Banger raised an eyebrow to himself when Mr. Swires kicked everyone out like he owned the place. He let it slide though without a second thought. Tonight was his party on his dime, after all...and besides, if not for him, this place would still be closed up, not doing anyone any good in any way.
He felt kind of dubious about going off for a blind meet-n-greet up in the hanger with some dude he just met, but he did say to Mr. Swires that he owed him one, so, depending on how things turn out, this could conceivably be the one, and allow him to consider his word honored.
"Alright, Mr. Mikey Swires," he said with a cheery tone and kalisti smile. "Let's go then...What could possibly go wrong?"
Before exiting the bar, Matthew motions Mr. Swires to sidestep with him towards a staff closet. There, Banger throws on his duster and takes a 50 year old, yet very clean slugthrower off the shelf and slaps a clip of hollow points into the hilt before nesting it into his belt at the small of his back.
He then pulls out the serrated blade he put to Mikey's throat earlier from the right side of his belt, holds it up, and looks at him with an exaggerated look of comic distaste while silently shaking his head back & forth, mouthing the word: 'nooooooooooo.'
He places it up on the shelf, and pulls a mean-looking, 'f**k-off' Gaian hatchet from a hook on the closet wall, and slides his thumb down the blade. Matt then flashes Mr. Swires an exaggerated look of approval and childish glee while giving a thumbs up, slowly nodding his head up and down while silently mouthing the word 'yeeeeesssss.' as blood drips down his thumb, off his wrist, and down to the floor.
After he nestles the hatchet to the left side of his belt, He and Mr. Swires begin to make their way to mooring bay 17.
Swires observed Matt with a raised eyebrow while he did his little Crocodile Dundee homage. He laughed when he saw the hatchet, turned it slightly nervous when he noticed the bloodletting, then pointed at it to defuse his own tension. "Y'know, I had some training with that thing. Never did get the hang of it, I guess I just ain't strong enough to pull it out when it wedges deep into something it hits-", he spoke while gesticulating a vigorous hatchet chop. "-right in there, and sometimes there's bone too an'... I dunno, I guess I'm more of a gunfight kinda guy. Eye's better than the hand, that's my excuse.", he joked as they plodded along towards the moor lines. They were passing through the drydock section anyway, and he stopped them in front of drydock hangar J-4 and pointed straight through the massive parted bulkhead at the dimly lit Pilgrim wreck in there.
"Y'remember this, right? It's JB's old Pilgrim. Well, what's left of the stern portion, that is. F***in' thing cost us a lot so far, and it's gonna cost more if we're gonna get to the black box and figure out what the f**k happened. Most of the bulkheads are either fused or bent shut; The whole hull's angled bout three degrees starboard along the zed axis. Nasty ordeal all in all... We already lost the first cut-n-entry team. They were the ones that figured out the whole goddamn cargo bay was turned into some kinda lab and let me tell you- They did NOT look good comin' outta there. Turns out, the lab was chock full of toxins and pathogens. Bacteria, viruses, prions, gases, liquids... you name it. Guess JB finally went for his vocation, huh?" He laughed uneasily, then pointed to a broken, ten foot thick hangar chain tethering the hulk to the hangar floor. "We had to space the whole bay. Luckily the bioweapon detection system on this hunk of ice ain't busted entirely, bout the only damn thing, but it reacted in time. We got out, the bulkheads sealed and the emergency spacing kicked in. When the gravity turned off and the air rushed out, it pulled the boat out and one of the chains broke off, that's why there's scorchmarks on the ceiling and a row of lights missing. Whole base felt the impact when it finally hit floor again, lemme tell ya." Through explaining, he visibly perked up, obviously passionate about the whole project.
Finally, they proceeded towards the moor lines. A small blaster was hanging off Swires' belt, mostly hidden by the old jacket hanging over his hips. Still, the piece was there. "Right, so, this guy I've known for a while. Real poncy type, wordy. He's the dealmaker for a company I found out about. Saw a commercial on the trid the other night and I was hooked right off the bat when I saw their company name was "Very sirius exports", but get this- Only the "V" is capital, and according to their meshsite, that's 'cause they're so serious about their business, even what the business actually IS and the sector it's done in are just secondary, fleeting concerns." He laughed through his nose. "Anyway. They've got a fleet of boats and a big old moral gray area. Finding out my buddy was workin' as their face... Well, it only felt natural. We're gonna have to haggle, and I was hoping you'd do it in my place? Sure, I know him, but you know the ins and outs of this place, and you know business. Whaddya say, Mr. Grim?" By that point, they were at the mooring lines, counting up from one to seventeen. Through the row windows they could see a shiny new Serenity transport hanging off bay 17, to which Swires gestured briefly. Otherwise, he remained silent, waiting for Matt's response before they were to enter bay 17's "waiting room".
Sucks to be a weight on the wrong side of the brilliance-insanity scale.
Listening to Swires speak, Matthew arranged the words he was hearing like puzzle pieces.
Keeping his ears open for the edge pieces that would define the scope of this project, he begins to connect the information he learns with the knowledge he possesses in order to fill the empty gaps that will eventually bring the big picture into focus.
Matt was intrigued.
He remembers Jonah and was aware of his life's work from the outside looking in...that fills in some of the blanks. His personal knowledge of weaponized virology fills in some of the others, but right now, that black box is the key that will illustrate the end goal, and exactly what they're supposed to be looking at.
Banger turns to Mr. Swires and tells him, "Aye, if you'd like me to jaw a deal with these lads, I'll do it, and I'm willing to provide support in the ways that I know how."
"That said," he continued, "before we go in, There is a person I think you are going to need. I can't guarantee he'll return my call for personal reasons, but he was a Gaian brother to Jonah, and I believe that because of Jonah's connection to this thing we have presented before us, it may very well kick him into gear."
"If that's acceptable, then we are good to go. You take the lead to start. Make the introductions and kick that snowball down the hill & I'll provide the gravity to keep it rollin'."
As they reached the entrance to Bay 17's waiting room, Swires nodded to Matt. "You're right. We're gonna need a lot more people for that. And any people you can vouch for, old or new, they're gonna be invaluable. So, yeah, Mr. Grim- We got ourselves a deal." He nodded, then shook Matt's hand firmly. "Right, well- I'm gonna line out the request, and you take it from there, alright? He's gonna do some negotiating, but in the end of ends we're gonna have a six, low seven figure fee to pay. Not that bad, all things considered; And this also covers the crew costs, maintenance and all. Just, y'know... Give him a bit of business. He appreciates a shark when making deals." Then, he pushed in the door and entered the room.
Swires set himself into a chair opposite the lanky suited man and nodded to him, receiving a nod in return. They waited for Matt to sit down as well before the "meeting" was open. "Hello, Alvin.", he began to the man's slight displeasure and grinned at him before continuing. "Straight to the deal, shall we? The request we're putting in is for a full outer space refit crew for the case we discussed on the trid. Alongside such, we'd like full coverage for the crew, including lodging, food and hazard pay. The clause requests twelve outer space refit vehicles and the rent of one large space transport bay. Around four thousand metric tons would be ideal, however we can probably suffice with less. And, uh, that all should last around three days in total, beginning as soon as possible." He swiped a file from his PDA onto the table surface, which glimmered for a bit before accepting the format and displaying a text file. "You said you'd forward the request to your analysts. What's the sit-rep?"
Sucks to be a weight on the wrong side of the brilliance-insanity scale.
Sand was slowly getting restless sitting in his faux-leather chair. The two statuesque bodyguards stood solemnly behind him, rifles slung across their abdomens. To pass time, he tapped his fingers on the table, glanced at his expensive mechanical watch a few times and reached into his pocket for a tiny flash paper ampoule which he broke in half, sniffed a shot of white powder from and wiped his nose unceremoniously before incinerating the ampoule into nothingness with some friction between his fingers. A few seconds later, he saw the outlines of men through the door window and heard unintelligible mumbles of a brief conference. Finally, they were here. Time to turn on his charm. Running a hand through his hair, he adjusted his tie and put on a razor-sharp businessman smile to flash right at the two men as they entered.
"Gentlemen. Good day!", he spoke with an annoyingly soft voice with a barely noticeable Texan drawl, rising partly out of his seat as he gestured to the two empty ones across the table. "Please do sit." His eyes lingered a long moment on Matt's bloody hatchet, but he easily kept his cool as he sat back down firmly and smoothed his suit, then obsessively fixed his tie again. With his long fingers crossed in front of him, he listened to Swires talk, keeping his eyes affixed to the man's apart from very brief, occasional glances towards Banger. As Swires finished speaking, Sand swiped his own set of virtual papers onto the table and lowered one of his digits onto the text. "Yes, indeed- And your requested results have been delivered. Our crack team of analysts has come to an educated conclusion which, after factoring in all locational, risk assessment, logistical and administrative expenses, our sum total has been determined at seventeen million Sirius credits." After noticing a raised brow from Swires, he continued, eager to explain.
"Let me clarify. To begin, our base fee for three days rent of twelve count refit vehicles, one count refit crew and one count Serenity class transport comes up to eight million credits. Since this service falls under our "extended" list, the additional expenses are not a percentage addition, rather a flat fee. This is a good thing for you." He smiled. "An additional three million have been added to the list, totaling eleven, for the distance from our operating refit base. To that, an additional three million have been added, totaling fourteen, for the risk assessment due to the unfortunate incident you've suffered. An additional two million, totaling sixteen, have been added, for the logistical requirements of delivering and maintaining such a number of vehicles and men. Finally, the million to total seventeen million is for the administrative costs. If you have any questions at all, feel free to ask them, I'm here for your convenience." He then sat back, crossed his fingers on the table again and waited.
'17 million credits?' Banger thought to himself. That's a damn far cry away from the high six to seven figure fee Swires told him to expect. that definitely sounded like a low ball, but eight?
That's a laugh to a joke that isn't even funny.
As the skinny peacock explains the structure of his joke in the guise of itemization, Banger takes measure of the moment. First, self-preservation: Unlikely, but in the event of a total south-bound clusterf**k, his slugthrower with its soft hollow points would be utterly ineffective against the armor-clad pair of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum standing there, looking all bad ass with their rifles. Conclusion: Don't let it go that far south.
Second, take measure of the bossman: On the bottom line, a showman...but quite possibly feral if cornered. When he smiles, it doesn't reach his eyes. When he talks, he hides his true dialect. Texan, if Banger is correct.
Most likely, the guy comes from Houston. Not a place known for a prosperous economy, so he probably comes from poverty. That would explain the showmanship. The obvious need to show outward success through his wardrobe, his gaudy timekeeping wrist trinket, his probable bulls**t about having a crack team of analysts, and most irritatingly, the quick, snooty look he gave Mr. Mikey down his nose when Swires addressed him by his first name.
Swires may be a weak man, but overall, he has heart and deserves more respect than he's been given by this dapper scarecrow with the broomstick fingers.
Banger spread his legs and leaned forward, resting his forearm on his knee.
"Aye," Banger began. "I have a question...Alvin: As I now speak on Mr. Swires behalf, I'm given to wonder...What would the total be if that crack team of educated analysts of yours factored in the 'We will not be your marks to exploit' discount?"
Sand listened intently to Matt as he begun to respond. Almost irritatingly brief a response, but one nonetheless came from the old Gaian, but Sand- Alvin was prepared. He turned his smile and his eyes to the current speaker, then begun his articulated response. "I understand how you may be feeling. I assure you, however, this is the lowest price available given the location of our FoB's. If you'd kindly turn your eyes to this side in the contract, right here-", he begun, then reached to his lapel and pressed down. A faint click emanated from the area and his smile vanished, revealing a sharp expression of a youth with more brain and experience than Matt had given him credit for and a smooth Texan drawl. "Listen here. Full disclosure? Y'all getting the super-f**kin'-dee-luxe discount here 'cause Mikey's family with one of our cap'n's. Normally, this kinda breakneck errand'd cost ya some fifty to eighty mil, but we gone an' decided to throw in the bribes, paperwork, customs an' obligatory navy reports fakin' pro bono. Y'catch my drift now, grandpa? I ain't tryin' to make an enemy outta you, so don't start tryin' to make one outta me. Now, where were we?"
Another brief reach to his lapel and click later, Alvin's face was a cool, professional business smile all over once again. "So, as the terms clearly explain, sir, we've got a classic mistake. When your colleague, uh, suggested his perception of the price, he was unfortunately mistaken. Are we good to continue? Misunderstanding cleared up?", he lilted in his infuriatingly pleasant tone, Texan accent well hidden once more. It was very obvious, however, he was a bit unnerved- A slight toe-bounce took over his right leg subconsciously as he sat, filling the surrounding with a quiet rustle of fabric, and one could swear the bodyguards behind him tensed up ever so slightly.
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