Mark of Heaven Bar - Bethlehem Station

[Donovan Darwin Davidson]

Donovan settles for watching her lips as she talks - and man, this one is pleasant to listen to. He reaches up to further loosen his collar. The tale, while outlandish, is far from the strangest he'd heard... And frankly, it doesn't matter to him whether or not it's true. Instead of interrupting he pulls two cigarettes from his case and offers one to Nodoka, fishing in that same pocket for his lighter - this, too, is silver, engraved with a stylized 'D'.

Once they're both puffing little plumes of white, Donnie flashes her another smile and speaks. "Well, you probably know local history better than I do in that case - I learned this stuff the old-fashioned way, and it was a while ago besides. Best I can do is current events." He taps loose some flakes of ash over the tray included for that purpose. "I don't know that you'd like what we do in our full capacity. It is not always a pleasant business, no matter how good the money is." And, oh, is the money good. "The employment contract is also pretty harsh. I should know, I wrote the thing myself."

Inhale. Exhale. Watch her do the same. No, bad Donnie. The smile slides off his face, leaving him looking uncharacteristically grim. "Your best bet for working with WMD is remaining an outside contractor. I mean it, Nodoka. You want to work with us, not for us." And it's back, a little glimmer in his eye. "As for the WMD Thunderchild, I can neither confirm nor deny any allegations as to the acquisition of that fine vessel. But enough about work - I see our drinks have arrived." And so they have, accompanied by their food and carried by that same waiter. Service with a smile, and off he goes. Donnie sips his whisky.

"What was Earth like?" He suddenly asks, surprising even himself. It's a curiosity many Sirians probably entertain - records and historical documents are one thing, but... If she's telling the truth, Nodoka had been there.