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Biotechnology Lab
Through an environmentally sealed decontamination chamber is a long room. Countertops and shelves run along two walls, while a large table occupies the center area. Upon the table is a medical computer system with a high-resolution scanner, a holographic display, and a neural-link interface.
The shelves on one side are stocked with chemicals and drugs, and the countertop holds beakers and test tubes along with more advanced equipment for synthisizing new substances. On the other side are containers of various sizes holding microbial cultures, tissues, and organs. On the counter are several desktop cloning vats capable of rapidly producing small samples of biological material.
At the far wall are four full-size cloning tanks, each able to produce a much larger and more complex specimen over a longer period of time and spacious enough to hold an adult Hekayti.
The first cloning tank holds an embyronic reptilian form, which is labeled in the Naliese language simply as 'Nall.'
Alastair Hall
Dr. Alastair Hall A tall Sivadian man of indeterminate age. His facial features are sharp, and somewhat drawn, and his eyes are a piercing shade of icy-blue. His brownish-blond hair is cut short and disheveled, his chin is ragged with unshaven stubble. A tracery of metallic silver-blue lines can be seen on either side of his forehead, patterns resembling an electronic circuit just under his skin. Similar patterns appear on his right hand, covering his fingers and palm and running up the length of his arm. He favors his left leg when he walks, with a faint electronic whine ccompanying his steps.
He is wearing an eye-catching short-sleeved button-up shirt, decorated ith a chaotic fractal pattern the color of neon, argon, krypton, and phosphor, along with a pair of baggy shorts in a similarly psychadelic design. On his head is a canvas bucket hat, and a pair of large sunglasses. His feet have waterproof foam beach shoes.
He is also carrying a cane, sleek and black with a double-helix motif that spirals along the shaft, traced in luminous phosphorescent colors of red, blue, and green.
Alastair Hall is sporting a dark brown tan from his latest beach vacation as he sits at the table in his workshop, with a set of instruments laid out in front of him. The skin is stripped off of his right arm, laying the bundled cybernetic muscle underneath bare. The doctor is working with some chemical vats, to unknown purposes.
There is a knock at the outer door of the airlock, followed by a distinct, rhythmic jingling of bangles, belts, and other jewelry. It counter-plays to the sound of sauntering bootfalls, and heralds Jocaira's arrival just shy of her boisterous, sing-songy, "Alloooo, mon diaaaa-ble~... aaaahn! Look at you, so dark. 'ave you been on a beach wisout me?"
James Sterling comes into the lab walking sideways, looking back into the front offices with a confused and mildly disturbed expression. "The things they ain't got in this place," he mutters under his breath. He turns his attention to the room in front of him. "Got yer message," he says to Jocaira, nodding in greeting to the doctor. His gaze wanders about the room, taking in all the scientific gear.
Alastair holds up his fleshy arm and examines the tanned skin on that hand. "Hmmm. Well." He dissembles. "I may have been getting more sun than usual lately." The doctor makes some adjustments to the chemicals brewing in the vat, double checks the progress, then turns his head to look over his shoulder at James. "And who is this?"
Jocaira saunters on over, but seems to know the correct distance to stay from the doc's experiments. "Monsieur Sterling is one of my boys... rifter, new from Earth, two thousand year? Applicant at se Red Eclipse... annd, well, 'e wanted to know where I get my wanderful medicines, so... I see you are in office, and tell im you are 'ere, ne? But of course I would no miss a visit to my doctair," she adds this last bit with a teasing upquirk at the corner of her mouth, "Is -very- necessaire for good 'ealth."
Sterling nods at Jocaira's explanation. "She speaks real highly of ya, Doc," he drawls, not without a sly smile directed at Jocaira.
"Ah yes. Quite." Alastair gives a short nod. "I will be with you in just one minute." He says, picking up a long silver pair of tongs. "I'm just finishing up here." He fishes a slightly shapeless fleshy sack out of the vat, and shakes it as the nutrient solution drips off.
Jocaira titters inappropriately (or in this case, appropriately,) and leans insouciantly against a file cabinet. "But of -course- I speak 'ighly... our Doctair 'ere is se reason be'ind my continuing good 'ealth, many of my good times, and most of my good moods." Purr. "Ooo, what is it you are making sere? A surprise? I like your surprises."
Sterling watches the doctor work. "Hope that ain't dinner, Doc," he says with a forced chuckle. "Good times, good moods... nothin' t'argue with there, eh? If y'c'n afford 'em, o'course."
Alastair Hall smirks. "Not quite." He responds lightly. Once it has dried for a minute or so, he holds up his cybernetic arm and pulls the fleshy skin over his hand like a glove, carfeully tugging it up along the arm until it covers the entire shoulder. The dark skin nicely matches with the rest of his recent tan.
"Nnn, what can be -afforded-, even today in se future, can always be 'andled wis proper -arrangement-, ne?" Joca says, watching the re-skinning process with catly interest. "Get anysing new install? I -do- like se usser sings you've got in sere, ehn? Do you need to test it out?" She waggles her eyebrows. "Monsieur Sterling, sis is also se doctair we 'ave contract wis for mercenaire 'ealth. You can get immunize, checking up, and prevention of leetle drama babies 'ere. Among usser presents, but I don't cover anysing else. 'ave to make your own -arrangement- in sat case."
Sterling stares. "Yer whole arm is mechanical?" he asks. "Didja lose th'real one?" He chuckles at Jocaira. "I know plenty about proper arrangements. An' we sure don't want any drama babies, do we?" He tilts his head at her, glancing to the doctor and back. "'Other presents'? Like robot limbs? Or those ..." He waves a hand vaguely in the air, his brow furrowing. "...whaddya call 'em. Things y'get surgery for so's y'c'n work yer PDA with yer brain."
"What? No no. I didn't lose it. I kept it preserved on a shelf." Alastair picks up a glowing tool and waves it over the seam where false-flesh meets real. There's a slight his and a faint wisp of steam as the skin is fused together. "Just giving myself a slight touch-up. Having one arm that's a different tint from the rest offends my sense of aesthetics." He wiggles his fingers to stretch out the new synthskin, like someone fitting a rubber glove. "Now then. Mister Sterling, I believe you came for a check up."
Jocaira makes a 'go ahead' gesture to James. "Go on, 'e is se best doctair. Annd my appointments tend to run a bit -long-." Tee hee hee. "Ahn, it looks -very- nice, mon diable. Your aesthetics always are, se very 'igh standards. But non, less... robot pieces, more... alteracion? Improvement? For instance, not only am I not troubled by se unenjoyable parts of being a woman, I am not going to suffer se ravages of time. No graying, no wrinkling, no drooping, and 'onestly I swear a few sings 'ave gone as perky as sey were when I was younger. Se doctair is se wanderful genius."
"Y'kept it --" Sterling squints his eyes shut, shaking his head. "Never mind." He watches Alastair work with the glowing tool, watching with fascination as he stretches into the new skin. He glances up to the man's face, then at Jocaira. "I did?" He grins at her explanation of the benefits she's received from the doctor's work, then looks back to Alastair, shrugging. "I guess I did."
Alastair Hall says, "Yes. Quite." Alastair picks up a syringe and walks over to James. "Anyway, the new synthskin needs a day or so to finish curing and bond to the neural interfaces, so for the meantime I'll be making do with extrapersonal medical equipment." He unceremoniously stabs the needle at James."
Jocaira saunters over to a chair and drapes herself sideways across it, leaning her back against one arm of it and dangling her legs over the other. "I'm going to need a backing up tonight too, darling..." she says, swinging her legs. "I 'ave been... bad. And my contingencies need... tightening up." She flicks her wrist, dropping the unmarked paper packet of cigarillos into her palm, and serves herself one. "Also Monsieur Sterling would like to make purchase of some of sese wanderful smoke, and eh, probably usser medicines you 'ave sat would be appropriate?"
Sterling takes a couple of steps back, one hand instinctively reaching to deflect the doctor's arm. "Hey, hey, waitasecond, there," he protests. "What's this, then? I know yer a doctor, but y'don't jus' stab a bloke with a needle without tellin' 'im what's in it!" He answers Jocaira without looking away from the needle. "Mebbe," he drawls, "assumin' I get t'know what it is first."
"Don't be silly." Alastair rolls his eyes. "There's nothing in it. I'm just going to draw some blood so I can do a proper workup." He takes another stab.
Jocaira appears to have an -extremely- lax, 'ignorance is bliss' attitude about the whole thing. "Can I light up smoke?" she asks with a lazy yawn. She watches the minor kerfluffle with a shrug. "Psh. I let se doctair put whatevair in me 'e wants." And then she realizes she's made a funny, and titters.
Sterling sighs, allowing Alastair to draw a blood sample. "Y'still might tell a bloke what yer up ta," he complains, "rather than just get all stabby. If y'got some anger t'work off, I suggest y'get yerself a punchin' bag or somethin'." He glares at the needle. "An' what's with th'needle, anyway? This is the future, innit? Where's the sci-fi techy tools where y'just go 'hsst!' and yer done?"
"My shipment of magic healing crystals from Aukam doesn't arrive until next month." Alastair deadpans, drawing perhaps a little more blood than is strictly necessary for the procedure. He carries the sample over to a machine and unceremoniously sticks it in. "Now then. Let's see take a look at your genome, shall we?"
Jocaira seems vaguely annoyed that no one else is laughing at her funny, and that her question has gone unanswered. "Doc~taaair, may I light a smoke or will it make a boser wis experiment?" Another yawn, and then a mutter. "Peut-etre que je devrais clignoter des seins."
Sterling snorts. "Yer a barrel o'laughs, doc." He frowns at Alastair's back. "Me what?"
Alastair starts to hold out his hand to offer Joca a light, then realizes that the skin is still setting. "Go right ahead and smoke. It shouldn't be a problem, for the time being." He spreads his hands over the holographic projector and a complex colered representation of the genetic code pops up. The sivadian scrutinizes it intently. "Hmmm. Yes. Ragged telomeres. Markers for a couple of cancers. A scattering of recessive genes. Pretty standard makeup for an unaugmented baseline, from a cursory examination. I'll do a full workup before going in and fixing things, naturally."
"Cancer?" Sterling's eyebrows rise into his hairline. He stares at Alastair, looking somewhat stricken. "Me gran died o'cancer," he says. "Y'c'n jus' --" He snaps his fingers. "--jus' fix that?"
Jocaira reaches into the depths of her cleavage to dredge up her lighter. "Sank you anyways, baby," she says, and then just completely zones out with a dim little smile while he describes all of the things. "So smaart," she fangirls. Clearly, however, she's got no idea what most of those words mean. With a grin, she lights the cigarillo, and then snaps her fingers. "Just fix -whatevair-."
James Sterling stands in the bio lab, eyeing Doc Hall's technological gene-dissecting gizmo. Jocaira lounges against a file cabinet, smoking one of her cigarillos.
Sterling looks at Jocaira. "This place jus' keeps surprisin' me. So how do I get in on the fun?" he asks, eyeing her cigarillo.
While in an intimately familiar environment Shera's teleportation would usually be precise, it is not today, and instead of appearing solidly on the floor in the middle of the room, she appears suspended, for a mere moment, in the air above the couch. Her arms are wrapped tightly around Micky, and to anyone who's met her before, it's blindingly obvious she's abducted him in some way, for some reason. At least they get a couch to land on.
"Which fun, darling? If you want to sleep ovair you will 'ave to ask se Doctair," Joca replies with a wink, "But if you want smoke I give you some of mine for now, I 'ave plenty and make good arrangement..." She trails off as Shera and Micky arrive and go plummetting towards the couch. "Eee, 'allo, Mademoiselle... and... Mickee. Really? C'est l'enfer, Mickee, do you 'ave some kind of batard radar sat tell you whenever I get 'orny and make you come run in and spoil it? Quel est le probleme avec vous?"
Something about being the victim of teleportational kidnapping, a sudden fall, and ending up in a lab gives Micky some kind of stomach problem. He goes green in the face before he rolls quickly and spews a foul smelling brew of whatever it is that he's been eating and drinking. The alcohol is quite apparent in the acidic contents of his gut, but there's other stuff in the bile that is probably grosser than the booze. Anyway, it is quite the display of explosive, projectile vomiting. Since Anshera's close to him, well, she could find herself involved in his stinky situation. The couch is a write off. So much for sexy time.
Sterling chuckles. "The smokes're a good start," he replies. He turns and stumbles away from the bizarre spectacle of a woman appearing in mid-air holding Micky and the unfortunate biological incident immediately following it. "Et merde!" he blurts.
Having lived long enough to have observed the behaviour of people about to puke, Anshera recognizes the motions, and tries her darndest to get out of the spray. She teleports again, however despite this maneouver she's caught somewhat, and upon reappearing finds her kimono, and face splattered with foul smelling bile, her hair miraculously coming out unscathed despite just how much of it there is. before the bile can soak through the many layers she looses herself of the clothing, and tosses it aside, standing defiantly naked, "Alastair!" She puffs to no avail, the doctor utterly ignoring her as he is prone to do when she acts up, "Alastair!" She demands once more, foot stomping ineffectually upon the ground. In spite of being ignored, or perhaps because of it, she declares, "I am /keeping/ him. He is MINE. I will not clean up after him, though." Just like she doesn't clean up after herself for anything else, either. That's someone else's job.
Anshera
Petite at a mere five-foot-one, and possessed of an unnatural beauty, this waifish woman is the epitomy of someone's vision of perfection. Gracefully pointed ears peek out from beneath long hair as white as purely driven snow, the silken locks reaching so low as to be just shy of brushing the ground. Purely white skin matches her hair and only serves to further add to the elegant beauty of high cheekbones and fine features, which are further enhanced by the brilliant jade hue of her eyes. Oddly, talon-like fingernails tip her fingers, and twin rows of sharp teeth line her mouth. There seems to be the faint outline of something worn around her neck, but hidden beneath the high collar of her robes, with no other adornment to be seen.
Dressed simply, black, kimono style robes drape over her slight form, the cuffs and edges of which are trimmed in a bronze toned gold. In a similarly toned shade of gold, almost glove-like bracers come up nearly to her knuckles, and dissapear into the sleeves of her robe. Her feet remain unseen, leaving her footwear to speculation.
Jocaira just remains in her chair, as she's a fair distance away, and just rolls her eyes like a teenager whose derpy dad has once again blundered in on her and her friends and embarassed her terribly. "Throw it back, Mademoiselle Anshera," she calls. "You 'ave found very bad fish." She tosses the packet of cigarillo's in James' direction. "See?" she says, pointing at Micky. "Sat is what 'appens when you do no trust se doctair. You end up like Mickee. An absolute mess who I really wish I could 'ave flogged right now."
Still looking bleary eyed and woozy, Micky's clothing was pretty nasty prior to it being covered in bits of partially digested potted meat and sausage. He digs a hand into a cargo pocket to produce a psi blocker which he turns on and then tucks away again. He kind of squints at Jocaira and Sterling before his stomach gurgles some more. Holding his gut, he pries himself up from the couch. "Yeah, boss, totally my fault."
The packet of cigarillos bounces off Sterling's forehead, and he clumsily catches it without looking, clutching it to his chest. His gaze is on the very naked young woman whose petulant stomping causes some very intriguing effects on the rest of her anatomy. He stands there gawking, a faraway, pleased half-grin on his face.
"I will keep him, and you may borrow him when you need him." Anshera chuffs in exactly the way expected of someone who's used to getting what she wants, when she wants. Spoiled little woman. her arms cross over her small chest, "i will keep him because Alastair is being mean to me." Yes. 'Mean'.
Jocaira seems enormously amused by James' apparently low resistance to boobies. She is doubly amused, however, by Shera's insistence that she will be keeping Micky. "Haaaaa, hokay, Mademoiselle Anshera, I will let you know if I need Monsieur Mickee. Most certainly not before tomorrow morning." She hums thoughtfully. "Maybe Tuesday." Micky's protests of innocence are, as usual, brushed off. "Uh huh," she says, clearly believing that he got himself kidnapped just to completely spoil any impending sexytimes. Gawking not at Anshera but Jociara, Micky's mouth works silently a moment before he spots the airlock which he makes his puke stained way towards, unslinging his duffel bag as he goes.
Sterling blinks, slowly coming back to the reality of the rest of the room. "Doc's gonna love th'way y'redecorated th'place, Micky," he quips, flicking a glance the old soldier's way. He slides a cigarillo out of the packet, still watching Anshera, and sticks it in his mouth. "G'day," he says to her.
Oh no, Anshera isn't letting her newly claimed person leave just yet, and while for a moment it may appear odd she darts under the table, when she comes out the other side it's clear it was to fetch something. That something happens to be a weapon - a pair of short-handled scythes that are chained together. With those in hand, she makes a break for the airlock in order to block Micky's path, James' greeting completely ignored as she hisses to the elder of the two men, "One did not say you could leave."
"Look, boss," Micky says as he picks her out of the pair of females present to try to rationalize with as opposed to the armed one blocking his path. His eyes rest on Anshera, though, as he speaks, "While this is all really funny and all, I think it is in everybody's best interest if I get let out and left alone now."
"Bleh, I don't know what she sees in 'im," Joca drawls from her seat, rubbing the side of her head and wincing before taking a drag on her own cigarillo. "Mademoiselle, really... 'e is all dirty and loud and very ill of temper. Really, is no worth se trouble. 'e does no even like chocolate or good drink."
Sterling watches Anshera dash across the room, one eyebrow lifting, a smirk spreading across his face. "You really gonna ... 'keep' him?" he asks. "I ain't known 'im long but I reckon he's more trouble'n 'e's worth." He glances aside at Micky, his expression decidedly non-apologetic. "Sorry, Micky." He takes the cigarillo out of his mouth and looks a question at Jocaira.
Trak'Gar arrives from Front Offices.
Trak'Gar has arrived.
Trak'Gar cycles through the decontamination airlock.
Trak'Gar
A large, muscular reptilioid, standing about eight and a half feet tall.His scales are a dark gray-green color, and his huge hands are tipped with sharp claws. On the top of his head is a row of pointed spikes, which normally lay at rest, but appear to be movable. His eyes appear normal, but if one were to be able to get close enough, they would see that the eyes are actually cybernetic.
Currently, he is decked out in a two piece military officer's uniform, which is a light gray in color. On each epaulet, four gold stars can be found. Above the left pocket is a series of campaign ribbons, while over the right pocket is a metal name badge that is inscribed with 'ADM. TRAK'GAR'. On the left pocket flap is a pin representing Special Forces, while beside it is a well maintained Vanguard Marksman medal. On the left and right sleeves just below the shoulder are patches embroidered with the seal of the Orion Confederacy.
While Jocaira is sitting on her ass on a chair, and James is somewhere else in the room, Anshera is naked and blocking the airlock and holding a pair of chained-together, short-handled scythes. She's clearly trying to prevent Micky, whom is closest to her, from leaving. The couch at the back of the room is covered in foul smelling puke made up of potted meat, sausage, and alcohol, and what can only be assumed as Anshera's clothing has been tossed carelessly into a pile in the middle of the floor, also whiffing of vomit - someone got puked on at bit. "Trouble is entertaining." She hisses, refusing to stand down, eyes narrowing at one and all.
Micky is, strangely enough, covered in a good amount of puke himself. He's got a duffel bag in his hand. With his free hand, he massages his forehead while keeping a clear line of sight to view Anshera. For the time being, anyway, his jaw remains clenched, and he stays quiet. He's as entertaining as a stinky, silent man with a duffel bag can be.
Trak'Gar walks into the airlock from outside, taking a whiff of the noxious (at least to others) smell. Instead of repulsed, he seems to enjoy it. He does seem to be walking with a slight limp, though, and his head spikes tilt a bit in confusion at the scene he is witnessing. "By the Zan..."
Jocaira holds both hands out in a very clear indication that she's really not got any control over this situation. "Ehn, I sink she will figure out on 'er own soon enough. Sere is no entertaining to be 'ad." Trak'Gar's arrival gets an eyebrow raise. She looks at the cigarillo, looks back at him, and then shrugs. "Big metal lizard person," she murmurs, before waving. "'allo... apologie, but se doctair is out making a... retrovringing somesing... I don't know anyways. I sink sere is a place in se outside to leave a message wis 'olo secretaire lady?"
Sterling shrugs at Anshera. "Whatever floats yer boat, love," he says. He looks over the arriving reptile man, noting his military manner of dress. He takes a few steps to stand beside Jocaira, his gaze remaining on Trak'Gar. "Y'got a light?" he asks her quietly.
"So it would seem." Trak'gar replies, still looking portly but highly confused. "This servo joint has been giving me trouble of late, I hoped someone would be able to look at it."
As the time passes, Anshera's marble white cheeks puff up and redden, Micky's refusal to say anything or do anything more clearly having the effect of making her even more huffy. She stomps her foot again, staring down the old, puke covered fellow, and ignoring everyone else as she demands, "I will let you go if you promise to play with me."
Micky's beat up features remain set in an apathetic line. His responsiveness is down right minimal. Somebody should hold a mirror up under his nose to check on his breathing.
"Oop. He broken now," Joca says, and it doesn't seem like she's being facetious. Trak gets another apologetic shrug. "Not in 'ere, Monsieur, se brains 'ave all gone and all sat's left are se patients. Sis is, er medical lab. I do no know if anyone is in usser labs. Don't 'ave a business sere."
Sterling tucks the cigarillo back into the packet and shoves the packet unceremoniously into his inside jacket pocket. "Where d'you find these people, Micky?" he asks, making his way back toward the airlock. "Look, love," he says to Anshera, "are y'gonna keep 'im or not? Either way, it don't concern me none. You keepin' any o'th'/rest/ of us, or are we free t'go?"
Trak'Gar merely nods to Jocaira, but instead of departing, remains to observe this increasingly amusing scene. A hint of a grin forces its way onto his face as he does.
One scythe gets extended to indicate that, no, she wasn't letting anyone else leave, the chain suspended between the two dangling lazy in front of her, "You may go when Micky agrees to play with me." Anshera intones, chin raising with arrogant stubbornness.
Well, nobody did end up finding that mirror. Not that that is a bad thing. Seeing himself in the mirror would probably give poor ol' Micky a heart attack. Anyway, he doesn't agree to a thing. He just stands there with his duffel bag. Since he hasn't seen how stupid he looks covered in puke in a silent contest with a naked female armed with kusarigama, he manages to maintain his stoical expression and silence.
"I tol you, Mademoiselle, Mickee is broke. When he gets sis way 'e has to go 'ave a wash and go lie down for like... two, sree days. It is no talking, no nussing. 'e will just go plod along like, wooden boy," Joca says, again with nearly no inflection of being playful or even lying; out of all of the statements, the bathing thing -may- ring a little false? "I tol you, 'e is very bad fish."
The biotech lab is a scene of some chaos at the moment. Before the airlock doorway stand Micky, filthier than usual due to a fresh coating of his own vomit, and Anshera, completely naked and holding a kusari-gama in a threatening way toward Micky. Standing nearby is Trak'Gar. Also by the airlock is James Sterling, regarding the pair with an aggrivated glare. Beyond the entrance, Jocaira lounges in a chair.
Sterling rolls his eyes at the petulant and still naked little woman. "If we could control what Micky did or said," he says, "I'm sure we'd 'ave a different Micky on our 'ands. It ain't none of my concern. I don't care if y'keep 'im or not. What I want is for y't'step aside so's /I/ c'n go about me business." He glares at Micky. "Do /somethin'/, y'scab," he growls. "I ain't keen on bein' held up by ..." he jerks his head toward Anshera.
Alenya
Short in stature, rising a merely five and a half feet from the ground, Alenya is a slender but wiry human. Her hair is brown, entrapping various hues of espresso and chocolate, with highlights of bourbon and cherry. Twisted and wrought, the strands are braided then pulled neatly into a swirled knot at the nape of her neck, several fringe-like strands pulling free to hang around her somewhat angular face. A pointed chin and high cheekbones are stretched with lightly sunkissed skin, giving the woman a healthy glow. A smattering of freckle, across her nose and cheeks, provide a youthful frame for her eyes. Tawny lips, somewhat dry but full none the less, are most often drawn into a wide but sarcastic smile. Mossy green orbs, flecked with shards of honey and beset with an ample feathering of lashes, beneath a pair of carefully maintained brows, complete the female's face.
Fitted, though not tight, a continuous suit clads the female's atheltic build. Made of an amalgam of leather, silk, denim and cotton, and studded with rivets, the outfit is a confusing but strategic mashup of belts, buckles, chains, buttons, pockets and gaps, all set onto a patchwork backdrop of black and charcoal hues. The suit rises into a thick cowl, most recently gathered under the woman's chin, the tassle of the hood allowed to drape between her shoulder blades, causing it to collide with the small of her back each time she moves. Twin holsters of thin design, an intricate burnished metal medallion emblazoned on each, are securely strapped to the outsides of her thighs. Fingerless leather gloves, thickly padded at the palm, encase her hands, while flexible, thin-soled boots cover her feet, the leather-made buskins rising to the knee where they are flapped over in glorious pirate style, thanks to the purposefully impotent zipper at the back of each.
Trak'Gar just shakes his head. "Maybe a quick zap from a taser would reboot his system." he says with a snarky grin.
The outer airlock cycles, a relative diminutive and dark-haired female making an appearance suddenly. Head bowed, she appears to be paying more attention to a hand-sketched map than anything, one finger wielded in the air like a director's baton, being flung this way and that in time to mostly inaudible mutterings. Blinking somewhat, green-and-gold eyes are cast up and over the assembly of people, a consternation settling in over the rogue woman's feature at the arrangement of Anshera and Micky. A jerk of her head toward the further chamber, and a remark given to the lounging Captain. "What's that all about?"
"Would you like to become entertaining in his place, Mortal child?" Anshera inquires coldly towards James, gaze only partially turning towards Jocaira so as to keep an eye on Micky as well, "I. Wish. To. Play." Perhaps if it were someone else it wouldn't be remiss to say being cooped up most of the time leads to such outbursts, but no, this is fairly run of the mill with the woman of elven appearance.
Micky's demeanor remains listless and uncommunicative. He seems to be as imperious to Sterling's cajoling as to the demands of Anshera. If it weren't for, you know, various vital functions like breathing and a beating heart that can be assumed to be going on, he'd be pretty much unmoved.
"Sat's nice, Mademoiselle," Joca says, finally getting up from the chair and taking another drag on her cigarillo, "But like Monsieur Sterling says, we cannot make Mickee do any diffairent. And 'e 'as been tased before is not going to make a diffairence. You will 'ave to wait for 'im to be cooperative first. I don't got any play for you, woman. And Mickee is smelly and I want to go 'ome and get changed so I can get my backup done when se Doctair comes back and pay 'im for my treatments. Which we are not going to be able to get done if nobody can leave se lab and Mickee stays 'ere smelling it up." She shakes her head at Alenya. "...ehn. Mademoiselle Anshera wants Mickee to entertain 'er... and, well. You know. Is Mickee."
Sterling gives a strangled chuckle, the result of some kind of internal miscommunication on whether to snort or laugh. "We'll buy y'a fuckin' colourin' book, then," he replies, his Austalian accent harshly hacking off the ends of his words. "Now get outta me way." Anshera's manner seems to have cured him of any mental distraction her nudity may have caused him.
"I figure playing in Comorro's digestive tract wouldn't be much fun either." Trak'gar says seriously. "You're asking for trouble just brandishing those weapons as it is."
"Micky's one of the least entertaining people I know." This statement is delivered in deadpan, an incredulous blink following. "Has anyone bothered to ask the woman what she wishes to play? Perhaps she'd just like some cribbage, or a game of Go. At any rate..." The statement is left unfinished, the cutpurse wrinkling her nose in regards to the vomit-strewn Micky. "Ugh. I'm going to have to touch him, aren't I?" Again, the question is posed to Jocaira.
"How droll." Anshera deadpans to Sterling, "No do go rest your poor little head, child, for One is sure such witty retorts have exausted you." Trak'gar's suggestion grants him a glance, "One does not care for Comorro's approval. Alastair will be mad, perhaps." Whom seems to be the only person she cares to give much leeway too, a grumpy belated after-thought being mumbled, "And One is not a /patient/. She lives here. Alastair is mine. You should appreciate I share him at all." Huff. James is further ignored, though the double bladed kusarigama is lowered enough to seem like she's allowing him to pass. Micky is released from her gaze for at least a moment while she instead looks to Alenya, though refuses to speak to her for the moment.
Micky remains stationary, moored to the spot in some kind of stupor. Maybe, just maybe he's in some alcohol deprivation induced coma. Who really knows? The important thing is that he doesn't budge or speak.
Micky
This grizzled old dude has a hard bitten look to his weathered features. His hair is cut into an iron grey flat-top with the shaved sides of his head reaching so high as to closely toe the mohawk hairstyle line with the high and tight. His eyes are bloodshot but granite colored. His nose is squashed and red. He's got a couple of scars on his face but nothing too serious. The shaved sides of his head reveal a couple of more. Mostly, though, he's intact other than missing a couple of teeth. Anyway, he appears to be in his in his mid-forties, but it is kind of hard to tell. He looks fit enough to be in his mid-thirties, but he's roughed up enough to look like he's in his late fifties. About six feet tall, he weighs around the neighborhood of two hundred pounds.
He's not the best dressed guy around. In fact, he's probably among the worst. He's wearing a loose fitting, tan button up shirt which he's left unbuttoned. This reveals a stained brown t-shirt. The brown t-shirt has a couple of holes and such but whatever. He's got a pair of khaki cargo style pants on. The pants have some stains and a couple of rips, but who is keeping track? He's got a web belt on which holds up his pants. He's got an additional belt which holds up a couple of handguns - an antique .45 and a goo gun. There are also a pair of knives, a couple of ammo pouches, and various other knicknacks hanging off the belt. He's got the look of someone with other small weapons concealed about his person or in the duffel bag on his back.
"Yes'm," Joca replies, neither challenging Shera's statement nor acquiescing to it. It has apparently been a long, tiring afternoon that's taken a tailspin from the promise of the best drugs medical science can acquire and accompanying debauchery to... a very smelly standoff centered around Micky's entertainment value. "So it is fine if we go? I am tired."
"I ain't takin' orders from a spoiled little /connasse/, Sterling snarls. He grabs Micky by his stained shirt and attempts to move him to the side so he can pass through the airlock and leave.
Trak'Gar shrugs. "Your neck, not mine." he says, shuffling aside a bit to let Sterling pass. "I'll catch up with the doc at a later date." With that, he turns to head back out himself.
Alenya sighs heavily, reaching up to pinch her nose with two fingers. Anshera is eyed carefully, the rogue's gaze flickering over toward Micky, and finally Sterling. "Yes, Captain. You may leave. I shall follow you presently." It would seem that the Victorian femme is all for abandoning the drunk to his own devices.
"One needs not care of the insults of a mortal who must hide them behind a different language. Do continue if it makes your small existence seem momentarily greater." dismisses the polymorphic Anshera, "You may go as you please." She offers to Jocaira, though her tone adds an unspoken 'for now', as is befitting her explosive change of mood after not getting what she wanted. the Kusarigama are pulled together and the chain is dragged along the ground until sets them upon the central table in passing, moving to a locker to take one of Alastair's shirts to wear for now. The entire time jade eyes keep Alenya in the peripheral of her vision, watching her.
Micky is thusly pulled aside by Sterling. He teeters and wobbles but remains standing, and the duffel bag remains in its white knuckled grip. In other words, he remains highly entertaining.
"Hokay, come on, Monsieur Sterling, I sink we 'ave been in se lab long enough wisout se doctair," Joca says, blowing some smoke over her shoulder as she saunters towards the exit.
Sterling turns his back on the pair of Anshera and Micky and stalks out of the lab without another word to anyone.
Alenya eyes the Anshera equally, though not remark is made toward the only other remaining female in the room. In subdued tones, the thief instead coos at Micky. "Come on, Micky. Lets go get you at least cleaned up. You are thoroughly unpresentable, even to be in my company." A hand is extended toward the fugue-like solider, fingers waggled like a singular hinge to coax him forward.