velociraptor-noise
Planetoid
- Joined
- Sep 1, 2015
Well… Whitefall was certainly a pleasant little backwater shitstain of a planet, wasn’t it?
Not that Rem had expected much else. Thus far this sun-bleached, yokel world was exactly everything he’d heard about it - near to a T. He’d done his research prior to leaving the ship, padding out and building on the general background of esoteric hearsay he’d picked up and never forgotten, just for just such an occasion as their crew being stranded there thanks to three broken thermal pistons. They’d always accused him of being a prickly, paranoid bastard. He’d simply said that he prefered the term ‘well-prepared.’ At any rate, they truly didn’t know even the half of it.
He’d much prefered to have been able to say that ‘well-prepared’, in this case, would have meant that he’d have foreseen the breaks in the engine room bowels or to have anticipated their last mechanic’s… abrupt end of his usefulness. But, sometimes you have to make-do with what you have. And in this case, a convenient bit of dark net gossip about a particular mechanic shop on dried up, sheep-fucking Whitefall was what he had.
Because, as he’d already told Najdek at least three times today: He couldn’t fix anything that didn’t operate in 1 and 0s. And until they made space boats that ran off of digital fucking coding that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon no matter how many times his pock-marked ass asked him. And even IF the government and every damn shipbuilding company and guild did pull their heads out of each other’s collective rectums and finally got on the right train to the digital age, unlikely as that would ever be, you can’t fix four clean inches of cracked stainless steel with a clever bit of code routing.
If he hadn’t wanted Najdek to bluster without response until he was red in the face with impotent fury he wouldn’t have phrased it that way, it’s not as though he wanted that giant angry slavic bull traipsing after him while he brokered sensitive, underworld-privy deals anyway. And the Captain, when that selfsame bovine had wrenched open the door to bridge decrying Rem’s manners and his hurt feelings, had agreed that it was best for all parties if Najdek kept to ship.
Rem didn’t play games he didn’t know he could win. It was so easy with Najdek he almost felt bad. Almost. If he wasn’t assured in his position among Loveland’s crew he wouldn’t have stayed with them. It was funny what good looks, the will to use them and a brain would do for you in that regard. No wonder Najdek’s life had taken such a dark turn that he was relegated to taking consistent verbal beatings from a kid half his age. Again, he almost felt sorry for the old bull.
Small victories aside, he was keen on getting this unfortunate and inconvenient matter dealt with quickly. The idea of an extended, unpredicted stay on a world he knew, respectively, little about wasn’t appealing in the least and if it had him on edge… at least he’d managed to only take out the anxiety on Najdek.
Rem Kovacs, when he left the Red Tail, certainly didn’t have the look of someone on any kind of edge. He looked unavoidably out of place among Whitefall’s bumpkin populace, but it was the right kind of out of place. He had no desire, nor was he in nearly desperate enough straights at current, to make any attempt to blend in with their ilk. Besides, he needed to make an impression.
Just as much as the fine cut of his practical clothing and his general hygiene, his age set him apart as much as anything. If only because of the contrast that his lack of years set against the rest of his cadence. He was a thin, gangly youth - long and lean in limbs and the arch of his neck. The effect would have been unsightly if he didn’t have an odd, but undeniable kind of poise that put all of those features to gloriously efficient work when he cared to. And he usually cared to. Rem had the kind of racial hodge podge of features that were common among his generation, but in his particular scenario the dice had fallen in an undeniably favorable configuration. There was something of eastern descent in his pale skin and smooth, inky black hair but the one almond-shaped eye not hidden beneath long, side-swept bangs was a vibrant, almost acid shade of green and the planes of his narrow, angular face were well defined with an aquiline nose and high-set cheekbones.
He wore a cowl-necked jacket, though his neck was covered to his jawline by a very high-collared cotton shirt beneath and sensible pants and boots considering the dusty, uneven paving of even the township streets. If it wasn’t far too ambitious to call this a town in any manner unironically. Likewise his arms were covered by cotton sleeves even though he’d rolled the cuffs of his jacket up over at his elbows. Rem walked armed, like anyone with any amount of sense, but not overtly or oppressively so. The deringer in its holster at his hip was the only obvious arm on him.
It hadn’t been too far of a walk, they’d had enough use of the ship’s engines and landing mechanics to get to Whitefall and certainly enough to end up near enough to where Rem’s net-reputed mechanics held shop. Even so, it was wretchedly hot, dry walk and he was more than happy for the relative solace of the shaded coolness of the cement shop. He didn’t bother knocking, the door was open as he’d expected.
The usual little bell tinkled above the door as he opened it so be didn’t bother calling out to announce his presence, though his visible eye glanced around in quick, efficient observation.
Not that Rem had expected much else. Thus far this sun-bleached, yokel world was exactly everything he’d heard about it - near to a T. He’d done his research prior to leaving the ship, padding out and building on the general background of esoteric hearsay he’d picked up and never forgotten, just for just such an occasion as their crew being stranded there thanks to three broken thermal pistons. They’d always accused him of being a prickly, paranoid bastard. He’d simply said that he prefered the term ‘well-prepared.’ At any rate, they truly didn’t know even the half of it.
He’d much prefered to have been able to say that ‘well-prepared’, in this case, would have meant that he’d have foreseen the breaks in the engine room bowels or to have anticipated their last mechanic’s… abrupt end of his usefulness. But, sometimes you have to make-do with what you have. And in this case, a convenient bit of dark net gossip about a particular mechanic shop on dried up, sheep-fucking Whitefall was what he had.
Because, as he’d already told Najdek at least three times today: He couldn’t fix anything that didn’t operate in 1 and 0s. And until they made space boats that ran off of digital fucking coding that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon no matter how many times his pock-marked ass asked him. And even IF the government and every damn shipbuilding company and guild did pull their heads out of each other’s collective rectums and finally got on the right train to the digital age, unlikely as that would ever be, you can’t fix four clean inches of cracked stainless steel with a clever bit of code routing.
If he hadn’t wanted Najdek to bluster without response until he was red in the face with impotent fury he wouldn’t have phrased it that way, it’s not as though he wanted that giant angry slavic bull traipsing after him while he brokered sensitive, underworld-privy deals anyway. And the Captain, when that selfsame bovine had wrenched open the door to bridge decrying Rem’s manners and his hurt feelings, had agreed that it was best for all parties if Najdek kept to ship.
Rem didn’t play games he didn’t know he could win. It was so easy with Najdek he almost felt bad. Almost. If he wasn’t assured in his position among Loveland’s crew he wouldn’t have stayed with them. It was funny what good looks, the will to use them and a brain would do for you in that regard. No wonder Najdek’s life had taken such a dark turn that he was relegated to taking consistent verbal beatings from a kid half his age. Again, he almost felt sorry for the old bull.
Small victories aside, he was keen on getting this unfortunate and inconvenient matter dealt with quickly. The idea of an extended, unpredicted stay on a world he knew, respectively, little about wasn’t appealing in the least and if it had him on edge… at least he’d managed to only take out the anxiety on Najdek.
Rem Kovacs, when he left the Red Tail, certainly didn’t have the look of someone on any kind of edge. He looked unavoidably out of place among Whitefall’s bumpkin populace, but it was the right kind of out of place. He had no desire, nor was he in nearly desperate enough straights at current, to make any attempt to blend in with their ilk. Besides, he needed to make an impression.
Just as much as the fine cut of his practical clothing and his general hygiene, his age set him apart as much as anything. If only because of the contrast that his lack of years set against the rest of his cadence. He was a thin, gangly youth - long and lean in limbs and the arch of his neck. The effect would have been unsightly if he didn’t have an odd, but undeniable kind of poise that put all of those features to gloriously efficient work when he cared to. And he usually cared to. Rem had the kind of racial hodge podge of features that were common among his generation, but in his particular scenario the dice had fallen in an undeniably favorable configuration. There was something of eastern descent in his pale skin and smooth, inky black hair but the one almond-shaped eye not hidden beneath long, side-swept bangs was a vibrant, almost acid shade of green and the planes of his narrow, angular face were well defined with an aquiline nose and high-set cheekbones.
He wore a cowl-necked jacket, though his neck was covered to his jawline by a very high-collared cotton shirt beneath and sensible pants and boots considering the dusty, uneven paving of even the township streets. If it wasn’t far too ambitious to call this a town in any manner unironically. Likewise his arms were covered by cotton sleeves even though he’d rolled the cuffs of his jacket up over at his elbows. Rem walked armed, like anyone with any amount of sense, but not overtly or oppressively so. The deringer in its holster at his hip was the only obvious arm on him.
It hadn’t been too far of a walk, they’d had enough use of the ship’s engines and landing mechanics to get to Whitefall and certainly enough to end up near enough to where Rem’s net-reputed mechanics held shop. Even so, it was wretchedly hot, dry walk and he was more than happy for the relative solace of the shaded coolness of the cement shop. He didn’t bother knocking, the door was open as he’d expected.
The usual little bell tinkled above the door as he opened it so be didn’t bother calling out to announce his presence, though his visible eye glanced around in quick, efficient observation.
