Two pints of Freedom

[James Greed]

Fishing /ˈfɪʃɪŋ/
Noun. The activity of catching fish, either for food or as a sport. Going by the conventional definition, the first image in one’s mind is some old guy wearing a raincoat with khaki overalls, sitting on a foldable chair which can barely hold his weight. That, or some blokes on a weathered motorboat looking over at least six fishing rods.

Nathan had a slightly different idea when it came to fishing. Towing a small fighter craft that vaguely resembled a fish was as far as he got. The Paladin now sat in one of the hangar bays of Leyte. Parts of the Bretonian ship now gutted, hull panels removed here and there. The cockpit kept wide open by what appears to be a combination of a crowbar and some duct tape. The only noise coming from the ship at this very moment, was the hijacked communications equipment. The speakers roared with great distortion, as they were forced to regurgitate some old rock tune;

“Like acid and oil on a madman's face
His reason tends to fly away
Like lesser birds on the four winds
Like silver scrapes in May
And now the sand's become a crust
And most of you have gone away”

Nathan was humming along to the tune, albeit missing most of the notes. A character that’s hard to miss, even in a crowd. Rather tall, with an impressive stature. His head was shaved bald for the most part, but not enough for his head to reflect the dim lights of the hangar. Just above his right eyebrow was the signature tattoo most everybody recognized on the station: n∞
He was hunched over the engine cowling, tinkering with some of the equipment. There was no real purpose to the disassembly, other than getting to know this weird catfish he has managed to bring home.