The Blood Money - Freeport One Edition -

[Squad]

Johnson couldn’t help but size-up the scrawny drunk so artfully plopped next to him.

His eyes went up from the drink the man snagged to his face, back down to the drink, up to the face, drink, face.

Finally, Johnson turned and sighed.

Guess I didn’t need that anyways.

Staring the drunk down as he took sip after sip, swig after swig, Johnson was a bit relieved.

Doesn’t seem like much trouble. But I’m sure he could look at me and say the same thing.

His pulled his arm off his side, sticky dried blood still seeping from the bandages. Swiveling gently on his stool to keep the pain in his abdomen at bay, Johnson put his arm on the drunk’s forearm.

"Two questions if you don’t mind. First, how long does your bartender take to piss? He took some property of mine as well. Second, any idea where I can snag some new wrapping paper?"

Johnson opened his tunic, exposing the crusty bandages beneath.

He watched the drunk’s eyes meander from Johnson’s hand on the man’s forearm to Johnson’s side and back to his forearm.

Just don’t go pissing off the natives again, William.

---

[Haste]

"Mamoru.. Mamoru.. Ah, there you are," Martin mumbled to himself as he browsed through the contents of the company's hangar on his tablet. He was sat in one of the bar booths of the Blood Money, feet on the table.

Directing his attention away from the device, he looked towards the bar. Walsh had passed by recently, being his usual self. Perhaps he wouldn't end up trying to kill one of the patrons today. Thankfully, he'd always been too drunk to cause any real damage in the past.

A pale, weakened and probably drunk man appeared to be getting.. touchy with Andrew.

Tonight's victim, I take it?

Martin shrugged, signaled for a waitress, and focused his attention on his tablet once more.

---

[Andrew Walsh]

Andrew wasn't too interested in what the man had to say as oppose to what he was drinking, but nevertheless he felt obligated to answer the man's question, what with noticing his injuries, he looked rougher than what Andrew would feel like the morning after.

"Well I would suggest finding that out for yourself, why don't you go hold his hand? It might help him piss faster. Also, wrapping paper..."

Andrew looks at him strangely

"I imagine you can get some from the toilets, over there."

Andrew points in the general direction of the toilets.

"Do me a favor will ya? if the bartender is there, tell him Andrew is here waiting for his drink yeah?"

Andrew notices the man slumped down on his chair looking up at him.

"And for goodness sake man will you clean yourself up, you don't want to give off the wrong impression now do you?"

Andrew looks at the man in disgust and then face palmed his face before turning his back on him

---

[Squad]

This one certainly has some color. Par for the course.

Johnson slid his right hand behind the bandages before putting it on the codger’s shoulder.

"Son, I never said I wanted to be here, but I don’t have much of a choice."

He patted the blood stain to make sure it set deep.

"I suppose boys like yourself like to play at fighting around here . . ."

Johnson spun the drunk around, snagged a tumbler on the bar top, and with some slight pressure, pushed it into his stomach.

"I don’t have the luxury of watching people die on scanners. Where I’m from, they bring it home."

He tapped the wound on his abdomen.

"Now let me help you think before you open that mouth of yours . . . "

Johnson thrust the tumbler opening over the drunk’s mouth and nose, holding it until he inhaled. The vaccum left the room strangely quiet along with giving the fellow a satisfying, if short-lived, duck face.

As he exhaled, the tumbler fell off onto the bar, and Johnson patted his back as he coughed up what seemed to be a lung.

---

[Gamboge Reaver]

A man stirred in the crustiest, old booth bench in the bar. The commotion was always what caused odd dreams for Zod, and the one happening right now caused one of his old ones to come out.

He was sitting in a chair surrounded by a magical forest. Tall, redish trees grew around him limiting his vision to around twenty meters, but he could feel how large the area was. The ground was a mess of dirt and twigs, and a slight fog filled the air. Tension rose as Zod looked around the area. Something was looking to get him.

The fog deepened. Zod's ability to see dimmed and he began to panic. Attempting to get up, he quickly found he was tied down to the flood. Panic rushed at poor Gamboge as the fog got quicker still. The ground began to rumble. Pressure built up and Zod let our a grunt of terror.

A man heard an unearthly flow of gas coming from some figure sitting in a booth bench. He wrinked his nose and walked away from the foul smell.

Zod smiled in his sleep and rolled over.

---

[Haste]

A security guard tapped Martin on the shoulder, and pointed towards the bar.
He sighed. "Not again. I went here to have a quiet evening."
Standing up, he turned his face to the guard. "Thanks for the heads-up. I'll handle it."

Andrew appeared to be coughing up small amounts of blood. Martin quickly and silently approached the aggressor; although making less noise than the crowd forming around the scene wasn't much of a challenge. Just before he reached the man, he had a good look at him. A nasty abdominal wound, from the looks of it. Not in any shape to be beating up a Reaver.

He took out his sidearm, carefully aimed, and fired a single shot. Andrew's reaching for his foot, as well as his screaming in pain confirmed a hit.
Martin shouted at the three guards approaching: "Get him to the clinic! After he sobers up, I'll speak to him."
"And now for you," Martin said angrily, as he walked up to Johnson. He holstered the sidearm, and clenched his right fist. Before the other man could react, a punch to the abdomen forced him to the ground in pain.

"That.."
Another punch. The wounded man had trouble catching his breath.
"Is not.."
One last punch.
"How you behave here."

Martin loosened his shoulders and stretched his arms, then offered a hand to help the man up. "Now that that's clear, let's discuss things like adults, shall we?"

---

[Squad]

Johnson’s head was spinning, but the pure numbness from the punch to the hole in his side kept him from passing into unconsciousness. As the room came back into focus, he touched the corner of his mouth half-expecting the feel bile.

Clean. Must always keep up appearances it seems.

A hand was reached out to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it just yet. As his core muscles relaxed, he exhaled after what seemed an inordinate amount of time.

“I…er..well.”

He groaned as he pushed himself up on his elbows.

“I appreciate the gesture, but surprisingly I’m more comfortable here than I’ve been in a while.”

Johnson’s eyes rolled slightly to the back of his head and returned. Truth be told, laying down and being able to relax his abdominal muscles was quite comfortable in comparison to the almost month-long cockpit marathon from the Omegas.

His hand went to his bandages. There was a fresh flow of blood, but it was slight. What Johnson reckoned to be the fist that throttled him apparently broke the bandage webbing at the stab wound’s entrance.

“Assuming that’s the same hand that put me here, it seems I’ve been . . . penetrated. And here I try not to kiss on the first date.”

He let his head hit the floor again.

“Sorry if I came off the wrong way. . . “

He groaned to crane his head back up to meet the hand.

“William Johnson at your service.”

---

[Haste]

"I know", Martin stated bluntly. "The William part, at least."

Cutting the dialogue short, Martin helped the man up. Whilst doing so, he raised his other hand, and addressed the few people still gathered around him and Johnson: "Show's over, everyone. Return to your drinks."

As Johnson got up on his feet, Martin gestured towards a booth in a relatively quiet corner of the Blood Money. One bottle of Jack Daniels - along with an empty glass - stood on the table, with a tablet laid beside it. "You looked pretty comfortable on the floor, there. Me, I prefer a couch," he said, faking a smile.

The two reached the booth, although it took William considerably more effort. Martin sat down where he was seated before, closest to the tablet. Without a word said, William sat down opposite him.

"Before we continue," Martin told the man as he reached for his tablet, "I'd like to confirm.."

Martin paused.

A few taps and swipes caused a pair of images to appear on the device's screen: on the left, a close-up image of Johnson's face, made by a surveillance camera. On the right, a similar image of the gambling chip he'd put on the bar not long before.
Putting the tablet down on the table, and gently pushing it towards Johnson, Martin continued: "..That this is you. If it is, I'd like you to tell me how you came across that chip."

---

[Squad]

Johnson watched his new acquaintance swipe through his tablet’s screens before lifting a leg up on the padded booth bench to relax his core.

“I used to have one of those. Didn’t use it for much but reading. I honestly don’t know where it went off to.”

Mr. Tablet’s eyes met his.

Small talk isn’t the specialty around here.

“A girl, to be blunt. Mireen, not exactly sure what she does these days. One of those with a strange habit of showing up, surprisingly, when you need them.”

Johnson let his neck crane against the booth’s headrest.

“She was a mercenary, but I don’t know much else. Used to be of the Queen’s Privateers when I was young, but I suppose she’s off to better things. When I got this . . .”

His left hand rested on his abdomen.

“She visited me in the medical ward. Told me to come here and show that little chip on your hands. A bit cryptic, but it gets me away from a certain group of people who would like to give my stomach a few more holes to match.”

Johnson put three fingers on the wound, one at each corner of the entry, marking a triangle.

“A dirty kind of knife. Triangular wounds are notoriously hard to mend. Mireen ‘no-last-name’ gave me quite the rub to seal it, though. In fact, she gave me my ship when I first fled Gran Canaria. That’s a story for another day, of course.”

Slowly, Johnson leaned up to the table and tried to put his elbows on it in an acceptable, painless manner.

He needed practice.

“So, that’s my part. What does that little piece of pewter mean?”

---

[Lord Balian]

Neville jumped up as this familiar face spoke to him. He had been deeply in thoughts. These next few steps could determine the fate of his entire career as Gateway Pilot. He'd not been flying that long with the higher-ups yet. Just more so as a freelance pilot closely cooperating with the shipping company.

''Excuse me, you startled me. Of course you may sit.. Friend... I see you brought another drink. I just finished this whiskey, I'll take it easy on that...''

He looked at the man now sitting next to him. His face was far different from what he had thought it would be. Also, his posture not quite matched the charisma of the voice he had heard earlier through the comms in space.. It was neither improvement nor... Nevermind that.

---

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