Allison stands up, and follows Anders over to the blackjack table, hitting him behind the head.
"Anders, you idiot, that's Roger Claymore. Apparently, he commands a wing of Rocs in Dublin"
She sits at the empty seat next to Roger, putting a 50K chip on the table
He backs away from the table, and whistles loudly. Most of the occupants look up, including his crew. He sticks his right arm, and points to the exit towards the docking bay
"Alright you damn maggots, to the docking bay! And no groaning, we aren't leaving yet."
He walks towards the exit, with his crew behind him.
Roger watched Anders leave, then looked back at the woman who had taken a seat next to him.
'Ain't just in Dublin. Dublin's a crappy littl' 'ole, good for catchin' minas, but tha real money's in targettin' tha 'aulers in tha lesser patrolled border systems.
'Now, I'm at a disadvantage 'ere. Y'know w'o I am, but I ain't got tha foggiest clue w'o you are. I don't get to Coronado much, 'n' Liberty I make sure to avoid as much as I can. Don't wanna catch tha Lawl's Syndrome. So, what's ya name?'
[17:45:39] Wolfs Ghost (Murphy): Tom, you have problems. Go kill yourself.
[19:25:12] Johnny (Jam): Tomtom, I will beat you with a spoon.
[14:22:56] Prarabdh Thakur: KILL HIM WITH A SHEEP.
[17:40:48] Eagle (Junes): Tom should be slapped with a spoon.
[11:32:18] Warspite: Thank you for being so awesome Tom. <3
[18:17:36] Metano: I love you tomtom
[20:06:24] Warspite: I will seriously give you epic head.
' Wrote:Edit: also, Tomtomrawr, fappin' like a boss.
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Probably the shabbiest ship for a couple of systems, the old, battered "Confederate"-class gunship moved on a low impulse speed towards the group of ships, and sent a hail to the Las Vegas.
The New Mexico's communications array, once one of the finest to be mounted on a ship of its age and class in the entire Liberty Navy, now a beaten, damaged, magnetized, ionized, barely-functional array of satellite dishes and transmitter beacons, filled the Vegas' receiving comm ports with static for nearly a full minute before the tired, drained, and weary voice of AWOL Captain Armand Grimston became recognizable. Shouts and static were heard in the background, and his voice sounded very, very tired.
[color=#FFFFFF]"...Captain Armand Grimston to Las Vegas, the old Task Force New Mexico requesting to moor. Our pilots are tired and miss their old comrades. Any room for some old family members aboard?"
The New Mexico's docking lights blinked a slow, dull red and blue, some cracked and broken, the engines letting off a worrying amount of exhaust, as if the auxiliary thrusters were always on, yet the ship moved nowhere, its beloved captain awaiting a response from one of the few safe havens for a deserter and his crew left in Liberty.
"Well, I'm Allison Cain, one of the Commanders for the old Task Force Seven. Also used to work for Interspace Commerce, but then things went downhill and I had to bail."
She takes a remote out of her pocket, pressing a button, opening the mooring bays to the New Mexico
"So, I decided to contact some Hackers to help me get this thing out of Liberty space, hire new crew, make it into a full casino, you know the rest..."
She pulls a pile of chips toward herself as the dealer busts.
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Gratefully, Armand guided the beaten old ship to the mooring point, and within ten minutes, all of the crew were released into the ship. Some went to find old friends, others went straight to the casino, and the rest simply wandered around, exploring the retrofitted dreadnought. Their mismatched clothing didn't do much for subtlety, but it was a fairly accurate statement of what they'd been through; some wore oily, tattered remnants of Navy uniforms - some wore civilian clothing - and yet some even wore stolen Reinwehr uniforms, which had been acquired under most dubious circumstances.
Armand himself still wore his Navy uniform, the dull and scratched markings of a Captain proudly displayed. Wesker, his chief science officer and a defector from the Rheinland Military, wore a casual outfit of the sort commonly seen by middle-class Bretonian citizens, though, as usual, he wore a bulletproof vest underneath.
The two quickly found their way to the casino where the others were gathered - Armand had developed a sort of sixth sense when it came to finding people - and easily slipped up to where Allison stood. Armand tapped her on the shoulder and smiled, obviously tired and worn but happy to be with old friends.
Anders walks back into the Casino, followed by two of his crewmen that were carrying a large metal crate. He strides towards Allison, and jerks his finger over to a nearby window
"I thank you for your 'hospitality' to my shambles crew. However, I just got word from me employers that I need to bring that wreck of a ship to on of their shipyards, for a possible spot of repairs."
He tosses a trio of Sirius Credit Cards, each worth 100 Thousand Credits.
"Thats the pay for the amount my crew drank. I'll be seein you. And maybe I'll end up seeing you, Mr. Claymore."
He turns around abruptly and makes way for the docking bay, still followed by the two crewmen with the crate. A lurch is heard from the docking bay, as many fighters and bombers disembark to dock onto the New Orleans. The barely-functional engines of the New Orleans spin to life, and the ship pulls out in between the Las Vegas and the nearby moon, leaving a notable trail of radiation from the engines.
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