in his chair. Jaswinder recieves a bland look. "I guess you could help in making it taste better. I'll admit, my mixing skills are LACKING. Also, horrible analogy." Kit gives Hossomi a mixed look of disgust and incredulity. "If this is your method of keeping beings alive, I would rather you let me die on the table. At least the death will be less painful," she jokes darkly, casting one last look of disbelief toward the glass. "What did you put in there? Shouldn't there be a pill or a shot instead you can put all that into?" "The rum's gone," coughs Jazz. "Lemme go steal the crazy woman's cognac. And ...pretty accurate, though I had other worries at the time." "A shot!" Hossomi exclaims, then leans back, hand dipping into his coat. From his pocket, he withdraws a sucker, placing it in his maw. There is a curious expression of bemusement. "Why... I guess I could deliver it straight to the bloodstream...." It didn't occur to him. That should be comforting. Kit's wariness does not abate by even a hair as she eyes the doctor one last time - perhaps wondering if he would choose to simply load the drink directly into a syringe instead of a more suitable formula. "I hesitate to ask what other worries you had which could distract from an incident like that," she addresses Jaswinder instead as she finally puts the cabless and tablets away, straightening with a grimace and a stiff stretch. Hossomi is brooding, Kit and Jazz forgotten for the moment, sucking on his lollipop. Jaswinder makes a face. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, regarding the remains of the drink. "This is going ...somewhere else...until it's been spiked with something better." "Agreed," Kit acknowledges, rotating a shoulder one last time before picking up the glass gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if afraid of contamination. "And I would not suggest adding anything more, for fear it might evolve into something mobile." "Actully, I know a few things that could do that." Hossomi responds, "I could feed it to a small organism that could live in your internal systems and recreate the chemical organically. Unfortunatly, most creatures that aren't parasites would have a problem existing in a full-grown sentient's biology and they bring thier own problem to the table... hmmm, perhaps I should look into it regardless... there are a few native Timonae species that are INCREDIBLY resilient...." The lollipop swings across his tongue, rolled about absentmindedly. "Oh. Wash that out with warm water, not cool. Warm. Very important." Jaswinder picks his glass up, and heads out. "You got it," he says blandly. "Later, science types." Jaswinder has disconnected. Now, Kit looks outright worried - an expression that seems to be one unaccustomed to her face - before she is turning to escape after the other Timonae. "I do not think anyone will miss these glasses...best to just recycle the whole lot," she mutters. "I think it's a good idea." Hossomi responds, rising to his feet, the lollipop pulled from his mouth with a soft but audible smack. Then he lightly treads after the resident computer mistress. "It is a shame that there aren't any pets by to try out assorted species. Their intestines usually stand up better to external threats. Here, I'll help wash the dishes and we can talk. Feels like we haven't spoken for AGES." Truth is, probably haven't spoken at 'ALL'. Kit doesn't quite manage to hold back a wince as her movements unconsciously quicken to try and distance herself from the male. "Dishes? Hardly necessary when I intend on feeding the 'dishware' directly into the recycler." The hatch's heavy panels slide aside, allowing return to the ship's main corridor. This short, well-lit hallway has lighting fixtures set into its steel-plated ceiling and serves to connect the ship's various compartments. It is a bit on the narrow side, allowing maybe two humanoids to walk abreast with adequate room between them and the crash padding that runs the entire length of the wall. More light washes up from below, giving the impression that the gridded metal floor floats. Forward is the bridge, while starboard is the passage to the crew's commons. Portside is the private stateroom doubling as the ship's simple sickbay, while aft a pair of matching hatchways provide access to the engineering outriggers. Hossomi enters from the bridge. Hossomi has arrived. "Oh come, come, Lady. It wasn't that bad. Don't be so dramatic." Hossomi responds lightly, when he isn't sucking the flavor from the candy. "I dare say that you'd get used to it. Unfortunately, when the focus group responds so negatively, it means that something isn't being done right. I think the organism-reapplicator is an interesting idea, with quite a few advantages to it. I would need bloodwork and physicals on all the current subjects though, but... imagine the possibilities! It's possible that one would not even need to 'EAT' anymore unless they desired too. Or, perhaps more realistically, eat less. I'm Hossomi by the way, but if you've dealt with crew rosters, you would know that." "It *was* that bad," Kit asserts stubbornly, continuing directly to the crew quarters as the arm holding the glass stretches even further ahead of her, as if hurrying with proximity. "And eating is one of the few pleasures of life from the lowliest life form to the highest. Please do not take that from us," she is nettled into responding, tone flat and unhappy. The hatch's heavy panels slide aside, allowing access to the wardroom. The narrow passage opens up into a small wardroom. This space is ingeniously outfitted; its furniture and surfaces configured to serve either under nominal local gravity conditions, or that provided by the freighter's acceleration. Flanking the wardroom are a set of personal bunk modules containing a bed with built-in cabinetry, storage lockers, and privacy screens. Forward, a compact efficiency kitchen is located starboard, while to the portside is a small refresher unit. Between the two we find a little fitness space with a punching bag and workout center and a cozy niche with a fold-out sleeper couch and holoviewer. Gentle light flows down from coves recessed into the dorsal and side wall framing, softly illuminating the room. Its deckplates are sturdy and diamond-gridded and provide a tough, rugged utilitarian feel. Hossomi enters from the spinal corridor. Hossomi has arrived. "Your clothes are not so baggy as to suggest that one of 'your' vices is gluttony, Lady." Hossomi responds in a teasing voice that is taken one step further. The man reaches out, and attempts to palm Kit's backside through the jeans and squeeze. Yes, he just attempted a full grope of the Misanthropic Banshee. Whatever verbal retort Kit may have resorted to is lost in the most immediate physical reaction that the grope engenders - barely taking the time to even turn before the glass' contents are first flung toward Hossomi's face and then followed up with a straight punch, force of leg and shoulder behind it. Hossomi ducks the glass, the object shattering against the far wall. Of course, this hurts his agility and he takes a punch high in the chest. That's a bruise, and a painful breath every few seconds right there. You would think that he would have sworn an oath not to hurt a patient, but it doesn't seem to be the case, as he reaches for a handful of Kit's hair to pull painfully, face twitching into a grimace. This time, Kit is not so surprised by the tactic, having had her first taste of it not so long ago - even if the particular opponent this time manages to give her half a second's pause of bemusement before, with a growl of exasperation, she lunges forward - directly into his pull and trying to simply bowl him over with a shoulder toward his mid-riff. Into his chest she goes, and he stumbles back hard a few steps. Of course, the grip scrabbles about, before finding purchase on her shirt. As his balance fails him, he tugs hard and with all his might, flailing backwards and attempting to bring his knees up and between them in freefall. The tussle might have begun the same as when she had last skirmished with Mika, but this time, Kit does not react in kind. Her opponent is a virtual stranger this time - with an advantage of height and reach, and most importantly, untrusted. This time she responds with training instead of instinct - rolling into his fall, twisting with feline flexibility, and aiming an elbow strike toward his solar plexus with her full weight behind it even as his knees clip her ribs enough to drive an audible breath from her before she can quite manage to dodge them. You give up some things when you shift the center of your balance, and speed and reaction time is just that. Kit's turn ends up with him eating an elbow in the joint between his hip and gut, a sharp note of pain given. Still though, he has reason to avoid just laying passive and hurt. Hossomi, still holding onto the grip with one hand more by instinct then concious thought hammerstrikes down and across his body for the top or back of Kit's head. Kit is already moving after that first serious strike, a sharp jerk of her head to try and free herself and not caring at all about how many hairs she may lose. Even if she does not manage to do so completely, slipping only part of his grasp, it is enough to keep the strike from landing solidly. As it clips her ear and numbs a shoulder, some other instinct is triggered and, after a sharp movement, a sharp prick presses warningly against his ribs. "Desist," the word comes, cold and calculated. Hossomi knows that feeling, and he offers a laugh of delight. "That is fatal, but our insides are wired slightly different. That is a slow, bleeding death." He pauses, "Very painful, and I suspect, Pretty Lady... that it maybe you already knew that." He adjusts his form, and actully presses against the blade, JUST piercing his skin, a colorful flare of red baring. Anymore, and it'll be an actual puncture. "You could have given me a warning instead of trying to break a glass into my face. Are you going to stab me now, Mistress?" The hand that struck her shoulder loosens, and fingers spray across the impact zone, relaxing. Then? Unless she strikes, they began to massage the muscle that he struck, to encourage blood flow and lessen the pain. A sharp breath, held tense and frozen, before the muscles beneath his touch twitch sharply and she is abruptly rolling away. A flat gaze bores into him as Kit hovers in a crouch, empty hand with fingertips resting upon the deck while the other holds the knife reflexively at the ready, though her expression is distant; as if the weapon has already been forgotten. "If I do, it will be due to my wishes, and not yours." Hossomi holds up his hands, to show bare palms. "Understood. I won't touch unless it seems like you're of like mind." He straightens, slowly, and with an audible hiss. "Unless it is to do my job. Will you let me? I have some direct-application pain killers that I could apply, if I managed to do any damage just now. It all... happened so fast not sure if I did or did not. I will understand if you do not, and will say that ice and patience and careful movement may help. Either way, I'm sorry." A beat more, her expression complex, before something recognizable flickers into being - perplexity, wariness - and then is as quickly shuttered away. "Pain is not an issue." In spite of her claim, her movements are stiff when she straightens and the knife sheathed. "Drugs do not always agree with me either. Best you know that now, if we are to be in each others company for long, and Mika is near. Things tend to happen around her." Turning abruptly, she searches for a towel to begin cleaning up the mess of the spilt drink. Hossomi uses his feet to push himself back against the nearest bunk, grunting at the effort, laying his head back. "Yeah. Well, apparently, things tend to happen when I'm near by. Fortunately, It's just stuff happening. There is always stuff happening, no real reason to get antsy about it. Are you sure you do not want any help?" Silence as she manages to find a roll of throwaway towels, and finally, as she crouches down to begin wiping up the mess, "Old injuries. Nothing to be done about it now. Mika tends to attract 'stuff' of another sort, though...or, as in some cases, she seems hell-bent on chasing it down if it does not come to her. It seems you know something about handling yourself in an altercation, though." "No, not really... I was flailing around and got lucky. I know what I'm capable of, and.. well, handling myself isn't really one of them." Hossomi responds with a grimace, giving up on his offer. "Would you stab me if I told you the handful was worth the bruises?" The tone is still light, though tinged with a deeper tension and the hiss of someone speaking through pain. A disbelieving look, and then Kit is standing with the worst of the mess in her hands to dispose of. "Your death would not be worth the trouble, unless a rather large sum is involved. I perform assassinations, not murders." A deadpan delivery as she washes her hands, and then she walks over to consider him critically. "I should not have damaged you permanently," she says as she grudgingly extends a hand in offer of aid up - the words sounding stuck somewhere halfway between statement and question. Hossomi smiles up as the hand is extended, reaching to take it. "Well, it was. Not quite plump enough, you could definitely do with eating more, but it was firm. I wish I had your dedication to exercise. And no, I don't believe you did. Just roughed me up a little, showed me who is boss and all that." Oh, please, don't drop him halfway back to his feet! Mika enters from the spinal corridor. Mika has arrived. "No, I think you would not like it at all," Kit notes with dark humor as she leans back; her grip firm and backed by a wiry strength even if her pull is awkward as she tries to protect a certain angle at which her arm flexes. There is a tacky mess of what might have been some sugary drink drying on one bulkhead and at its base, the worst of it wiped up even if it has not been washed yet. Kit has her hair standing on end - much like how she looked after her impromptu fight with Mika the other night. Hossomi is only now being helped up from where he had been slumped against a bunk. Hossomi chortles in delight, but says nothing as he rises to his feet. Of course, when he finds it, he sways for a second, then finds firm footing. Hands go down to his hips, bending slightly to work at the sudden stiffness that has settled there, grimacing. Mika ambles on through the hatch just as soon as the teeth snick open, hands in her pockets and jacket draped through the crook of her arm. Her steps halt the second she spies the bizarre mess, and from there on out she is the very picture of confusion. Green eyes dart to Sivadian, then Timonae, and one blonde eyebrow arches severely. "Ah Christ," she mutters, perplexity turning abruptly to disgust as her brain grinds to its usual one-track conclusion. "/Privacy screens,/" she reminds, unpocketing her dead hand to point sharply in the direction of Kit's bunk. An arch of one fine brow as she watches him stretch, and Kit informs blandly, "You deserved that," before Mika's appearance and subsequent assessment has her initially staring in just as much confusion before she bares her teeth in silent threat. "Hardly necessary," she grinds out, moving sharply to retrieve some more towel, this time dampened to finish cleaning up the mess. Hossomi shakes his head at Mika, oh so sadly. "Nope, afraid not. I heard once an analogy about human relationships tied in with one of their games. Hmm, Ballbase, maybe. Anyway, in this case, there was no running of the bases from first to second to third to fourth. I just skipped to second and grabbed her ass. She then took me back to first to play right. It was educational at least and I think we understand each other now, so no hard feelings. Oh!" The long, delicate fingers snap. "I have something for you to drink!" Kit's reaction to Mika is a bland smile. "You two are adorable. Like sisters that really hate each other." "Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa," a suddenly animated Mika interrupts, railroading Hossomi's explanation long before he has any hope of finishing. Seizing onto one particular point of interest with a broad, shit-eating smile, she laughingly echoes: "Ye /grabbed/ 'er /ass/?" The half a heartbeat that precedes her whirling quite suddenly on her heel leaves no room for yes or no. "ARIEL!" the scoundrel is calling, clapping her hands as if summoning a dog while she strides across the deck. "Ariel, love! Where are ye? Ariel!" Kit stops to cast Hossomi a perplexed stare as she tries to follow his rambling explanation, her look just beginning to morph into one of irritation at his depiction before her eyes widen and veer sharply toward the other woman in horror. "Ariel!" she immediately calls out, trying to override anything Mika tries to call out. "Security footage in crew quarters, last half hour, erase it! Backups too!" Hossomi stares at Mika's back at the sudden explosion of interest and motion, one hand still rubbing his injured hip. The interaction between the two is noted with some bemusement before he comes up. There is a muted chuckle from the man, the injured man attempts to block out Kit's order by singing abruptly and belting tunes at full volume. "DO SOMETHING SOMETHING RAUNCHY IN THE BACK OF YOUR CALLIOPE, SOMETHING SOMETHING, I HAVE BITCHES FROM SHADOWHEART TO NEW ENAJ!" Of course, the end result is the daemon manifesting as instructed, but only to hover at the precisely-calculated midway point between the trio and glower darkly. Absolutely nothing happens. Its scowl only deepens when a balled-up field jacket streaks through its translucent form, flung by Mika at Kit in the hopes of winning a split-second's advantage. "COPY! COPYALLFOOTAGETAMEDATAPADSOMETHIN'LIKEFAS'DOITDOITDOIT!" the rogue yells frantically, waving her arms around the second the coat is away as if it would somehow speed up the process. Kit ducks reflexively from the garment, but it is hardly that which gives her that split second's fatal pause. Staring in consternation between the two conspirators, she finally sputters with a stab of her finger and a hand gesture for the nearest camera in case Hossomi's caterwauling is still overriding her, "Shock her!" Apparently deciding - hoping - that in all the confusion, Ariel has not been able to sort out any intelligible commands yet and deciding to cut down the competition one by one...and already beginning to advance upon the Timonae with a dark expression. Hossomi blinks at the particular command, considers Kit's approach, the song ending abruptly. Hobbling, pained, the good doctor makes to retreat into the refresher room like a coward. There is no valor in his discretion, there is just the desire NOT to get hit anymore tonight. "I'm taking a shower, don't follow me, Lady. It's rude." Did Ariel just... did Ariel just roll its eyes? Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. But two things happen before anyone can blink. One, an electrical charge races up from the floorpanel to bite at Mika's leg and snake through her body, her back arching and limbs convulsing in horrible, unnatural rhythm before she crumples to the ground in twitching heap. Two, the PDA at her workstation beeps, and a green light starts blinking. In the next instant, the creature is gone. There are two satisfied glares - one directed toward the retreating Hossomi, and then one down at the twitching heap of Mika Tachyon. But the PDA...the PDA receives a much narrower look, and then she is stalking determinedly toward the device. It may be a geological-scale event, and take just as long to evolve into fruition. But Mika? Mika catches on, sooner or later. And when she does, it is rather like a volcano suddenly erupting. She struggles to prop herself upon her elbows, only to fail miserably. And though tears are streaming down her face, her mouth is dry; a tongue laps out to moisten parched lips. But it's enough. Facedown on the deck, her voice froglike and croaking, the rogue takes one single step into that all-too-familiar world of /inevitability/. "Ariel," Mika groans, "'pply... 'pply voltage. Kittianna." She coughs, breath hissing between clenched teeth. "... Mark." Not even a moment's hesitation for an entity with no biases but for what has been programmed into it...and this is one that, apparently, had escaped Kit this time. *ZAP* A startled sound squeezed out of abruptly constricting lungs, and then a thump of tangled limbs sprawling against the deck. There is a long, twitching pause, before Kit slowly shoves with one arm, rolling onto her back to stare bemusedly up at yet another strange section of the ceiling for the second time in a week. Hossomi has disconnected. There's no victory cry from Mika. All she does is force herself - /force/ herself, like it was the most difficult thing in the world - to roll onto her belly so she can crawl toward her bunkspace as if some frail toddler just learning how. Should she reach it without interference, one hand gropes about the surface of her worktable blindly, feeling for the familiar shape of her personal tablet. There is no opposition this time. Though Kit has a better physical recovery rate, by the time she sits up, her face is still set in a bewildered mask. Finally, as Mika finally manages to get a hold of the contended item, she calls out - or, rather, croaks - "Ariel...suspend all outside command modules...await firmware update..." Mika ignores her. Shifting to sit on the deck with her back against the foot of her bed, she flips open the cover of the 'pad and retrieves the message, navigating the three-dimension display with her index finger rather than the stylus. Content in her victory, and perhaps making it worse by uncharacteristically /not/ gloating shamelessly, she just folds her arms in her lap and watches the recording. Kit's lip curls resentfully as she finally focuses upon Mika and her actions, but other than the half-hearted glare, simply begins picking herself up off the deck, wobbling slightly before shuffling over to her bunk and sprawling across it upon her back. In the holoprojected footage, Kit can be seen bearing a full glass - whose concoction now adorns part of the bulkhead - with extended arm while Hossomi follows close behind, nattering away...until his hand quite clearly attaches itself to her rear. After that is an explosive series of actions - the glass first flying over her shoulder toward him, which he manages to duck, but followed immediately with a straight punch which bowls him over...but not before he manages to grab a hold of her hair. A short, confusing exchange of jabs in close quarters, and it abruptly ends with both combatants freezing. The reason is not immediately apparent - Hossomi speaks with an apologetic air, one hand even rubbing at the shoulder which he had struck in his wild flailings, before Kit abruptly rolls away from any contact into a wary crouch....the abrupt halt to their wrestling now clear in the familiar flash of metal in her fist. A familiar grin plays at the corners of Mika's mouth, widening when she lifts her gaze to Kit. "Yer strung a li'l tight these days, crazyass," she muses. "Pay me bar tab at th' Trellis an' maybe I won' tell anyone." "I would say I have just cause to be strung 'tight'," comes the acerbic response before one hand calmly rises to give Mika a rude gesture. "That trick won't work again after I am done with Ariel's upgrade. You tell anyone, and I will make your life even more of a hell than you think it is right now." Mika's eyebrows arch as she closes up the tablet, thumbing the kill switch and letting it power down in her lap while she draws one leg up. "Do ye?" she returns, sending an interested glance the other woman's way. "I'd say both've us 'ave 't a smidge better 'n we prolly 'ave in a while. But 'ey," a kevlar thumb is jabbed toward the exit hatch, "airlock's that way, if ye disagree." There is a long moment of silence - not even a twitch from the figure half-sprawled across the bunk. But just when one might assume she has decided not to respond at all, Kit levers herself up partway to stare at Mika, propped up on her elbows. "And what would you say I would have done differently, if I were less...'uptight'?" "Laugh?" Mika suggests, canting her head to one side and shrugging an indifferent shoulder. "Or 't leas' be a li'l proud that I'm catchin' on. Blinkin' figure I take a li'l unsolic'ted 'lectroshock therapy like a bloody /champ/ these days." "Laugh," Kit echoes disbelievingly after a beat with the same, empty expression. "You are talking about my reaction to your finally figuring out that you are able to shock me as well?" And of all things, this time there is a slight waver to one corner of her mouth as if amusement might be trying to get itself acknowledged. "Laugh," Mika repeats, leaning forward with a widening smile, as if that could somehow coax out the desired reaction. "C'mon, /laugh/. I /got/ ye. I got /this/, too." She picks up the tablet, gives it a little wave. "That's a blinkin' /riot/." Kit finally sits up completely, head tilted as she regards the woman sidelong...before one side of her mouth finally quirks upwards. "Amusing. I nearly gutted a shipmate for groping me and you complain that I did not laugh that you figured out after half a year's worth of shocks that the playing field was level. Congratulations, you have re-established my faith in your utter unpredictability and disconnection with the rest of the galaxy." She leans over to drag the nearest data tablet close, and adds off-hand, "You've won yourself free of shocks, ever. At least, coming from me or Ariel." Mika snorts, reaching to slide the tablet onto her bed, then grips the blanket in a fist and pulls herself to her feet. Once standing, she works at the knots of her headscarf, grinning once more at Kit. "I don't even know th' bloke," she notes in her defense, quite as if she wasn't partially responsible for the Timonae's near-gangrape in an Odarite bar. "An' yer a liar." Kit casts her quite a long and skeptical look. "Do I really need to respond to either, whether the defense or the accusation?" she eventually says after visibly considering and discarding several possible responses. "Take a long walk out a short airlock, Kit," Mika drawls, shaking out frazzled and fried locks before swiping a hand through them. When they refuse to be tamed, she bunches it all back behind her head and goes hunting for something to pin it up with. "'ow much do I owe ye fer th' job?" Kit flicks the fingers of one hand negligently as the other types busily across the tablet's screen. "Only if you're ahead of me. You owe me that dinner. The rest of the invoice I will post to Vadim, as he so kindly offered that one night." A wrinkle of her nose, and she adds in a mutter, "Just compensation for that sludge he pumps into the atmosphere around here. At least you are only a recreational smoker for the most part." As she's binding her hair in a messy twist with the aid of a pencil, Mika rolls her eyes, imitating the other woman's retort in a nasally string of nonsense words. "Gimme me jacket," she asks ever so nicely, clapping her hands once and making ready to catch. "Let's go take a look 't that bird they're parkin' in me 'angar." Kit lifts a brow, eyes flicking up from the tablet with an expression clearly stating, 'do not ever talk like that again if you wish to continue breathing' before she gives a few last taps and then stands from the bunk. "What are you planning to do with it?" she asks as she flings the balled up fabric toward the rogue. Mika catches it easily, snaps it out, and is stuffing her arms through the sleeves even as she's turning to amble into the outside corridor. "I dunno. Sell 'er, I figure, if she's salvag'ble," she replies, glancing back over her shoulder as she pops her collar. "I 'aven't even looked at 'er, yet. Been all preoccupied with this blinkin'," a vague, helpless gesture with her dead hand, "Jackal bus'ness." Kit purses her lips consideringly as she falls into step behind the other woman, tablet tucked under an arm out of pure habit. "Were you thinking of captaining your own ship again? Why did you give the Raider to Vadim?" "Wot bloody bus'ness I got bein' a cap'n?" Mika asks in all seriousness, ducking through the hatch and into the ship's soft blue spinal shaft. Her boots clank noisily on the deck, echo with every step. "Bollocks, Kittianna. I wanna be lef' /'lone/. I'm done with this blinkin' galaxy." "Any less than someone like Captain Vadim Tostanavich?" Kit stuffs her hands into her jeans pockets, rolling her shoulders in that habitual hunch which seems to reflexively appear whenever entering areas with potential observers. "Could have fooled me, between the Junkyard and Cabrerra. You cutting all ties now?" An honest question rather than testing, for once. Shrugging, Mika touches her hand to a pad at the right of the airlock's mouth then immediately takes a step back; she's in no danger of being caught and crushed by the opening ramp, but some habits are never shaken. "Th' Boss is goin' under," she hollers over the noise of the vessel's groaning joints and hydraulics. "An' I'm nothin' but a junkyard dog. Toasty's a... 'e's a top notch chap. Got a lot t' learn 'bout crew /management/," the confession is accompanied by an exaggerated expression of uneasiness and a rock of her hand, "but Christ, he's new at this. 'e'll do fine." Kit likewise takes a step back - but less as a precautionary measure than to keep out of the way of Mika's own backwards slide. "So you will not captain, but you are grooming the next generation?" This time, the amusement comes even more readily than her earlier comeuppance. "One of the few smart moves I've seen you make. Less administrative work and backtalk to deal with. Though I do fear for the future of the galaxy if you are training ship captains as a vocation." "Shut up," comes the inevitable, classic request of Kit by Mika. Before the ramp is even three-quarters of the way extended, she's starting down, one hand absently feeling for the butt of her pistol - yet another creature borne of habit. "I did alright, dammit. I 'ad a good crew." "You could have another one. But I would be the last to talk about tying yourself to a group or object," Kit muses, her gaze flicking wide across the space they enter as soon as she steps through the hatch, now keeping track of her companion only through peripheral vision. Her habits are no less ingrained, if a touch more subtle. "I'm already tied 'ere," Mika reminds, indicating the rust and ruckus of the roguish colony by inclining her head this way and that. Suddenly curious, and steered down a related train of thought, the junker looks over at Kit with an unlit cigarette now perched between her lips. "Where're /you/, these days? I mean, stayin', in gen'ral," she inquires around the deathstick. "I know 'askins was wantin' ta marry Naya, ye said." "You have decided to keep at least this tie, then?" Kit asks, half-rhetorically, her gaze snapping toward a quick movement she catches out of the corners of her eyes, but then moving back to blink once at Mika when it turns out to be little more than a swing of a palette being loaded. "He wanted all of us. He is a greedy man," she assesses with a small smirk before shrugging a shoulder. "Naya wants reassurance, but the rest of us had some minor objections. We decided to take a vacation." A glance away, and she adds nonchalantly, "And then you came back." Mika's grinning at Kit sidelong while she touches a flame to the cherry end of her smoke. "I get th' doc's sloppy seconds, eh?" she kids. "Lucky me." "I am certain Tannia would have some comment about how you might have been the first choice if you'd taken her up on any of her offers, but why ruin a mood?" Kit drawls, automatically lengthening a stride to put her in-stride, if not slightly ahead of Mika's smoke-trail. Mika's polite enough to angle her exhalations away from Kit's face, for once in her life. "Tell Tannia I'll consider 'er offer when she grows a cock an' stops lookin' like /you/," she chuckles, lashes fluttering in a vague roll of the eyes. Coming to the end of the platform, she shoulders past the confusion of a service hoverlift and around a knot of pedestrian traffic gridlocking a short catwalk, preferring to plant one hand on a grimy rail and vault over. It's a relatively short drop, and she lands with the practiced ease of one who's made it half a million times before. She stands, dusting her knees, and cranes her neck to peer back up at the cyberwitch. "Thank goodness all of the above are impossibilities, then," Kit retorts with a mocking roll of her eyes at the come-hither look. She follows the same path Mika takes - landing cat-light in a deep crouch, rolling a shoulder as she straightens. "Since we are on the subject of where, who, and what; this is for the long-term, then?" she asks, gesturing towards the motley glory of the Junkyard. "God willin'," Mika replies, ashing her cigarette with a careless flick and angling her course starboard, not seeming to care that they are presently against the flow of foot traffic. "You?" This time, Kit does not begrudge the position just behind the rogue, particularly when Mika cuts a fine wake through the current of pedestrians. "You should know. I never have any long term plans." From someone as methodical as her - sometimes cutting a fine line between digital-consistency and simple obsessive-compulsive - perhaps a somewhat odd admission. Something crosses Mika's mind then; it's apparent in the twitch of a frown at the corner of her lips, but the flash of unease vanishes just as quickly as it appears. She turns her attention forward again to weave through the bodies shoulder-first, reaching one arm up quite suddenly to catch the bottom rung of a service ladder. The rogue wins more than one look - some curious, some annoyed, some merely acknowledging that yes, there is a person there - as people filter around them, but she pays them no mind, sliding the ladder down with a single firm tug before clambering on up. A hint of a frown is sent in askance to Mika's continued silence, some retort having been expected instead; but Kit seems content to continue following Mika now that she has come this far, even if her frown deepens a touch at the abrupt change in vectors. Nevertheless, she is duly tucking the tablet away at the small of her back with no pocket or handy satchel to fit it, and begins following the rogue upwards at a sedate pace. Crouching at the mouth of a pressure tunnel, Mika extends one hand down to help pull the other woman up if needed. "So, um," she begins, dropping to both knees and reaching frighteningly over the edge to return the ladder to its former position, "'ow ye feelin'? I mean, y'know, 'ow're ye /doin'/." Her inability to phrase the question without making a completely awkward and insecure spectacle of herself is bordering on laughable, but how she tries. Brow knit, she gnaws at her lip, fingers curled upon her knees while she considers Kit. The hand is waved away with a shake of her head, and Kit pulls herself up to the landing before she pauses halfway in the process of standing. As uncomfortable as Mika is with the asking of such things, she is the blind leading the blind - Kit stares blankly at the rogue for a long breath before asking warily, "How am I...doing?" "Yeah." In that instant, Mika looks sorry she even asked. She rubs at the back of her neck, fidgeting, unable to fix her gaze in any one place. "I mean, um, Tannia said... y'know. Ye only 'ave..." Midway through the statement, she reels it back in, an infamously irreverent individual trying her hand at tact and failing miserably. "Tannia said ye 'ave like a year or somethin' lef', that things were gettin'... I dunno. Things were /changin',/" she decides. "Oh." Just the one, small syllable, and Kit comes to a clumsy halt, continuing to stare for a moment as if not knowing what else to do before she abruptly looks away. "Yes, well...that would take the fun out of long-term planning," she deadpans before releasing a breath in a huff, scratching one hand through her ragged black locks. "We - I do not know the exact amount of time. There are hints, yes - I cannot pick out heat signs very well anymore. I did not heal well from my last misadventure. I need more sleep now." A heavy shrug, and then she casts Mika a wry, half-grin. "I am becoming more human, no? Not such a bad thing, I suppose." There's something sad in the grin Mika returns, but she nods, and abruptly rises to her feet once again. "There's a place fer ye 'ere, fer s'long as ye need it," she offers, and before the sentimentality of such words can be marveled over, she appends with a more comfortable smirk, "got /plenty/ o' work wot needs doin' in these parts, eh?" Indeed, Kit casts Mika an uncomfortable look for the offer - baring enough of the vulnerability she feels at her declining abilities, that she does not have a ready retort - before the welcome return to familiar ground brings out a vulpine smile; just as sharp and canny as ever no matter what else has changed. "You always were my best customer. I will consider giving you a discount if you place orders in bulk," she returns. Mika sucks in a drag as she starts off again, tipping her head back and giving it a playful shake as she blows out a line of smoke. "Don't bother," she kids, raspy voice bouncing in echo from the walls of the tunnel; beneath them, the spread of Hermes' first level can be spied through the vents. Their course seems to be a shortcut to the second deck. "With Toasty bankrollin' me like 'e is, who th' shit needs a sugar daddy?" "Just how did you meet the good captain? And if you retrofitted a ship - complete with a state-of-the-art computing system and lifetime updates, may I add - and then handed it over, I certainly hope it came with large compensations," Kit sniffs with mock arrogance and disdain - well, perhaps the 'mock' applying more toward the latter than the former. "Th' guy's /bankrollin'/ me, an' I didn't even /shag/ 'im," Mika points out, her smile smug when it turns upon Kit. "Christ, whaddya want? I coul' prolly get /'im/ ta take yer crazy ass t' th' Trellis. Tannia'd like 'im; I 'ear 'e's easy," she adds, sniggering at her own jokes. "You eat, she eats, 'e eats, I'm nowhere near any o' ye, e'rybuddy wins. Put me on OATO council, I can solve e'rythin'." There is a soft splutter from the figure pacing her, though it is a fair toss-up whether the sound is supposed to suppress laughter or outrage. "Tannia does not want easy, she wants rough," comes the dry riposte. "And he seems even less fun to sit through an evening with than the Timonae. Speaking of, the resident group all seem more than a little off-center, but Hossomi managed to pique Tannia's interest. He moved *into* the knife to tease us, and got himself pricked. If he is the medical expert on the Raider, or the backup for that woman that treated you for your hangover, I would suggest you do some research for someone else to list as your primary care physician." Flicking her expired cigarette away, Mika snorts back a laugh, a single blonde lock falling from her sloppy updo when she shakes her head. "Kittianna Trev'lyan, callin' blokes 'off-center'," she hoots, tucking it back behind her ear. "I must be intimately aware of society's definition of 'norms' to avoid scrutiny. Whether I choose to follow it in truth or merely in word is beside the point," Kit states with great dignity before kicking at Mika's nearest heel in mild irritation. "If nothing else, he shows a dangerous lack of sense. Whatever 'health-drink' he concocted could have killed on taste alone, and he groped me and said it was worth the trouble he received afterward. Surely he should at least have higher standards than that," she says with the suffering air of someone who is not in a position to fire crewmembers indiscriminately. "A male that is that desperate should not be in charge of anothers wellbeing." Mika is trying ever so hard not to double over in laughter, stifling muted snickers with a fist. "Oh, ye poor, poor thing. Write a /song/ 'bout it, why don'tcha. Kee-rist." Before Kit can respond, Mika's kneeling once again, this time over an access panel. One good yank reveals not guts and wiring, but an easy view of the Blackjack hangar below. "Jus' drop in," the rogue tells her. "I keep th' floor clear." Kit gives the woman a whack across the backside of her head for the remark before giving a single, disbelieving sniff for the reassurance; and then promptly belying the skepticism by unhesitantly placing her hands upon the edge, rolling through the hatch to dangle briefly by her fingertips before dropping down. Mika barks out something that's either a yelp of pain, a yelping laugh, or a little bit of both, though when it's all said and done she's cackling like the loon she is. "Yer not /actin'/ like someone wot don't wanna be saddled with a date," she calls down, cupping her gloved hand around her mouth. "I /can/ 'rrange 't, y'know!" "If I wanted anything as prosaic as a 'date', I am perfectly capable of arranging one without your interference," comes the haughty response as Kit straightens and dusts herself off from the roll she had used to help soften the drop even more. "I do not know why you gave up captaining - you are clearly more interested in gossipmongering than salvage work." Just how, exactly, Mika perfected this backalley route into her own little niche of the derelict is baffling to imagine, given how she must enter. Catching the handle tightly in both hands, she carefully fits one end of the panel into its corresponding groove, eyeballs it once just to make sure - and then she just steps into the hole, her descent halting quite suddenly when the hullsteel sheet snaps into place. She hangs for a moment, judging the fall, then ten fingers fan open, dropping her feet-first onto the deck below. The crouch she lands in is certainly cringe-worthy, but she looks no worse for wear. Standing, she tugs her jacket into place. "Not me fault yer an easy target," she drawls with a sniff. Kit winces at the clang of the panel falling into place once more with the rogue's weight as impetus, even after observing the obvious intent behind the preparations. Another wince is drawn from her for the landing, and she deadpans, "You'll ruin your knees that way," before turning to regard the hangar's contents in more detail after her initial survey upon landing. "As if you are one to talk. So what did we just go through an obstacle course to see, and why did we take that particular route?" "I know sometimes ye like ta skulk about, all unseen, an' wotnot. Like some kinda /rat,/" Mika replies, untwisting her hair only to bunch it more tightly and pin it back once more. Her eyes skip from Kit to the runabout, then back again. "Come an' go 'thout anybody noticin'. I just showed ye 'ow." Kit snorts once, flatly, at the mention of the rodent. But she does not take her eyes from the salvage until the conclusion is confirmed in plain terms, and then she turns to regard Mika a moment before giving a faint nod of acknowledgment and appreciation for the gesture. That is all that Mika is getting though; and in truth, more than she might have usually. "Going to proudly unfurl blueprints for this one, now?" she asks with a short gesture toward the ship, referring to another time when the Raider too had been little more than scrap metal upon a landing pad. Mika comes to a halt alongside the cyberwitch and plants hands on hips, shaking her head as she, too, observes the little vessel. "Wot'd be th' jolly ol' point?" she wonders. "Coul' use th' scrap 'roun' 'ere. Ah, but she don't 'ave any guns," the rogue laments, only now noticing the absence of turrets. One side of her mouth twitches. "Mmn. Parts are parts. /Christ,/ but we need more guns." Kit rolls her eyes at Mika's assessment. "Needing guns implies that you get into too many situations which find them a necessity. Speed and a small target profile has its uses as well, you know." "I mean, th' Junkyard does," the Dead Hand amends, bringing the appendage which spawned the nickname to the back of her neck and scratching. The doubt blossoming upon her countenance withers, however, after a moment - and before long she is grinning lopsidedly at Kit once more. "I maybe coul' fix 'er up," she suggests, "if she 'ad a skipper wot I'd trus' with me work." "The Junkyard does not have enough guns," Kit echoes, not at all convinced from the incredulous look she sends toward her companion. "I am not going to bring up the incident over New Alhira. Involving a particularly notorious sister ship. Not at all," she concludes flatly before the crooked grin is regarded with suspicion. "You tried that already," she points out. "Quite recently, may I add." It would appear that Mika does not particularly like to be reminded of the Faux's tragic end, or the circumstances surrounding it. Denial springs eternal, she merely blinks green eyes away. "Th' Don rigged 'alf our weaponry ta self-d'struct so we couldn't pursue," she reluctantly notes, voice low as if someone might overhear. "We're as good as goddamned d'fenseless." Kit rolls her eyes, holding her hands up in a futile gesture of resignation. "You need more guns," she parrots back, dropping the argument. "You had better get a project list going, then. If you do not start prioritizing soon, you're not going to get much out of me before I am laughing at you from the afterlife." Mika throws up her hands in a completely different kind of resignation. "Well, if th' goddamned /galaxy/ woul' quit d'mandin' me blinkin' presence all willy-nilly lef'-an'-right," she groans exasperatedly. "Christ, it spends years tellin' me I'm nothin' but a thorn in its jolly ol' side, an' now it's all, 'Mika! Mika! Mika!' Christ, I've 'ad exes wot're less clingy," she complains. "That's all th' Orion Arm is. One great big annoyin' wanker o' an ex-boyfriend." "And just what would you do if you were not flitting around all over the galaxy like a drunken fly, whether it wants the help or not?" Kit asks with acerbic wryness, slipping her hands into jeans pockets while she lets her weight rock comfortably back upon her heels; from her off-center stance, as at ease as she has ever been. "Take up knitting?" "Shut up. At leas' I /do somethin',/" Mika snarks, shifting her weight to prop a fist on her hip. "Look, d'ye want th' ship 'r not? Yes or no. Run 'er all over anytime I get sick o' lookin' atcha an' kick ye off me damned station. Otherwise, I dunno wot ta do with 'er, an' she migh' end up scrap." "I think it a far more likely scenario for *you* to depart the station should you find my presence unpalatable," Kit sniffs, before she gives Mika a sideways look. "Particularly as I do not know how to pilot a ship?" she reminds. Mika cocks her head, considering that. "So maybe I can show ye," she volunteers. "An' we can share it." The further this train of thought chugs along, the more she seems to enjoy the scenery. Her eyes begin to smile when her lips do. "Whatcha say?" "I can just imagine how that will go..." Kit groans at the thought of flying lessons from the impulsive rogue, regarding Mika with a vague mixture of dread and skepticism before she sighs in dramatized defeat. "Expire in a year or two in ennui, or a little sooner in utter terror and a fiery explosion. I suppose one is as good as the other at this point...particularly if the latter method takes you with me as just compensation." Mika's not falling for it, and just flashes a wide row of pearly whites as broad as if Kit had bounced up and down in gleeful acceptance. "Haw. Well then, /Skipper,/" she enunciates wryly, slender blonde eyebrows arching. "Ye better start thinkin' o' a /name./" Kit shudders with a curl of her lip in distaste at the moniker. "I will certainly not leave the ship's name to you, after that gross miscarriage of humor," she retorts, gaze turning back toward the runabout...a little less distant now, interest just beginning to spark outside of the purely academic realm.
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