The problem with Gallia was that it was in Gallic space.
Now, from what he had seen it was a nice enough patch of mostly nothing. There were some charming colors in the background, usually filtered through some debris of war sure but what could you do?
The problem was chiefly one of distance and making a quick call. Given the distance, not even being in the same damn cluster, the business of working for the crown was proving to be troublesome from a logistics point of view. Namely the logistics of flying north everytime the Reavers had another few kills to claim. But, eh, the prospects of future business were a bit too good to ignore. Even if it meant dealing with this stuffy bunch of xenophobes. Though there was doubtless a measure of irony in that particular condemnation.
But he could use a coffee. Or a fight. Or a drink and a fight. Or maybe a chance to get out of the smell of the X Shuttle that he'd taken a fancy to, and bequeathed a certain atmosphere to, in recent days.
With that in mind he cheerfully requested, and grudgingly received, docking rights at Gap station. Onto which he stepped shortly thereafter with threadbare jeans and sweater pulled over hazard suit with intent to track down whatever passed for a joint where a man might sneak up on his sorrows, put them into a headlock and drown the ****ers before they were the wiser.
Lost in these thoughts he blindly approached the door and, upon stepping through, observed the trim and exclamation with no small surprise:
Wow, this place is nice!
Classy entrance accomplished, he settled for tracking down a booth in which he could get that drink and a spot of his work done.
