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Enuma Elis - Hans von Goeben - 05-27-2015 "Your flux field stabiliser is out of order, and the Higgs-condenser's algorithm won't initiate..." The small, corpulent mechanic cleans her oily hands with an even more smutty fabric. Hans von Goeben blinks irritated with his eyes a view times. "Uhhh...my what is WHAT?" In return, he sees the dwarf rolling her eyes. "Your engine is toast! Simple enough for you?", she grunts. Well, great. First, the ship's drive fails in one of the worst system imaginable for this disaster, then a freelancing transporter captain demands an horrendous payment for towing him to the next station, and now a grumpy engineer! Just. Great. Goeben crosses his arms and responds coldly: "Yes. Simple enough for me, Miss...so, can you repair it?" "Boy, I have already repaired ships while you were still wearing diapers.", she snarls back; repeatedly tipping with her dirty index finger on his chest, "...and I can perform bloody miracles, like making these Outcast scrap heap fly for another month! Again!", nodding towards a ship next to Hans' yacht. A big, orange Outcast logo is sprayed on it. "...so I will be damned if I am not somehow able to repair your fancy fat cat ship!" Fat Cat?!? "Sorry, what did you just call me?", Hans exclaims offended and frowns. "You heared me. You wear designer glasses, clean clothes and a holographical watch. Even with my blind eye I could see that you are not from here...which makes you automatically rich. And the local muggers can literally smell wealth around the corner, so better hide this stuff and change outfit, unless you want to voluntarily donate another corpse to the organ market." The mechanic ends her sermon with a dry laughter and a dab on Hans' back. On the white lab coat. Muggers, Outcasts and an organ market? By Gaia... Hans, in shock, stares a few seconds at the Outcast symbol and gulps. Why had it to be this very station? And not Curacao...or a Freeport? Something nice, civilized. Nooo, a cosmic joke again. It had to be Barrier Station in Coronado. One of the worst places to run ashore, as it will turn out. He subconsciously bites his lips. From the corner of his eyes, Goeben sees the old woman waddling towards the exit of the assembly hangar. "Hey HEY! Wait! How...how long will it take you to fix my ship?!", he rushs after her. Slowly turning around, Tabby (Hans notices the name plate for the first time) reveals a wolfish grin. "Don't you worry your wee head about how long it will *take*, beanpole. We got enough spare parts around here thanks to the... unusual high amount of wrecks 'round Barrier, and I am pretty fast. Better ask how much it will cost." These last words make the already fat grin grow from one ear to the other. Before Hans is even able to respond, she pulls out an ancient calculator and starts typing furiously on it. She proudly presents her result. As big as her grin is, as wide are Hans' eyes. "I..I didn't know there is a number with that many digits in front of the comma.", he splutters. Tabby rises an eyebrow and turns the calculator around. "Comma? Ohhh...wait, that is an oil stain.", she giggles and removes it. For a moment, Hans evaluates if the diameter of the air lock would be big enough for her body calibre. Appearently, she knows this look from her costumers. "Eh-eh-eh, Rheinlander...if you do something stupid, you would only pay more. WAY more. I am the only handyman around this hellhole with a rest of professional ethics, and my wannabe colleagues will certainly charge you the double. And besides, consider the amount of costumers I have, living expenses, inflation, and of course the cost to get spare parts to sucha remote place, pal.", counting the various arguments for this robbery. "I thought you would pick the spare parts from just outside! What is so expensive about that!?!", his voice echoes through the hangar. Before Hans could start getting more furious, she slaps her big hand on his lips. Well, in that case, more on his whole face. "Shhhhh...ut the heck up. Jokes aside, hun, I am the only one here who has real competence when it comes to repairing, unless you wanna blow up as soon as you start. Secondly, momma got hungry mouths to fill, and you have enough cash. So don't be so niggard. And last but not least: You really don't have any other choice than staying here until my work is done, so just accept your fate. I have accepted mine decades ago." She slowly releases her grip and stares in his eyes. In a bitter, understanding way, not angry. It is seriousness speaking out of her. Even if Hans had a secondary ship or a fighter, whatnot...he would not want to leave his precious Westphalia, his mobile home and working station, alone around here. He mumbles. "As much as I hate to admit it...but this is the only thing left to do at the moment..." She nods. "Right, sugarcoat. I know I might not look like it...but I will try to fix your stuff asap. It has been ages since I last repaired a real baby, and not flying scrap yards...", Tabby smirks; looking at the yacht, "...besides...I don't think this isn't a station for your kind. Maybe it is my ancient maternal instinct knocking, but your little babyface is better off this station. I would hate to see it scratched, boy." Panic, delusion, rage...and now irritation. What the heck is she talking about? Hans gives her a questioning, and for an observer, probably idiotic look. She turns around; pressing the botton to open the sliding doors. In the middle of the treshold, she stops, only speaking over her shoulder without looking back. "And just a hint...don't nose into something if you want to witness your ship fly again. Take this information as a welcome gift...I will call you soon." The sliding doors close with a swoosh. They leave Hans alone in the gloomy hangar. Half an hour later, Hans leaves the room through the same exit as Tabby. The long corridor which leads to the station center is illuminated with flickering, cold neon lights. No one was walking through it, since the local station time was shortly past 3AM. He sighs, recapitulating everything in his mind. "Aaaalright. Expensive stuff locked in safe? Check. Outfit changed to my old jeans and a white t-shirt? Check. Contact lenses instead of glasses? Check. Essential basics stored in the backpack? Check. Backpack boobytrapped? Check. Every door onboard my home locked, except the one to the engine level? Check. Tabby's Business Card? Check." Another sigh, followed by a huge sip from the flask. Maybe visiting the Technical Control Board every now and then to prevent situations like this isn't a bad thing to do... And off he walks towards the bright end of the corridor...