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Full Version: Meeting the Knight
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Time: 20:54 ST, 22/05/825 A.S.



The small PDA lights up in brilliant blue with a new notification, echoing in the hangar with a dormant Avenger. Whitaker quickly drags it out of her pocket to view the notification - it was the main point of communication for their group when they were on missions and away from transmission range. She taps the password and white text begins to pour into the screen; She finally received the co-ordinates of where the headquarters were stationed. She only needed to bring the person that wanted to see the Admiral right to the heart of the battlegroup, A breath of fresh air is what this mission would have been, compared to the usual reconnaissance missions, if that person wasn't already detestable.

With a sigh, she began to walk towards the Freeport's canteen, hoping to just find and drag the guy out of there quickly. She didn't really see him in person yet, and neither did she want to. So, she took every precaution to delay it as far as she could, going as far as just waiting in the hangar near her trusty ship. Unfortunately, by now, all of those excuses lost their weight.

Brushing her hair to the side, she enters the canteen, scanning for the Lane Hacker.
If there was one thing that Graves genuinely hated, it was coffee. It wasn't the taste, it wasn't the colour or the smell: It was simply that there was no alcohol in it. Really, what was a man supposed to do when they were bored out of their mind and trapped on an incessantly small freeport with virtually no means to tell the time because the bloody clock on the wall was broken. Graves simply refused to believe that only half an hour had passed since he had arrived here. With an audible sigh, he looked at the barkeeper which was trying his hardest to ignore him by polishing the same glass with the same sullied rag for — one moment — yes! For about twenty nine minutes now, since Graves had gotten his coffee and tried to explain to the bartender the intricacies of wholesome family values. "Saaay," Graves drawled, wanting to break the silence somewhat, which got unnerving after half an hour during which the bartender doubtlessly had tried to ignore the gun that was not even hidden in Graves' mantle. He had seen too many action flicks to not know where this was going. "Are we just going to pretend like we're some old couple that's married for about thirty years now and doesn't talk to each other anymore because we lost interest in each other about three months after marriage and only stay together because our thirty years old son is a fat piece of ***** that doesn't manage to move out of our basement or get a job, which drives me to alcoholism and you to manic depression all because we just needed to marry because our son was an accident and we needed the tax reliefs?" Graves asked him, all in a single breath. The bartender blinked in reply. Graves couldn't rightly tell whether the twitching corner of his mouth was an indicator that he found what was said funny or whether he was having an aneurysm right now. "Hellooo?" Graves waved a hand through the air, accidentally knocking over his coffee and spilling it on the ground in front of himself. "Golly gee, silly me. However am I going to make up for that." He wasn't being honest about these words of course.

Expecting to see the man now squirm and wipe away the coffee stains, this was what Whitaker would enter the canteen to, Graves sitting at the bar with a spilt coffee in front of himself. Pouting inwardly, Graves had taken notice of the woman somewhat belatedly, though since he didn't know how his contact would look like, he also couldn't just approach her like that. I mean, that'd be really weird, right? Approaching random strangers? No? He would probably recognize her as soon as he'd hear her voice, however.
Whitaker stood in front of the canteen, the stench of spilled alcohol filling her nostrils from even this distance away. The Freeport was never a place for a ruly and organised lot, primarily frequented by bored "locals" and overworked people from all walks of life instead. It was quite small and surprisingly devoid of people at this time, just a few groups chatting here and there over a pint. It wasn't that hard to notice the more well-dressed man of sitting alone near the bar, right next to a spilled coffee cup nearby, looking at her.

It probably wasn't hard for Graves to realise that she's part of the Battlegroup - in fact, it wasn't hard for anyone. A full Navy pilot's outfit barring the helmet, carrying a sidearm in a second's reach. The turn of heads didn't make it much easier for Whitaker, it was just an extra aspect to contribute to getting a headache from this mess. Despite the fact that she did look completely out of place, Battlegroup members weren't all that rare of a sight on the Freeport - it was the only reliable place where they could get the basic supplies to continue surviving. Still, it wasn't all -that- common of a sight for the locals to stop staring.

The bartender behind the man started yelling obscurities and calling him mentally ill, to put it softly. It was at that point Whitaker hoped it was someone else, changing her glance to other people in the canteen in hopes to find someone similar. She probably should have checked his appearance in the briefing beforehand...

"Graves! We're going!" she yelled out into the canteen and quickly left back through the entrance. She leaned on the wall next to the door, crossing her arms and waiting for Graves to come out.

At this point, she was praying it wasn't the "star" of the night that was going to follow her out.
The voice had come more than unexpectedly. Losing interest in the bartender, who by now had scurried to clean up the mess, Graves hopped off the chair and left a ten thousand credit chip on the counter, which was the only sort of currency he currently had with him. Who needed bank transfers anyways? It wasn't like that would be his money either, technically.

There was a certain laxness about Graves that had earned him many a condescending look from his fellow Hackers back in the day. Which was a month ago or so, he couldn't really tell. While most of them contented themselves with simply being aloof about anything and anyone, Graves found this sort of attitude simply, well, boring. There was a difference between sociopathy and apathy, and Graves honestly preferred the former over the latter, simply because it allowed for more mischief, ergo for more fun. Mostly to the disadvantage or other people, but that's where sociopathy really really helped, he felt. Taking a look at his expensive watch, he deduced that the batteries were empty and that the indicators hadn't moved an inch for about three weeks now. Glorious. "Miss Whitaker?" Graves intoned once he had left the canteen. How much had she seen? Bloody hell, it wasn't his fault that the dude was such a punching bag. Spotting her outside of the canteen, which was rather easy given her attire that reminded him of the Navy, he made strides towards her. Whitaker could see a relatively tall man with immaculate hair and trenchcoat that made him look like he was straight out of one of those strange Bretonian adaptations of modern day Libertonian murder mysteries.

The woman nodded to herself, disappointment enveloping her just as she saw Graves coming out of the canteen. Damn it. The small glimmer of hope that the situation isn't that bad just walked out as the man entered the hall. Taking the time to observe him a bit further, he did look a lot better than at first glance. She quite like the stereotypical "posh Bretonian" look, but that look didn't quite help his personality. She didn't like and even despised criminals and troublemakers, the hatred stemming from her profession. She couldn't stand them, their brazen attitude and tendency to get into all kinds of conflicts makes her want to steer way away. Whitaker was uneasy in that situation, having to escort one of these criminals who could easily trick and overpower her quickly. She was a pilot, and much shorter than him after all - but the battlegroup didn't have any effective ways of mobilising crew, so they had to send the small craft pilots on spontaneous missions like these instead.

Whitaker sighed so loud that anyone in the hall could hear. She wasn't as professional as usual Navy personnel were - those standards wore off over time. Narrowly escaping Liberty with their lives and trying to survive in the independent worlds has changed the battlegroup and its remaining members greatly. The uniform looked worn, her hair was a mess. She had usually kept it shorter than what it was now, but a mixture of being overworked, stressed and disillusioned caused her to become more negligent.

"Are you done? Harmony is nearby and waiting for you." she began to speak in a tone that would only remind of mild frustration and disappointment. Taking her PDA out of her pocket, she quickly switches it on and directs it to Graves so he could see the coordinates.
Checking his watch, Graves took note of the woman's physique. Yes, completely in that sense. He had seen better, sure, but the fact that she was small and lean did have its fortés. The nose was pretty adorable. "Ready as one can be," he replied, coming to a halt in front of her. She would be able to smell an expensive cologne. "Please, why don't you lead the way. Take it we'll be flying alongside?" He gestured for her to lead on. It would also give her the opportunity to appraise her backside, although he was classy enough to be subtle about the entire ordeal. The entire situation was new to him, and that was exactly what he had been seeking. The life of a Lane Hacker was especially boring, he felt, after a certain point. There was a charm to playing Robin Hood, or at least deluding oneself to think that one was, but at the end of the day, it was simply a lot of sitting around and letting the Rogues deal with whatever information you dredged up from the Neural Net and getting a share for the data. While it wasn't a bad deal, given that it didn't put one at risk of atomization in space, sitting for prolonged periods of time did hurt the back.

Whitaker had also not yet answered his question to how old she was, which irked him. He should inform himself about that without her, then. I mean, totally her fault for not giving him what he wanted, right?

Once they had started to move, he would hum. "You don't seem too chipper to see me," he noted, more as a fact than a question. "Is that because of me in particular or because I'm a Lane Hacker? The latter I would find strange, considering your allies." He was alluding to the fact that the Lane Hackers had been crucial allies to the Battlegroup during the breaking out of Alaska, something that Graves himself had orchestrated a great deal, although he hadn't participated in the final fight himself.

Whitaker walked towards the hangars where her and Graves' ships were located. She just wanted this done fast to end the mission and day faster to finally get some time to wind off. Not that it would have been long, but it was the only time she could really relax from all the stress that followed her as if a cloud of rain overcast permanently above. Her room on the Harmony was the only shelter from that rain, it was the only thing she really sought for at this point.

Graves' abrupt "observation" only irritated her, but you could probably hear a sensitive string being pulled after his following question. She saw Graves as the usual troublemaking outlaw that she encountered the likes of so many times before, but he also had a very valid point. Without him or the Lane Hackers, the battlegroup would have probably been completely wiped out and she'd either be in a grave or rotting in a cell for the rest of her life. Whitaker didn't take in the fact very well - working with the Lane Hackers and the Unioners was probably the most vision-shattering experience she had went through in recent time.

A few awkward seconds of walking passed before she could think up a response. "It's both." she blurted out and picked up the pace. The hangars were just around the corner.
So they were going to use their own ships again. Interesting. Graves had reckoned that they would be taking a third ship that was neither hers nor his, simply to eliminate the possibility of him using his ship as a weapon. All things considered, he knew that he was still an outsider that the Battlegroup couldn't rightly trust, and only his background with the Lane Hackers had probably gotten him to this point. This still didn't prevent him from thinking that this was more than just irresponsible of Whitaker. What if he had an array of highly explosive gravimetric mines on board with the intention of obliterating the Harmony? 'Oh my, please visit us and blow us up. Surely, there is nothing wrong with the possibility that you might.' Graves chuckled dryly besides himself. It wasn't like he planned to do any of that, but it was still irresponsible.

"N'aww," he intoned as he heard Whitakers response. "And here I thought we'd be making a really good team, you and I. You know, we could be like Bonny and Clyde without the dying part and me actually having lots of money." He sometimes liked saying these kinds of things simply to get funny reactions. Given Whitaker's grumpy nature, he really felt challenged to do it. Rounding a corner, they approached the hangar bays already. This Freeport really was small as hell, and Graves couldn't fathom how people could actually live here.
"This isn't a movie, we're trying to survive. Stop dreaming, for God's sake!" she retorts in a volatile manner. They managed to reach the hangar zone, and this is where they had to split to get to their respective ships. Whitaker gives a piercing look to Graves, obviously quite upset. Urgh, why did she have to go through this escort mission with him, of all the people that the Admiral could have wanted to meet? That man was seemingly a complete child that didn't understand what he's going to.

"Just go. Get your ship and I'll meet you out of the station. You'll get the coordinates after your ship's up and running." she dismissively pointed towards the other hangar entrances, waiting for him to start moving. All that was left is to just escort him to Harmony, and then she'd have her assignment accomplished.

The thought of Graves staging this meeting to get critical information or try to sabotage Harmony came to mind, but she was confident that the Admiral had some contingency plan in mind. The battleship's sensors are powerful, and he would probably be watched closely on board the ship. Besides, even if he did try to pull something funny, who would come to them in time? The system of Bering lacked people who were willing to fly away from the lanes due to the risk of being wrangled and mauled by the less popular residents of the system, namely the Unioners. It wasn't the first time "outsiders" like these went to have meetings with Harmony representatives, though this was the first time Whitaker herself was involved. Unfortunately.
"N'aww," Graves intoned after hearing Whitakers remark towards himself. This had nothing to do with being childish, he felt, but more about showing a bit of character while facing the unknown. Neither of them could know where the Battlegroup was headed and it was more more than just likely that, one day, they'd just run into a Liberty fleet and be subsequently annihilated. So what was wrong with having a bit of fun while heading into trouble? "I mean, you do make a good outlaw," he finished his thread about Bonny and Clyde before Whitaker left him alone to head to her ship. He chuckled inwardly and checked the watch on his wrist. Dang, he was missing his favourite cartoon on the neural net. Sighing, he turned towards the hangar his own ship was located in and entered the ship. From the sound of the console, a ship by his side had already started. Seemed like Whitaker couldn't wait to be done. Graves nodded while initiating the startup sequence, confident in the challenge he set himself. He would get Whitaker to drink coffee with him even if it was the last thing he'd do. With a thunderous roar, the engines of the Vindicator came to life and the console flashed green before he vanished through the hangar doors and into the dismal space of Bering.
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