[ISC Enkidu] A Putrid Hub of Muck and Evilness

The bar was sleazy – well, all bars in Funky City were sleazy, but this one seemed to have been built specifically for the purpose. The flickering sodium lights swung lazily back and forth in clouds of bitter smoke that obscured most of the patrons, though from the looks of some of them it was better that they were hidden. The barman himself presided over the building with an air of utter authority, reinforced by the Finagle’s Revenge laying on the bar within his reach. His countenance was made even more intimidating by the fact that most of his body seemed to have been replaced with cybernetics, including both eyes, one arm, his jaw, and the top of his head, which shone as if chromed. If fired, the layout of the bar allowed his weapon to reach all parts of the bar (and probably some other buildings), despite the overabundance of shady corners occupied by even shadier characters.

One such corner’s occupant was visible even through the smoke-clouds by virtue of her flaming head of hair – Myr Barlowe, moneygrubber, salvager, and captain of ISC Enkidu. Her crew announcement had gone out on every accessible channel, up to and including her personally hoofing it around the city and putting up flyers - simple ones, with the date, time, location, and a mug shot of Myr herself, which she found quite flattering. Though it was demeaning to wander the streets of the city again, she needed crew – and here she was, at the appointed time and place, with a Fatboy from the ship tucked under her jacket just in case. She scanned the bar, checking for applicants. Everything was in place, and now all she had to do was wait.

Re: A Putrid Hub of Muck and Evilness

"Alright then. That's settled."

Louis MacEmbrey stared at the poster he had ripped off a lamp-post outside the Musty Scum, the transport ship he'd just been dumped off. Supposedly there had been an opening for a "chief of security" aboard, but apparently because Louis was carrying a bass in his big, black shoulder bag and the only weapons he had on him (visibly) were a teensy .45 holdout pistol and 6-inch knife instead of some hulking rocket launcher, he'd been rejected.

"Bullshit. What a load of bullshit." The assassin-turned-bass player said as he got off the ship, wishing to the Maker, or whatever was out there watching him, that a job would land in his lap soon. Somehow, a job did land in his lap- when he walked right into a lamp-post while distracted by gazing into the smog-hazed Nepleslian sky and knocked down a flyer for the "ISC Enkidu", looking for any able-bodied personnel, and stating that anyone looking for a job should seek out Myr Barlowe at some sleazy bar near the port.

MacEmbrey smiled, pocketing the flyer as he crossed the threshold of the bar that Myr was supposed to be in. He set down his large duffel bag next to where Myr was seated, carefully re-situating his bass' bag as he seated himself.

"Myr Barlowe? Louis MacEmbrey, call me Lou. I'm here about the job you were offering."

Re: A Putrid Hub of Muck and Evilness

As the redheaded man approached her table, Myr's hand tightened on the grip of her gun, just in case. Her expression twisted a bit as he put his bag down in the chair she'd been saving for the girl with the biggest chest, but she managed to reclaim her normal expression quick enough.

"Lou. Shit, I ain't callin' you that." She made a flippant gesture with the hand that wasn't in her coat before narrowing her eye at the man. "Y'look like a Mac. Well, no, y'look like a shit-fer-brains, but I'm gonna call you Mac. I ain't listenin' to all you feckers go on fer hours, so cut th' crap until everybody else who's showin' up shows up, got it?" She leaned back in her chair and crossed both arms behind her head, propping her huge black boots on the table.

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Almost on cue, an incredibly out-of-place-looking woman stepped in the door. She was dressed in a sensible, conservative sweater and skirt, and she winced as she walked into the wall of cigarette smoke - both of which served as a sharp distinction between herself and the rest of the patrons of the bar. The pair of mechanical arms protruding from her back were about the only things that might have helped her fit in.

The soft amber light from her eyes flicked through the haze of the smoke. She seemed oblivious to any stares as she settled her gaze on Myr, and hurried between the tables to the shaded corner.

'I beg your pardon,' she said as she approached. 'Myr Barlowe? You placed an advertisement for positions on a ship? I'm Tuija Seppanen, an engineer. I was hoping to apply.'

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Shiori slumped toward the bar, hunched over as if being weighed down by her own coat. An observer actually couldn't be faulted for making that exact assumption--between her naturally scrawny body and the fact that she'd chosen baggy pants, a baggy long-sleeved shirt, and a baggy coat over the latter, her clothes were about twice as big as she was. Of course, that was just the way she liked it. In an area like this, looking small wasn't to one's benefit.

Upon reaching the bar, it wasn't hard to pick Myr out of the crowd, what with the firetruck hair. She walked up to the table, pushing her way past Tuija to reach it, then simply slumped down in a chair and leaned back. She'd introduce herself if asked. No need to go out of her way for it.

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Myr had just turned her head to address the Nepleslian woman when she caught sight of the silent Geshrin. "Well shee-yit, we got a coupla chickies here, huh?" Suddenly, her feet dropped back to the ground, and she leaned forward, slamming her fists onto the table. A precarious tower of ashtrays toppled over and spilled their contents. "What's this, a feckin' Yammie comin' to spy on us fer her damn kitty empress?" Her eye cut over to the mech-arm-bearing Tuija. "...you're alright, babe, ain't nothin' wrong with a good ol' Nep. An' we need a feckin' engineer anyway or the ship'll fall to goddamn pieces."

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Tuija looked a little taken aback at being shoved aside, and a little further taken aback at Myr's sudden tirade. 'I...' she stuttered, and took a moment to collect herself. 'No, I suppose there isn't... And I her that ships do tend to do that without an engineer around. Do you mind if I sit?'

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"Geshrin. Not Yamataian." Shiori wasn't a stranger to such reactions, but there still wasn't any mistaking the tone of her voice for anything but cold disapproval. The woman reached into the depths of her coat and fished out a battered metal thermos, which looked older than most of the patrons of the bar. She opened it up, poured herself a cup, and took a few deep drinks of it... judging by the smell that emanated from the flask, she was either drinking industrial solvent or coffee so thick that it approached a gelatinous state.

It was, of course, a social play. Show you're not concerned and buy yourself some time to think up a response--she wouldn't look like much of a merc if she got flustered at the tiniest insult. "And best in the business at taking people out without letting them get a shot off, too. If you don't have a use for that, I can just move on." ... exaggeration and shameless self-promotion, on the other hand, wasn't always a sound business tactic, but hey, it made a good pasttime.

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Louis grunted in acknowledgement of Myr's new name for him. He would honestly have preferred to have been called Lou. He didn't like Mac at all. But it was better than 'Shit-Fer-Brains', as the crimson-haired Barlowe had almost started calling him. He straightened the brown trilby up on his head and scratched at his neck, then made himself comfortable on the edge of his cheap plastic chair.

He was starting to doze off when Tuija arrived and spoke. Her voice was barely a whisper, and her face, obscured by smoke, appeared as little more than a pair of amber lights in the hazy atmosphere of the bar. He grunted his acknowledgement of Tuija's arrival as well, then lowered his hat brim over his eyes again, futilely brushing a tiny clump of cigarette ash off of the breast of his sport jacket before dozing off again.

His third attempt at shut-eye was no less successful, interrupted by a walking clothes rack's sudden arrival. A third grunt came, and 'Mac' settled his face into the crook of his arm, face-down on the table. He shrugged off Myr's abrasive and racist comment (he didn't really give a damn about Yamataians; he was prejudiced like most Nepleslians, but waited until she decided to prove her worth- or lack thereof- before he started shouting racist comments) and was about to doze off when Whispers spoke again.

The enforcer sat up and looked towards Tuija, focusing on the mechanical arms briefly. "That's unique," he said, acknowledging her back-arms as he dragged his duffel bag off the seat his belongings had formerly occupied. "Take a seat," he grunted, settling his bag on the ground as he nestled his face back into the warm crook in his arm.

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It was another new adventure for the young Freespacer as she walked boldly into the scum hole that was the bar. It wasn't so much her stride that was bold, but more what Specs was adorned in: a mostly translucent nightie. Of course it was opaque for where it counted, namely her chest, though it made it clear that the only other things she had on underneath were boyshorts and a belt. Very strange, yes, especially in a crowded Nepleslian city, but then again she was a Freespacer. On her belt was a spanner, a pouch, as well as a SiZi Condensed Plasma Revolver, as persuasion to not try anything.

Recalling exactly who it was she was supposed to be meeting, Specs frowned a bit seeing other people had already shown up. It appeared as though she was a bit late. She strode over, pulled an empty chair from a nearby table, spun it around, and sat down, resting her arms and chin on what should be the back of the chair. Yes, this did mean that she was straddling said chair in order to face the other people.

"Hi!" the Freespacer exclaimed.

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Myr waved a gloved hand rather dismissively at Shiori - the racism seemed only perfunctory, somehow, and after it was done with the Nepleslian woman treated her just as she would anyone else... that is, with the kind of flippant disrespect that got people shot and thrown in a ditch. "Whatever. Long as you ain't ass-ass-inatin' me, or anybody I'm takin' on, fine with me. Might take a cut'a whatever the feck yer drinkin', though." Before she could do much else, though, Lou spoke up in his gruff voice. Her eye narrowed slightly as she heard him give an order. "Look, kid, I'm the feckin' captain here, got it? I want her to sit, I'll tell her to sit." Tirade finished, she turned to address Tuija. "...sure, you can damn well take a seat."

When Specs entered, half the bar - mostly the men, though there were quite a few women as well, including the one-eyed pirate wench - turned to stare at her. It wasn't every day a young lady in a nightie walked into a scummy bar, after all, and some of the patrons certainly weren't deterred by the gun hanging off her belt. Myr didn't much seem to care about anyone else, though, and as Specs mounted the chair the older woman's face split into an ear-to-ear grin. "Well shee-yit, you just ain't scared'a nothin', are ya? Jus' got right outta bed?"

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"Hm? Out of bed? No, why do you ask?" Specs asked, her pink eyes blinking confusedly, and her head cocked to the to the side. Her questions sounded honest and not feigning any idiocy. "Is my hair messy or something? I thought I took care of it...." She lifted her head off her arms and went about patting down her hair, wondering if it was sticking out every which way, as if she had been struck by lightning or something like that.

The 'Spacer let out of a quiet groan as she fidgeted with her head. "Is there something I need to be afraid of? This bar isn't haunted is it?!" she queried, looking about nervously now. From her demeanor, it really seemed as if she didn't notice at all of the eyes that were on her.

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Louis looked up right as Specs pulled her chair to the table. His attuned hearing alerted him to the Spacer's arrival, but up until this point he hadn't actually seen her. The assassin/bassist cocked an eyebrow at the new arrival's eccentric wardrobe. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. This was, after all, Nepleslia.

The person wearing it, however, was infinitely more interesting to behold. The tattoo patterns were stranger than anything he had seen on your average street thug or marine. Her eyes seemed to glow, peering out from a fringe of midnight-blue hair set on the frame of a starving corpse. "Geez!" Louis said, half-shocked and half-surprised. "Wow, that's... err..." The mercenary racked his brain for a polite way to phrase his observations. "That's an... uh... A unique outfit, ma'am." He finally managed to stammer out before burying his face in his hands again.

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Focusing back to the group at the table and away from her ghost hunt, Specs turned to Louis. "Unique? Really? Huh... I wouldn't think it was since there was a whole store with this sort of thing. But, thank you anyway," she replied with a smile.

It was now that she took the time to actually see who it was she was with. She briefly looked over each individual at the table, though her studying of the mechanics of everyone could be nearly be taken as if she was ogling them. Perhaps she studied a bit too closely, perhaps it was warranted. Regardless of her findings, she didn't vocalize them, at least not yet.

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'They're convenient,' Tuija said to Lou. 'And thanks,' to Myr as she brushed off the seat and sat down. She glanced over those present, and settled back to quietly watch the proceedings. She remained quietly poised, right until Specs appeared - she gave a little start when she saw the 'Spacer's outfit.

'Aah... It may not be unique, per se, but I think that sort of attire is more suited for...' She glanced around the bar. 'Other occasions.'

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Shiori had to stifle a snicker as the... inappropriately dressed 'spacer approached the group. As the conversation progressed, she sat down her coffee to lean in to the girl conspiratorially.

"... and yeah, didn't you know? Ghosts everywhere. I heard this one guy went to take a piss and they found his head nailed to the wall. One second you're just walking around, the next, BAM." She smacked her hands together to demonstrate, grinning viciously.

After a few moments, she turned a bit more serious and added, "Look, they're trying to say that you're wearing clothes people usually save for trying to get people to sleep with them. ... and baring that," she wiggled a finger toward Specs' chest, "is a good way to get a lot more attention than you could possibly want, and not the ghost kind. Just keep your head down and try not to get noticed."

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Listening to the other two, Specs squealed and jumped at the 'ghostly' clap. "Wh- wh- what? Sl- sleep with someone? No no no, I di- didn't want that! It's just comfortable and not stuffy!" she sputtered out. She regained a bit of her composure, though now she was glancing about nervously again. Her hand had fallen down to her spanner. "I don't see why this has to mean that I want to sleep with someone. It's just clothes. If I wanted to do that I would be naked, wouldn't I?"

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"Well, if you really wanted to. That you've got on is about the next best thing to it, though." Shiori seemed to have gotten her fill of the ghost stories, at least. Making the Freespacer any more upset would just draw more attention to her. "Just keep low and change into something less ridiculous when you get a chance."

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Myr had settled into silence, a toothy grin her only expression as she watched her new crew argue. At least they're not killing each other, she thought, as she produced a wooden smoking pipe which she began to slowly prepare.

What she didn't notice was that one of the men who had been ogling Specs earlier had left his chair and was creeping up on the crew. Even a good few yards away, they could smell the stench of alcohol that surrounded him and seemed to permeate his very flesh. He lurched forward steadily, towards Specs' back, while Myr was trying to figure out where exactly she had put her tobacco.

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"Stop," Louis said immediately. He was suddenly standing, his right hand hovering over the highly visible holster that contained his dinky gun and 6-inch Bowie knife. He was alongside Specs in an instant, quickly moving to block off the drunken lecher's path of approach.

"Stop," he ordered again, mustering as much authority as he could, his knuckle-gloved hand restlessly twitching over the multi-holster. He was prepared for a spur-of-the-moment draw, waiting for the drunk to make the first move, and at the same time ready to attack himself.