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One Small Favour - Omi - 12-30-2015
"Sure, I can do that," drawled Komachi, drumming her fingers lazily on the tabletop. "Three crates of Curacao Reserve, right?" Barrier Gate's 'marketplace' - really a ramshackle, seedy collection of booths stacked high with all sorts of questionable produce, both legal and less so - looked even less appealing than ever in the post-Christmas season. All around the place, tired station staff were busy dismantling the tinsel and lights that had briefly adorned the cold metal walls, packing away the semblance of festive joy for another year. Privately, Komachi thought it had looked ten times better before the station administrators had hung tacky lights up everywhere - but then again, at least they were trying. The sad-looking Christmas tree that had sat alone in the corner had already been hauled away, since a distinct smell of rotting wood had caused numerous complaints.
"Yeah, that's the one," confirmed the booth's owner, busy polishing some kind of antique lamp as he spoke. "Just through the 'hole, but I can't get out there to pick it up myself. It'd really help me out." Why exactly he needed three whole crates of the stuff, she didn't know - and she knew better than to ask. Yanni dealt in all sorts of stuff, from weird ebony necklaces to odd, sparking bits of tech. Curacao brandy - albeit in a large quantity - was by far the least unusual thing she'd ever heard connected with him. Still, he was offering good money for such a short trip - it wasn't even contraband, for God's sake - so it was hard to say no.
"No problem! See you soon!" With a nonchalant little wave, the sort-of-Chrysanthemum turned to leave, her face not exactly radiating interest. With all the political turmoil in Kusari and the Taus recently, traffic had died down something shocking. Pickings were slimmer than ever, and her pilot's license - only just re-acquired, too - was just burning a hole in her pocket. Fuel wasn't cheap, even if space did seem to get a little quieter every day.
Sadly, this meant that the once-glamorous life of a (sort of) space pirate was quickly becoming more mundane. A stripped-out Sabre with a hacked transponder at least gave her an IFF squawk that wouldn't get her shot on sight, but it was still hard to find anything worth doing. As such, even doing favours for the odd credit chit or two was beginning to seem appealing - anything to get the rent paid and fuel in the tank, at least until someone was willing to stump up to have her decompress things explosively. In more ways than one, of course.
The thoughts of times long past were more hindrance than help, though. Reminiscing about good times gone by had never helped anyone - it was time to focus on the here and now. The Chrysanthemum's fingers curl around the flight stick, her slender frame almost swallowed up by the decidedly larger flight seat. The Sabre hadn't been designed for a pilot who could barely break the five foot mark, and it was showing. Still, as the airlock decompresses around ship with a characteristic hiss of seals breaking, the sharp-nosed fighter shows no signs of incompetent handling as it hurls itself into the void, twin engines flaring as Komachi brings the nose up and hauls the cruise lever down, locking it in place with a satisfying chunk. A smirk crosses her face as the G-forces push her uncomfortably into her chair, the cockpit juddering around her as the ship cuts its way through the azure Coronado clouds.
Still got it, at least. I might even be back in time to fix my sleep schedule, finally. After all, it's just one small favour.
The thought comforts her as she leaves the station behind, settling back in her chair for the short journey as the Sabre winds its way towards the Cortez jump anomaly.
"Yeah, that's the one," confirmed the booth's owner, busy polishing some kind of antique lamp as he spoke. "Just through the 'hole, but I can't get out there to pick it up myself. It'd really help me out." Why exactly he needed three whole crates of the stuff, she didn't know - and she knew better than to ask. Yanni dealt in all sorts of stuff, from weird ebony necklaces to odd, sparking bits of tech. Curacao brandy - albeit in a large quantity - was by far the least unusual thing she'd ever heard connected with him. Still, he was offering good money for such a short trip - it wasn't even contraband, for God's sake - so it was hard to say no.
"No problem! See you soon!" With a nonchalant little wave, the sort-of-Chrysanthemum turned to leave, her face not exactly radiating interest. With all the political turmoil in Kusari and the Taus recently, traffic had died down something shocking. Pickings were slimmer than ever, and her pilot's license - only just re-acquired, too - was just burning a hole in her pocket. Fuel wasn't cheap, even if space did seem to get a little quieter every day.
Sadly, this meant that the once-glamorous life of a (sort of) space pirate was quickly becoming more mundane. A stripped-out Sabre with a hacked transponder at least gave her an IFF squawk that wouldn't get her shot on sight, but it was still hard to find anything worth doing. As such, even doing favours for the odd credit chit or two was beginning to seem appealing - anything to get the rent paid and fuel in the tank, at least until someone was willing to stump up to have her decompress things explosively. In more ways than one, of course.
The thoughts of times long past were more hindrance than help, though. Reminiscing about good times gone by had never helped anyone - it was time to focus on the here and now. The Chrysanthemum's fingers curl around the flight stick, her slender frame almost swallowed up by the decidedly larger flight seat. The Sabre hadn't been designed for a pilot who could barely break the five foot mark, and it was showing. Still, as the airlock decompresses around ship with a characteristic hiss of seals breaking, the sharp-nosed fighter shows no signs of incompetent handling as it hurls itself into the void, twin engines flaring as Komachi brings the nose up and hauls the cruise lever down, locking it in place with a satisfying chunk. A smirk crosses her face as the G-forces push her uncomfortably into her chair, the cockpit juddering around her as the ship cuts its way through the azure Coronado clouds.
Still got it, at least. I might even be back in time to fix my sleep schedule, finally. After all, it's just one small favour.
The thought comforts her as she leaves the station behind, settling back in her chair for the short journey as the Sabre winds its way towards the Cortez jump anomaly.
RE: One Small Favour - Omi - 12-30-2015
Ordinarily, Curacao would have been Komachi's kind of place. If you had credits to burn and any appreciation at all for a vice or two, the resort planet had always had a sector-wide reputation as the place to blow your money on anything from synth weed, to Nox, or a pretty lady to keep you company. However, when you were there on business. Komachi was rapidly finding it to be a lot more boring than entertaining.
The starport was one of the few places planetside where the authorities made any kind of effort to glitz up the seedy reality, at least. The walls and floors gleamed, polished round the clock by an efficient rota of service robots, and any number of attentive guides and other members of staff seemed to be hovering constantly over her shoulder, almost seeming too eager to offer her help and advice.
Then again, that might be because I kinda stick out like a sore thumb. Still dressed in only her buttercup-yellow flight jumpsuit, the short, black-haired Kusarian was a relatively uninspiring figure among the predominantly upper-class crowd. Hopefully, it wouldn't take long to find what she was looking for. The bar would be a good start, she supposed, although three whole crates might raise an eyebrow or two. Still, she didn't think it was likely to be much trouble.
Dodging out of the way of a busy-looking business type, his phone glued to his ear as he rushed through the crowd, Komachi picks her way across the bustling hallway towards the brightly lit, neon-decorated bar.
"Can't I just pay you for them?" pleaded Komachi, an edge of disbelief in her tone. "I have the money right here - look!"
The man behind the counter wasn't interested, waving dismissively at her credit chit with an accompanying shake of the head.
"I already told you, you won't be getting that box open even if I do sell you them. Not without the access codes." At least he had the decency to look sheepish, she thought, although she was already finding it hard to believe anyone could be so stupid. Curacao Reserve was, apparently, a rather protected brand - so protected, in fact, that shipments from the breweries dotted across the surface were sent out in hermetically sealed, Ageira-certified locked boxes, which could only be opened with a passcode specific to each crate. And without the code...
"Isn't there any other way? They must have like - technicians or something who can override the locks, right?"
The man grimaced, looking more than a little pained.
"Yes, but they can't do it off-site. As in 'off the site where the boxes are manufactured. As in Pueblo Station, way up in Colorado."
Komachi's eyes narrowed, her face conveying her irritation and displeasure at this new development rather effectively. Already, Yanni's small request looked set to more than triple in distance, let alone time.
"Look," continued the man, an expression of mixed realisation and desperation crossing his face all at once. "I'll do you a deal, miss Kurosawa. You only want three crates, right? Well - I got a lot more of the stuff than that all locked up tight here. Thirty or so, by my reckoning. If you could take the whole bunch up to Pueblo for me and get their locking mechanism cracked open for me, then I'll throw in the three you want for free. No charge at all. And - hell, I'll even say I owe you a small favour or two afterwards."
Her mouth had opened as soon as he'd mentioned 'taking the whole bunch' anywhere, ready to deliver a resounding 'no' - but at the mention of getting Yanni's three pricey crates for nothing at all, she closed it again. That really was something worth considering. If she pocketed the money the dealer had given her to pay for them, it'd be worth it for her to haul the boxes to Omicron Alpha and back, let alone just to Pueblo. Opposite her, the bartender was already smirking, knowing from her hesitation that he'd already won her over.
"I- yeah, I guess that's- acceptable," replied the Chrysanthemum, trying to regain the initiative. "Pueblo's a bit out of my way, to be honest - but three crates of Reserve as payment sounds fair to me." She offered him her hand with that, sealing the deal with a quick handshake and a grin. "Can I get a bottle of vodka for the road with that?"
"One-hundred fifty." A green chit had already slid across the bar, though - soon followed by a litre bottle of clear liquid in the opposite direction. "I'll comm ahead and let them know you're coming. You're in bay 38T, right?"
"You got it, signore," she winked back, scooping up the bottle in one delicate hand and turning to leave. "I'll meet your boys there to get loaded up."
He nodded in affirmation, eyeing the young woman carefully as she strode across the floor and out of sight, a spring in her step and a bottle of drink clutched in her right hand. Somehow, she didn't exactly strike him as the reliable type. Still - he'd gotten a better price out of contracting her ad-hoc to jimmy his sealed shipment open for him than he would have gotten from a 'certified' delivery captain. In the current economic climate, that was a pretty big deal.
Lounging back in the cockpit while her Sabre was loaded up, Komachi stretches cat-like in the chair, too preoccupied with being lazy to worry about little things like pre-flight checks or starport safety regulations. It's practically a dream come true. Maybe I should get myself properly into the high-value cargo business, rather than just ferrying thousands of tons of Cardamine and scrap metal for like I used to. Curacao to Pueblo is a cinch. It won't even add that much time on, to be honest.
Yanni might have been happier to get his cargo as soon as possible, but it looked like he'd just have to wait a little longer than he'd expected. She probably wouldn't even bother radioing him once she hit vacuum again, just in case he wanted to inquire into the financial side of things. After all, it wouldn't be much more than a minor delay.
The starport was one of the few places planetside where the authorities made any kind of effort to glitz up the seedy reality, at least. The walls and floors gleamed, polished round the clock by an efficient rota of service robots, and any number of attentive guides and other members of staff seemed to be hovering constantly over her shoulder, almost seeming too eager to offer her help and advice.
Then again, that might be because I kinda stick out like a sore thumb. Still dressed in only her buttercup-yellow flight jumpsuit, the short, black-haired Kusarian was a relatively uninspiring figure among the predominantly upper-class crowd. Hopefully, it wouldn't take long to find what she was looking for. The bar would be a good start, she supposed, although three whole crates might raise an eyebrow or two. Still, she didn't think it was likely to be much trouble.
Dodging out of the way of a busy-looking business type, his phone glued to his ear as he rushed through the crowd, Komachi picks her way across the bustling hallway towards the brightly lit, neon-decorated bar.
"Can't I just pay you for them?" pleaded Komachi, an edge of disbelief in her tone. "I have the money right here - look!"
The man behind the counter wasn't interested, waving dismissively at her credit chit with an accompanying shake of the head.
"I already told you, you won't be getting that box open even if I do sell you them. Not without the access codes." At least he had the decency to look sheepish, she thought, although she was already finding it hard to believe anyone could be so stupid. Curacao Reserve was, apparently, a rather protected brand - so protected, in fact, that shipments from the breweries dotted across the surface were sent out in hermetically sealed, Ageira-certified locked boxes, which could only be opened with a passcode specific to each crate. And without the code...
"Isn't there any other way? They must have like - technicians or something who can override the locks, right?"
The man grimaced, looking more than a little pained.
"Yes, but they can't do it off-site. As in 'off the site where the boxes are manufactured. As in Pueblo Station, way up in Colorado."
Komachi's eyes narrowed, her face conveying her irritation and displeasure at this new development rather effectively. Already, Yanni's small request looked set to more than triple in distance, let alone time.
"Look," continued the man, an expression of mixed realisation and desperation crossing his face all at once. "I'll do you a deal, miss Kurosawa. You only want three crates, right? Well - I got a lot more of the stuff than that all locked up tight here. Thirty or so, by my reckoning. If you could take the whole bunch up to Pueblo for me and get their locking mechanism cracked open for me, then I'll throw in the three you want for free. No charge at all. And - hell, I'll even say I owe you a small favour or two afterwards."
Her mouth had opened as soon as he'd mentioned 'taking the whole bunch' anywhere, ready to deliver a resounding 'no' - but at the mention of getting Yanni's three pricey crates for nothing at all, she closed it again. That really was something worth considering. If she pocketed the money the dealer had given her to pay for them, it'd be worth it for her to haul the boxes to Omicron Alpha and back, let alone just to Pueblo. Opposite her, the bartender was already smirking, knowing from her hesitation that he'd already won her over.
"I- yeah, I guess that's- acceptable," replied the Chrysanthemum, trying to regain the initiative. "Pueblo's a bit out of my way, to be honest - but three crates of Reserve as payment sounds fair to me." She offered him her hand with that, sealing the deal with a quick handshake and a grin. "Can I get a bottle of vodka for the road with that?"
"One-hundred fifty." A green chit had already slid across the bar, though - soon followed by a litre bottle of clear liquid in the opposite direction. "I'll comm ahead and let them know you're coming. You're in bay 38T, right?"
"You got it, signore," she winked back, scooping up the bottle in one delicate hand and turning to leave. "I'll meet your boys there to get loaded up."
He nodded in affirmation, eyeing the young woman carefully as she strode across the floor and out of sight, a spring in her step and a bottle of drink clutched in her right hand. Somehow, she didn't exactly strike him as the reliable type. Still - he'd gotten a better price out of contracting her ad-hoc to jimmy his sealed shipment open for him than he would have gotten from a 'certified' delivery captain. In the current economic climate, that was a pretty big deal.
Lounging back in the cockpit while her Sabre was loaded up, Komachi stretches cat-like in the chair, too preoccupied with being lazy to worry about little things like pre-flight checks or starport safety regulations. It's practically a dream come true. Maybe I should get myself properly into the high-value cargo business, rather than just ferrying thousands of tons of Cardamine and scrap metal for like I used to. Curacao to Pueblo is a cinch. It won't even add that much time on, to be honest.
Yanni might have been happier to get his cargo as soon as possible, but it looked like he'd just have to wait a little longer than he'd expected. She probably wouldn't even bother radioing him once she hit vacuum again, just in case he wanted to inquire into the financial side of things. After all, it wouldn't be much more than a minor delay.
RE: One Small Favour - Omi - 01-03-2016
From the moment she'd left her ship, it was clear that Ageira took cleanliness and hygiene very, very seriously aboard their largest manufacturing plant. Komachi could have sworn she'd seen hospitals and med-bays that were less obsessive about making sure things stayed clean. The place was practically sterile in the purest sense of the word.
Down in the freight bay, though, things were a little less organised than in the corridors she'd already been taken through. Forklift hovercraft jockeyed for position on the warehouse floor below, like a network of ants at work in a gargantuan nest. From her position high up on the stainless steel catwalk, the Chrysanthemum eyed them with unrestrained interest, admiring how their cybernetic brains constantly calculated and re-calculated the most efficient route to their destination, conferring with each other ceaselessly to make it happen.
Her own hoverpad hummed gently behind her, the three offending crates of alcohol stacked neatly on top of it. Their contents were still sealed tightly away, of course - the technician hadn't arrived yet. Probably stuck between five airlocks and four different sprays of disinfectant. She herself had been sprayed down twice so far, and given a shiny white jumpsuit to wear on top of that. It was actually quite well-made, come to think of it. Briefly, she wondered if she'd be allowed to keep it. It could come in handy.
The short hiss of a door opening interrupted her thoughts, her gaze flicking expectantly up to the man who'd entered. He peers at her from above his glasses, a severe expression on his face.
"Miss Kurosawa?" he queries, brandishing a small PDA in front of him ominously. "These are the crates - to be unlocked 'urgently' as I understand, as well - correct?"
"Yeah? What's up?"
The man doesn't reply straight away, tapping a few buttons on his handheld device. It beeps, once, before he slips it into his pocket.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Two hours later, Komachi was stuck in a queue at the Kepler jumpgate - her Sabre's cargo hold as empty as the day she'd bought it. The train in front of her hadn't moved in what felt like hours, which wasn't helping her mood or the splitting headache that she was rapidly developing. Rude corporate types were busy jockeying for position, trying to jam two transports at once through the jumpgate's narrow aperture. Had she felt any better, she might have placed a mental bet on the winner. As it stood, though, she just felt like setting them on fire. Sometimes, the letter of the law was just so restrictive.
Two whole days. Nobody had said anything about the override process for those damn sealed crates taking forty-eight long, long hours. That kind of news could make or break her, yet that sleazy bartender hadn't once mentioned it. She was sure she'd impressed upon him the dire need for her delivery to be made promptly, too.
As it stood, though, there was little point sitting around complaining about it. Besides...
"...something for you in the meantime, miss Kurosawa. Consider it a small favour for the corporation - albeit one with a predetermined and sizeable reward."
Upon further interrogation, even in her disgruntled state, she'd managed to assess that they'd pegged her as a mercenary type. Hardly surprising considering her fighter, and even a little flattering considering her appearance, but she'd never been one to turn down easy money. A pack of Xenos, probably piloting cardboard Eagle lookalikes held together with Sellotape and Blu-Tac, picking individual pods off of transports as they made the journey through Kepler. The pay wasn't great, but it would at least give her something to do in the meantime. Besides, Xeno ships were notorious for their ramshackle construction, frequently having to choose between having only one of the shields, weapons, or engines powered up fully at once. Unless there happened to be a particularly elite, dangerous pilot hovering just over the horizon, it seemed very unlikely to be any more threatening than the average sim.
Still, she wasn't exactly happy about the whole affair. She hadn't even bothered calling Yanni yet - God knows, he'd probably just write her off as a lost cause, and then she'd be stuck with three crates of liquor wedged into the back of her ship for the forseeable future. That would certainly affect the handling.
Sighing, she drummed her fingers on the dashboard, bored brown eyes watching as a Gateway Percheron glanced off a Daumann train, ricocheting gracefully into the jump vortex.
One down, about twenty to go.
It was going to be a long, long wait.
Down in the freight bay, though, things were a little less organised than in the corridors she'd already been taken through. Forklift hovercraft jockeyed for position on the warehouse floor below, like a network of ants at work in a gargantuan nest. From her position high up on the stainless steel catwalk, the Chrysanthemum eyed them with unrestrained interest, admiring how their cybernetic brains constantly calculated and re-calculated the most efficient route to their destination, conferring with each other ceaselessly to make it happen.
Her own hoverpad hummed gently behind her, the three offending crates of alcohol stacked neatly on top of it. Their contents were still sealed tightly away, of course - the technician hadn't arrived yet. Probably stuck between five airlocks and four different sprays of disinfectant. She herself had been sprayed down twice so far, and given a shiny white jumpsuit to wear on top of that. It was actually quite well-made, come to think of it. Briefly, she wondered if she'd be allowed to keep it. It could come in handy.
The short hiss of a door opening interrupted her thoughts, her gaze flicking expectantly up to the man who'd entered. He peers at her from above his glasses, a severe expression on his face.
"Miss Kurosawa?" he queries, brandishing a small PDA in front of him ominously. "These are the crates - to be unlocked 'urgently' as I understand, as well - correct?"
"Yeah? What's up?"
The man doesn't reply straight away, tapping a few buttons on his handheld device. It beeps, once, before he slips it into his pocket.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Two hours later, Komachi was stuck in a queue at the Kepler jumpgate - her Sabre's cargo hold as empty as the day she'd bought it. The train in front of her hadn't moved in what felt like hours, which wasn't helping her mood or the splitting headache that she was rapidly developing. Rude corporate types were busy jockeying for position, trying to jam two transports at once through the jumpgate's narrow aperture. Had she felt any better, she might have placed a mental bet on the winner. As it stood, though, she just felt like setting them on fire. Sometimes, the letter of the law was just so restrictive.
Two whole days. Nobody had said anything about the override process for those damn sealed crates taking forty-eight long, long hours. That kind of news could make or break her, yet that sleazy bartender hadn't once mentioned it. She was sure she'd impressed upon him the dire need for her delivery to be made promptly, too.
As it stood, though, there was little point sitting around complaining about it. Besides...
"...something for you in the meantime, miss Kurosawa. Consider it a small favour for the corporation - albeit one with a predetermined and sizeable reward."
Upon further interrogation, even in her disgruntled state, she'd managed to assess that they'd pegged her as a mercenary type. Hardly surprising considering her fighter, and even a little flattering considering her appearance, but she'd never been one to turn down easy money. A pack of Xenos, probably piloting cardboard Eagle lookalikes held together with Sellotape and Blu-Tac, picking individual pods off of transports as they made the journey through Kepler. The pay wasn't great, but it would at least give her something to do in the meantime. Besides, Xeno ships were notorious for their ramshackle construction, frequently having to choose between having only one of the shields, weapons, or engines powered up fully at once. Unless there happened to be a particularly elite, dangerous pilot hovering just over the horizon, it seemed very unlikely to be any more threatening than the average sim.
Still, she wasn't exactly happy about the whole affair. She hadn't even bothered calling Yanni yet - God knows, he'd probably just write her off as a lost cause, and then she'd be stuck with three crates of liquor wedged into the back of her ship for the forseeable future. That would certainly affect the handling.
Sighing, she drummed her fingers on the dashboard, bored brown eyes watching as a Gateway Percheron glanced off a Daumann train, ricocheting gracefully into the jump vortex.
One down, about twenty to go.
It was going to be a long, long wait.
RE: One Small Favour - Omi - 01-08-2016
"A what?"
"You know. A churro."
The voice coming out of her console wasn't making much sense, and Komachi was beginning to feel confused. She'd found the Xeno ships, all right - or at least, bits and pieces of them were floating past her Sabre on all sides. CTE-manufactured chunks were bouncing gently off her shields, each accompanied by its own little bip as the fighter's systems registered the individual impacts.
Among the wreckage sat the perpetrator - a spiky, mean-looking freighter. It looked like something the Corsairs would build, if she had to guess - although what exactly a Cretan ship was doing in Kepler was another thing entirely. Her fingers curled around the flight stick, eyes locked on the vessel before her. If it meant her harm as well, she'd be fleeing from it at thrust speed, with quite a lot of fancy flying involved to boot. It undoubtedly had a cruising speed higher than her Sabre's - and that was assuming she could get them spooled up to full power. Really, she should have had it serviced weeks ago.
Right now, though, the Corsair pilot didn't seem particularly harmful. In fact, he just seemed petulant, mumbling something about "churros" being stolen. Whatever those were.
Sighing, Komachi depressed the 'transmit' button again.
"Look, I don't know what a 'chooro' is, signore. All I know is that I came here to shoot Xenos, not you."
"Ah, senorita!" came the reply, sounding faintly disbelieving.
"You never eaten a churro before in your life, cholita? You should swing by Lagos sometime, girl. Ask for Miguel. Best churros this side of Crete."
"Right." Clearly, the man was mad. Anticipating trouble - madmen always meant trouble, Komachi flared the ship's engines slightly, pointing the nose squarely towards the freighter. Any sudden movements, and she'd be perfectly poised to squeeze off a quick burst of fire before he could really try anything. If he noticed, however, the captain didn't seem to care.
"Actually, senorita, I could really go for a churro or two right now. Know what I'm saying? You a merc type, right? Whatcha say you do some trabajo for me, ese? You head back too soon, and they gonna wonder how you killed those Xenos so fast anyway. ¿Comprende?"
He had a point - albeit a weak one. Upon seeing the dead Xeno patrol, Komachi had already mentally walked into the Ames bar, looking forwards to an hour or two of quick relaxation. Helping a lost Corsair far from home get his hands on 'churros' fell decidedly out of the 'leisure' category. Still...
"How much?" she blurted out, even as she mentally kicked herself. More like 'shove it, creep'. Maybe part of me just wants to find out what a 'churro' is firsthand. Money was money, though, no matter where - or who - it came from.
"It's not far," reassured the voice. "There's a lot of familia on Deshima. No surprise there, eh? Those Hunters are stupid enough to believe anything, even a Cretan against his own people!" He chuckled, prompting her to laugh along with him, albeit a little too slowly. If it was a joke, she didn't get it. Sisters turned each other in all the time. It was one of the reasons Fuchu stayed so 'cosy' and 'warm'.
"Anyway," he continued. "Bring me a nice, fresh-fried churro con chocolate, and I'll give you something worth taking home." If voices could wink, she'd have sworn his just did. As he finished speaking, her console beeped. A picture message, evidently.
Warily, she manipulated the viewscreen in front of her, pulling up the image. A crate full of bottles greeted her, with the word 'TEQUILA' stencilled rather simply on the side. Churros, she might not have known - but boy, did she know what that meant.
"True Cretan tequila," assured the voice, with perfect timing. "Nothing like the cervezas you've had before, cholita. This is the real stuff, you get me?"
"I get you," she breathed, almost forgetting to press 'transmit' again. "Deshima, right?"
"Tell them Tortuga sent you," came the reply, sounding very wise all of a sudden. Or was that smugness? She couldn't tell - but the promised reward was more than worth a half-hour delivery mission. That was easy enough to work out, at least.
"Tortooa," echoed Komachi, expertly butchering the pronunciation. "Got it. I'll see you on Ames, signore... Tortuga?"
"Sí." With that, the freighter glided smoothly past her, shuddering as its cruise engines began to heat up. She watched it go, still looking slightly unsure about things - as well as a little aggrieved. Nothing was ever simple these days, it seemed. Shooting Xenos was hard work, sure - but at least that was what she'd actually signed up for. Running delivery missions for a Cretan national, however, was another thing entirely. The whole thing smelt of a set-up, or, at the very least, some kind of elaborate joke.
One small favour, Yanni? Yeah, sure.
She waits for him to disappear into the distance before she gets moving herself, the Sabre silhouetted starkly against the dark Kepler clouds as it rolls once and rockets back towards the tradelanes.
"You know. A churro."
The voice coming out of her console wasn't making much sense, and Komachi was beginning to feel confused. She'd found the Xeno ships, all right - or at least, bits and pieces of them were floating past her Sabre on all sides. CTE-manufactured chunks were bouncing gently off her shields, each accompanied by its own little bip as the fighter's systems registered the individual impacts.
Among the wreckage sat the perpetrator - a spiky, mean-looking freighter. It looked like something the Corsairs would build, if she had to guess - although what exactly a Cretan ship was doing in Kepler was another thing entirely. Her fingers curled around the flight stick, eyes locked on the vessel before her. If it meant her harm as well, she'd be fleeing from it at thrust speed, with quite a lot of fancy flying involved to boot. It undoubtedly had a cruising speed higher than her Sabre's - and that was assuming she could get them spooled up to full power. Really, she should have had it serviced weeks ago.
Right now, though, the Corsair pilot didn't seem particularly harmful. In fact, he just seemed petulant, mumbling something about "churros" being stolen. Whatever those were.
Sighing, Komachi depressed the 'transmit' button again.
"Look, I don't know what a 'chooro' is, signore. All I know is that I came here to shoot Xenos, not you."
"Ah, senorita!" came the reply, sounding faintly disbelieving.
"You never eaten a churro before in your life, cholita? You should swing by Lagos sometime, girl. Ask for Miguel. Best churros this side of Crete."
"Right." Clearly, the man was mad. Anticipating trouble - madmen always meant trouble, Komachi flared the ship's engines slightly, pointing the nose squarely towards the freighter. Any sudden movements, and she'd be perfectly poised to squeeze off a quick burst of fire before he could really try anything. If he noticed, however, the captain didn't seem to care.
"Actually, senorita, I could really go for a churro or two right now. Know what I'm saying? You a merc type, right? Whatcha say you do some trabajo for me, ese? You head back too soon, and they gonna wonder how you killed those Xenos so fast anyway. ¿Comprende?"
He had a point - albeit a weak one. Upon seeing the dead Xeno patrol, Komachi had already mentally walked into the Ames bar, looking forwards to an hour or two of quick relaxation. Helping a lost Corsair far from home get his hands on 'churros' fell decidedly out of the 'leisure' category. Still...
"How much?" she blurted out, even as she mentally kicked herself. More like 'shove it, creep'. Maybe part of me just wants to find out what a 'churro' is firsthand. Money was money, though, no matter where - or who - it came from.
"It's not far," reassured the voice. "There's a lot of familia on Deshima. No surprise there, eh? Those Hunters are stupid enough to believe anything, even a Cretan against his own people!" He chuckled, prompting her to laugh along with him, albeit a little too slowly. If it was a joke, she didn't get it. Sisters turned each other in all the time. It was one of the reasons Fuchu stayed so 'cosy' and 'warm'.
"Anyway," he continued. "Bring me a nice, fresh-fried churro con chocolate, and I'll give you something worth taking home." If voices could wink, she'd have sworn his just did. As he finished speaking, her console beeped. A picture message, evidently.
Warily, she manipulated the viewscreen in front of her, pulling up the image. A crate full of bottles greeted her, with the word 'TEQUILA' stencilled rather simply on the side. Churros, she might not have known - but boy, did she know what that meant.
"True Cretan tequila," assured the voice, with perfect timing. "Nothing like the cervezas you've had before, cholita. This is the real stuff, you get me?"
"I get you," she breathed, almost forgetting to press 'transmit' again. "Deshima, right?"
"Tell them Tortuga sent you," came the reply, sounding very wise all of a sudden. Or was that smugness? She couldn't tell - but the promised reward was more than worth a half-hour delivery mission. That was easy enough to work out, at least.
"Tortooa," echoed Komachi, expertly butchering the pronunciation. "Got it. I'll see you on Ames, signore... Tortuga?"
"Sí." With that, the freighter glided smoothly past her, shuddering as its cruise engines began to heat up. She watched it go, still looking slightly unsure about things - as well as a little aggrieved. Nothing was ever simple these days, it seemed. Shooting Xenos was hard work, sure - but at least that was what she'd actually signed up for. Running delivery missions for a Cretan national, however, was another thing entirely. The whole thing smelt of a set-up, or, at the very least, some kind of elaborate joke.
One small favour, Yanni? Yeah, sure.
She waits for him to disappear into the distance before she gets moving herself, the Sabre silhouetted starkly against the dark Kepler clouds as it rolls once and rockets back towards the tradelanes.
RE: One Small Favour - Omi - 01-17-2016
Deshima Station wasn't quite what she'd always imagined it to be. Hunter types - both in her mind and in her experience - had always been rather pragmatic types. Those on board Deshima, however, looked decidedly more theatrical. The entrance to the bar had been done up to have actual saloon doors, for goodness' sake - although Komachi privately doubted that it was real wood. In the old, old movies, everyone who'd have been drinking in a real saloon would have had a gun in their holster - but back then, more than a millennium ago, guns were a lot less destructive. Certain bars, even in the ninth century after landfall, weren't renowned for their peaceful atmospheres - and if she had to put her money on which type Deshima was...
Judging by the looks they've been giving me, I think they might know something's up. Not for the first time, she wondered if it was some kind of set-up. Hunters of all shapes, colours, and sizes had been eyeing her up ever since she first pushed the doors open - and more than a few looked tense. Then again, for all she knew, her face was on some list of baddies somewhere - especially this close to Kusari. But that was fine, right? She just happened to look very similar to that particular girl. After all, which wanted criminal would willingly walk on board a station packed to the brim of people who spent every waking hour hunting criminals for money? Not her! With her new Ageira Technologies jumpsuit on - the badge prominently displayed on her chest - and her hair up in a ponytail instead of down in its usual, lazy style, Komachi was confident that she blended in. Almost. Or at least looked like she had a reason to be there.
For now, at least, her disguise seemed to be holding. Sort of. People were looking, but nobody ever wanted to mess with Ageira types, just in case they were genuine. A miscalibrated jumpgate or lane ring could kill a man as easily as any plasma round through the canopy, and for that reason their technicans tended to get a wide berth. Live and let live, so to speak.
Using this knowledge to her disadvantage - and conscious that it might not last long, especially considering she looked fairly 'off the clock' here in the bar - she strode up to the counter, waiting until the bartender caught her eye and moved over. She was no expert, but he looked somewhat of a swarthy man. Kinda Hispanic, too, in the right light. Him being Cretan was pretty likely, at least as far as she reckoned.
"Hi," she preempted, giving him a little wave. "What's your name?"
"Miguel," came the grunted reply, beady eyes staring back at her from above a bushy moustache. "What'll it be?"
Her heart leapt - or, at the very least, it lurched upwards a little. This had to be the guy. Right?
"I, uh," she began, before leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper: "-do you do 'chooros' here, Miguel?"
His eyes met hers again, flicking up from the bar with - was that fear she saw? At the same time, she became distinctly aware of the sudden silence that had descended on the whole room. A hundred pairs of eyes were on her now, and the lack of any noise whatsoever was deathly.
Komachi's heart sank. Oh dear.
"What?" she asked, to nobody in particular. Some of the room's occupants, in particular, looked furious. More than one hand was already reaching for a holster.
"Nobody ask for churros but Tortuga, senorita," mumbled the bartender. He looked faintly apologetic, but in no way did he look willing to try and hold back the crowd. Some of the guns were out now.
"Wait, wait, wait! But I'm getting them on his - Tor-too-a's, I mean - on his behalf! I'm here to get them for him - they're not for me!"
Again, the same silence returned to the bar. This time, though, it was even more uneasy - particularly with half a dozen pistols trained on her back. Some of them were the more usual laser or plasma variety, but a couple were old-fashioned projectile shooters. Not the sort of thing that would help her day, especially with the advancements made in that area of ballistics. A fist-sized chunk of expando-plasteel embedding itself in her lower spine would do her no favours whatsoever.
"You got any proof, chiquita?" Miguel sounded a bit sympathetic now, his head shaking slowly. Perhaps he thought she was stalling for time - but for Matsuda's sake, she was here on the guy's request! But proof? He hadn't said she'd need any proof.
Already, she fancied she could hear fingers tightening on triggers. This wasn't going to work. It was, more than ever, now time for plan B. Or, at least, the plan that started with a B.
"Six-zero, six-zero," she began, her tone steady and direct as she spoke into her lapel microphone. "Tally mud, three-three-zero level! Split, cleared hot! Over!"
The assembled hunters seemed more than a little confused by the sudden spiel, but made no moves for now. More than likely, they assumed it was a code. All eyes flicked to Miguel, who looked just as nonplussed.
"I got no idea what-"
Luckily for Komachi, that's as far as he gets before something very bad happens to Deshima's (in)famous bar and grill. A ferocious boom breaks the near-silence with a tremendous noise, the entire station seeming to shake as something very fast and sizeable comes rocketing through the saloon's panoramic windows. As it does so, she breaks into a run, diving for the exit doors as the floor buckles and shakes beneath her. Already, the sound of the room depressurising is all around her, an urgent hissing in her ears that spurs her onwards. She'd have to make it beyond the bulkheads before the section got sealed off. All around her, the assembled patrons of the bar are either too stunned or too injured to follow quite yet, their brains still not completely au fait with what was going on. After all, it wasn't every day you went from holding a young woman at gunpoint to having an Ahoudori rammed through your favourite watering hole at cruise speed.
As such, her few seconds of head start is enough to leave them behind, and she skips through the bulkhead aperture before it's even more than a quarter of the way closed, her footsteps clanging and banging on the metal walkways as she sprints back towards docking point six - churros nowhere to be found. Klaxons blare from every loudspeaker she passes, but the corridors she's passing through are surprisingly empty. Then again, perhaps it wasn't that surprising - on a station full of bounty hunters, no doubt every single one was busy rushing to the source of all the commotion; no doubt intent on discovering a bounty or two hiding amidst the carnage. Hunters really were predictable.
Just like she'd thought, the docking bay is deserted when she arrives, not a soul other than her there to watch her clamber hastily into her Sabre, detach the clamps with the aid of the station's VI mainframe, and soar off into the Galileo gate lane. As she goes, though, she can't resist twisting the ship around and killing the engine, drifting the last hundred metres or so in reverse so that she could survey the destruction. Deshima looked much less foreboding with an Ahoudori half-embedded in its upper area, smoke and gas belching from its newfound wound. Passing ships had already begun to clump up in close proximity; some intent on helping, some merely stopping to watch the incident in progress.
With a smirk on her face, she twirls the fighter one-eighty degrees again and activates the lane sequence, disappearing promptly into the pinkish-blue clouds of southern Shikoku. Tortuga could get his damn churros himself, next time. She'd had to call in a favour of her own to get 'extracted' safely, and favours like that didn't come cheap.
F**k it. I'm going back to Pueblo, and then I can wrap this whole shebang up tout-suite. I'm not getting bounced all around Sirius on one teeny-tiny little favour after another - especially if they're all as dangerous as that. Leave that sort of thing for some other joker, because I'm bailing before my one small favour turns into a recipe for disaster.
The jump vortex swallows her Sabre like a fat kid with a chocolate bar, and then she's gone.
Judging by the looks they've been giving me, I think they might know something's up. Not for the first time, she wondered if it was some kind of set-up. Hunters of all shapes, colours, and sizes had been eyeing her up ever since she first pushed the doors open - and more than a few looked tense. Then again, for all she knew, her face was on some list of baddies somewhere - especially this close to Kusari. But that was fine, right? She just happened to look very similar to that particular girl. After all, which wanted criminal would willingly walk on board a station packed to the brim of people who spent every waking hour hunting criminals for money? Not her! With her new Ageira Technologies jumpsuit on - the badge prominently displayed on her chest - and her hair up in a ponytail instead of down in its usual, lazy style, Komachi was confident that she blended in. Almost. Or at least looked like she had a reason to be there.
For now, at least, her disguise seemed to be holding. Sort of. People were looking, but nobody ever wanted to mess with Ageira types, just in case they were genuine. A miscalibrated jumpgate or lane ring could kill a man as easily as any plasma round through the canopy, and for that reason their technicans tended to get a wide berth. Live and let live, so to speak.
Using this knowledge to her disadvantage - and conscious that it might not last long, especially considering she looked fairly 'off the clock' here in the bar - she strode up to the counter, waiting until the bartender caught her eye and moved over. She was no expert, but he looked somewhat of a swarthy man. Kinda Hispanic, too, in the right light. Him being Cretan was pretty likely, at least as far as she reckoned.
"Hi," she preempted, giving him a little wave. "What's your name?"
"Miguel," came the grunted reply, beady eyes staring back at her from above a bushy moustache. "What'll it be?"
Her heart leapt - or, at the very least, it lurched upwards a little. This had to be the guy. Right?
"I, uh," she began, before leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper: "-do you do 'chooros' here, Miguel?"
His eyes met hers again, flicking up from the bar with - was that fear she saw? At the same time, she became distinctly aware of the sudden silence that had descended on the whole room. A hundred pairs of eyes were on her now, and the lack of any noise whatsoever was deathly.
Komachi's heart sank. Oh dear.
"What?" she asked, to nobody in particular. Some of the room's occupants, in particular, looked furious. More than one hand was already reaching for a holster.
"Nobody ask for churros but Tortuga, senorita," mumbled the bartender. He looked faintly apologetic, but in no way did he look willing to try and hold back the crowd. Some of the guns were out now.
"Wait, wait, wait! But I'm getting them on his - Tor-too-a's, I mean - on his behalf! I'm here to get them for him - they're not for me!"
Again, the same silence returned to the bar. This time, though, it was even more uneasy - particularly with half a dozen pistols trained on her back. Some of them were the more usual laser or plasma variety, but a couple were old-fashioned projectile shooters. Not the sort of thing that would help her day, especially with the advancements made in that area of ballistics. A fist-sized chunk of expando-plasteel embedding itself in her lower spine would do her no favours whatsoever.
"You got any proof, chiquita?" Miguel sounded a bit sympathetic now, his head shaking slowly. Perhaps he thought she was stalling for time - but for Matsuda's sake, she was here on the guy's request! But proof? He hadn't said she'd need any proof.
Already, she fancied she could hear fingers tightening on triggers. This wasn't going to work. It was, more than ever, now time for plan B. Or, at least, the plan that started with a B.
"Six-zero, six-zero," she began, her tone steady and direct as she spoke into her lapel microphone. "Tally mud, three-three-zero level! Split, cleared hot! Over!"
The assembled hunters seemed more than a little confused by the sudden spiel, but made no moves for now. More than likely, they assumed it was a code. All eyes flicked to Miguel, who looked just as nonplussed.
"I got no idea what-"
Luckily for Komachi, that's as far as he gets before something very bad happens to Deshima's (in)famous bar and grill. A ferocious boom breaks the near-silence with a tremendous noise, the entire station seeming to shake as something very fast and sizeable comes rocketing through the saloon's panoramic windows. As it does so, she breaks into a run, diving for the exit doors as the floor buckles and shakes beneath her. Already, the sound of the room depressurising is all around her, an urgent hissing in her ears that spurs her onwards. She'd have to make it beyond the bulkheads before the section got sealed off. All around her, the assembled patrons of the bar are either too stunned or too injured to follow quite yet, their brains still not completely au fait with what was going on. After all, it wasn't every day you went from holding a young woman at gunpoint to having an Ahoudori rammed through your favourite watering hole at cruise speed.
As such, her few seconds of head start is enough to leave them behind, and she skips through the bulkhead aperture before it's even more than a quarter of the way closed, her footsteps clanging and banging on the metal walkways as she sprints back towards docking point six - churros nowhere to be found. Klaxons blare from every loudspeaker she passes, but the corridors she's passing through are surprisingly empty. Then again, perhaps it wasn't that surprising - on a station full of bounty hunters, no doubt every single one was busy rushing to the source of all the commotion; no doubt intent on discovering a bounty or two hiding amidst the carnage. Hunters really were predictable.
Just like she'd thought, the docking bay is deserted when she arrives, not a soul other than her there to watch her clamber hastily into her Sabre, detach the clamps with the aid of the station's VI mainframe, and soar off into the Galileo gate lane. As she goes, though, she can't resist twisting the ship around and killing the engine, drifting the last hundred metres or so in reverse so that she could survey the destruction. Deshima looked much less foreboding with an Ahoudori half-embedded in its upper area, smoke and gas belching from its newfound wound. Passing ships had already begun to clump up in close proximity; some intent on helping, some merely stopping to watch the incident in progress.
With a smirk on her face, she twirls the fighter one-eighty degrees again and activates the lane sequence, disappearing promptly into the pinkish-blue clouds of southern Shikoku. Tortuga could get his damn churros himself, next time. She'd had to call in a favour of her own to get 'extracted' safely, and favours like that didn't come cheap.
F**k it. I'm going back to Pueblo, and then I can wrap this whole shebang up tout-suite. I'm not getting bounced all around Sirius on one teeny-tiny little favour after another - especially if they're all as dangerous as that. Leave that sort of thing for some other joker, because I'm bailing before my one small favour turns into a recipe for disaster.
The jump vortex swallows her Sabre like a fat kid with a chocolate bar, and then she's gone.