Into the Black (Velociraptor Noise & Defiant)

[velociraptor-noise]

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.

 

[Defiant]

In all his 28 years of life Quinn was sure of one thing. There was no such place as 'home'.

When he finished for the day and left the shelter of the garage he didn't take time to admire the horizon or the surrounding buildings. He was friendly enough with the locals, more out of gratitude than actually wanting to know them or become their friends. When he'd been found having smuggled himself on board a bounty hunters ship they'd given him bits of food until Dragger saw his talent with machines and put him on his payroll.

Even at the age of nine he'd never beg for food, he'd steal or swap payment. Slept where he could find shade. Sometimes he'd wake up to find two bites worth of a protein bar in his pocket. He'd never admit to eating it thought it was the only time he'd gone without that sharp pain deep in his belly.

Over twenty years ago he'd fallen onto this planet and now he was Dragger's go to mechanic, was the one everyone saw running the garage when the old man passed but he didn't want to die here. He'd had dreams as a kid of traveling through the 'verse. Seeing the different planets and people. He had a good enough life here, but he wanted more than just good enough.

More than once the opportunity to leave this place had arisen, he was more attractive than the usual folk around here, being a foreigner he'd been raised with a higher level of self-care. Most of these people didn't even clean their teeth, or just thought a swig of alcohol would do the trick of cleansing their mouth. Even then, some of the people who came in here seeking mechanical help would offer a place on their ship for a young mechanic like him but there had always been something missing. And he didn't believe in trust, much less love. It was every man for himself out here. The thing lacking was always the ship. If he was going to leave it would have to be for a special beauty of an engine and she just hadn't come along yet.

The sound created by a ship entering the atmosphere was one of a kind. When it was a struggling ship it was one he could pick up. He still had a semi-decent yet horrendously gunked up compression coil in his hand when he'd heard the unmistakable sound of engines breaking atmo and had wandered over to peer up into the too bright sky, momentarily blinded before his eyes adjusted and he saw the transport ship. He'd never seen a Peregrine class vessel in person, it was rare outlaws could afford it though these folks rarely bought their vessels and the previous owners weren't capable of talking to report it stolen.

He'd stepped back inside after watching the trail of plasma with a critical eye. The issue he assumed was pretty simple and how a mechanic of a vessel of that class could miss it was beyond him. Quinn tossed the compression coil onto the desk he'd been seated at moments before to step back into the warehouse.

He was still searching, having climbed up a number of shelves to find the better quality thermal pistons. Once he did he dropped down to the ground, a tuft of dust rising from the floor before he turned and walked out of the warehouse, through the open garge, towards the more secluded reception area. He had a the box tucked under his arm and raked his oil-stained fingers through his dark hair as he turned the corner.

He nearly dropped the box when he saw the young man standing there. “You ain't a mechanic,” he stated, a furrow coming to his brow as he stepped forward and set the thermal pistons down by his feet.

The man was much to well groomed to fall into the mechanic spectrum of the world though he should have know better to make assumptions.

Quinn himself had traits of Eastern European descent, his skin tinted darker after years on the desert planet, his build athletic with muscles thickened through years of hard, manual work. His hand were large and rough, finger tips stained with oil over the years. His eyes were bright, an odd shade of grey which usually appeared green or blue depending on the lighting and surroundings. His face coated with stubble, hiding the cleft chin but strengthening the strong jaw line and pronouncing his full lips.

“Just figured the mechanic would come to collect the parts,” he leaned forward, forearms resting flat as he clasped his hands together and gazed at the other man, or boy. He couldn't really tell. “You are a might too...” he paused, he'd been about to say pretty but thought better of it. “Clean to be ruttin' around an engine, even on a peregrine,” he slid back, knelt down and lifted the box.

“Thermal pistons I'm guessin' by the type'a plasma trail left in the sky,” he set the box down, there were seven in the box, the only ones they had in stock.

 

[velociraptor-noise]

As if in an effort to literally highlight further the difference between the two, Rem’s perfectly manicured eyebrow rose over his single visible eye.

“Truly a brilliant display of deductive reasoning, thank you for that.” His voice was a smooth tenor that could be pleasant, could drawl honey when he wanted to, and was usually anything but. The slanting, sideways sarcasm at present only an iceberg tip of the full scale coldness he could draw and render. His accent had the clipped vowels and posh, carelessly meandering consonants of Londinium, the pointedly refined cadence of the higher society.

He waited, as Quinn continued, attention drifting lackadaisical in casual survey of the front of the shop that he’d already taken a sharp, clinical observation of upon entering. He had a part to play after all. His head turned away from the rough-and-tumble mechanic, he didn’t take the time or expel the great effort it would have no doubt taken to turn the great distance back to face the man. Instead his eye carelessly swept back under his lashes.

“Our mechanic is no longer with us. There was a disagreement.” He said it as if they might have once bet on two different horses and been unable to reconcile when one came in second and another in show. Rem let out a exhale of breath that could only just called a sigh, and was more a gesture of careless acquiescence than exasperation. “I suppose we’ll need to acquire another of those as well, but first things first yes?”

At the shuffling thud of heavy metal parts in a box he did, actually, deign to turn not only his head but the whole of his spindling self as well. Rem paced forward the two steps it took to bring him within distance enough to see. Casting his acid attention down at the boxes contents, his mouth crawled into a smile. Of course they would be the right parts for the very model they were flying.

He folded his arms across his chest and caught his chin in the long fingers of one hand. “Smart and discrete. How very convenient for us. Our Captain is more than prepared to compensate well for those two skills.”

Rem glanced up from the pistons to Quinn, the smile still on his face. He let the moment slide by long enough before continuing. Just long enough for a smart man to pick up on the other currencies in which the Captain might willing to negotiate. He did say that he’d handle their mechanical dilemma and Rem was always prepared to use what he had. Moreover Quinn had already proved himself, in 45 seconds, more competent than the last one and he was a good deal better looking to cap it off. A ‘Welcome to aboard the Red Tail, you should really stay awhile’ bit of blowjob bribery was by no means off the table.

“You’ll come with me?”

 

[Defiant]

With a slight tilt of his head and the elevation of his right eyebrow, he shrugged a shoulder to Rem's comment. “Well I do consider myself one of the more educated people of this township, not that it's saying much,” he offered, gazing at the man who seemed less than impressed with his surroundings. “Doesn't exactly say much for the planet as a whole if I'm being honest,” he said with an easy smile and a light chuckle.

The way he spoke of the mechanic was curious but it was kind of usual around there. Afterall there were plenty of times visiters would settle their disputes while on Whitefall. Which would result in a new plot within their cemetary.

Quinn stood still, hands braced against the counter as Rem paced to the box and looked down at it's contents. He studied the way Rem carried himself as he gazed down at the box then met his gaze when the other man lifted his head. He was just a little surprised to see a smile on Rem's face and sort of taken by the next words to come from his mouth.

He didn't comment on the suggestions of the other compensation, it wasn't something which came up in such a way. Or maybe it did. But most of the people coming through there weren't attractive enough to even consider a drunken tumble with, much less take it as a form of compensation. He was used to being hit on though in a much more vulgar, less subtle fashion and he really didn't know how to respond with the fact he wouldn't mind a quick romp with the man in front of him.

At the mention of him going with Rem he was put on the spot and he gave a quick nod. “Of course. Can't have you hurting a ship like that by fucking up putting a few pistons in,” he commented as he pushed away from the counter. “Give me a few minutes to grab some things.”

Quinn stepped out of the room to grab his jacket and a few tools he'd need to get the pistons in and if the mechanic left on his own terms then the tools would probably be gone. If the mechanic had left by more forcefull means there was a good chance he'd have everything he'd need to get them in but he'd rather be safe than sorry. Upon his return to the front he set the tools into the box, shrugged his jacket on and picked up the box. “Lead the way.”

 

[velociraptor-noise]

[RP has gone on to semi-permanent hiatus. Best wishes and good feels to Defiant.]