There's one thing about the Battleship Hood that Daniel Goldman just couldn't escape from, nor could he identify or categorise. One thing that, no matter how long he lurked aboard the desolate yet infamous battleship, he always continued to notice time and time again.
It's the smell. Easily noticeable, and yet, constantly fading into the background, constantly returning to hit you in the nose. The rosiness of Victory. The sting of Defeat. The musk of Fear. The aroma of Life. The stench of Death. The familiarity of Freedom. The new, worrying miff of Regulation...
Abstract concepts as they may be, anyone would think you could walk up to any of these ideas in their physical form and shake their hand aboard the Hood. Just as you could see Daniel Goldman now approaching the tender at the wooden, clean yet unpolished bar, you'd be anything but crazy to say that the intriguing fragrance of Secrecy was sat to his right with a drink, as the well-dressed man took a seat. The bartender sidestepped to get in serving position.
"That ship of yours, Casino...Ever thought of pitching it into a race? I've seen you run the course, you're certainly no Starflea, m'lad. Credit in the bank, women on the arm, glory in the book. Enough to take you from constantly seeking the next employ, eh? What'd ya think? I could set you up. Redge fee on the house."
Goldman smirked. He'd run the racetrack, which spanned a good chunk of the Hood Asteroid field, approximately one hundred and four times. Never to race, never to impress. The swirling, twirling dance of his Virage as it swam ring through ring...Takes you to another world. Another place. Another time. As his father, Jack Goldman would put it, it takes you home.
"Throw a Hood's Hitter my way, and I'll ask Lady Luck about it as I pass out, eh?" "Keep it in mind, m'lad. We've got Bretonian Babes on the tap as well, y'know. Racers only, mind!" "Abe, if that were true, I'd have bought the Hood outright years ago!"
The pair chuckled as the bartender threw the mixture of cocoa, coffee, ice, mint, a zest of lemon and a shot of Gold-Dust into a shaker. A few whirls and twirls, and in a moment it was in a glass in Goldman's hand.
"To the Lady." Goldman toasted. He rose the glass to his lips, yet hesitated before he took the first sip. The pine of Nostalgia, he thought to himself as he enjoyed the enriching citrus smell of the mixture. He found it only ever harder these days to resist.