The guards on the door were engrosed in what their shoes were doing and appeared to have not noticed the titanic man drop to his knees only inches away from them. McMillan on the otherhand had, and Nelson had yet to sign the papers meaning that he sident have to deal with this sort of thing.
Ah what the hell, fer' old times sake
McMillan rose from his seat and wandered over to groaning heap of muscle on the floor. John was still stood over him, like a hunter stands over his kill.
"I do 'ope your gonna clear him up Mr Crown. He's gettin' in the way."
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"Err... Yeah." He spat out a wad of blood on the floor. The man was still quivering on the floor. Lashing out with the heel of his foot, he caught the hulk on the back of the head, sending him tumbling into the inky blackness of unconsciousness. This time one of the guards was paying attention and whipped his side-arm out. "Whoa, whoa! Calm mate!" King shoved his hand into his pocket and threw a credit chit of considerable size over. "Now grab one of his legs and help me out will ya?"
The two of them slowly dragged the man out of the room by his ankles. They were gone for a moment, then the guard walked back. There was the sound of a muted thud. King returned again, still leaking blood. A nasty bruise was already swelling up, and was threatening to close up his left eye. There were also other gashes on his cheek and knuckles.
Staggering away from the mess on the floor, he got to the bar and ordered something strong from the pretty woman that had been attracting so much attention lately. Something strong enough to disinfect a Junker's underwear.
McMillan took a long look at the guard who had helped the Buccaneer carry out his victim. If theres one thing he wouldent miss from Trafalgar it would be the complacient station crew. Most had gone soft due to the relative calm of the base, any guardsmen had either been paid enough to not get involved or complained they dident get paid enough to get involved. McMillan had yet to find the threshold value of credits that would mean they would do what he told them to. But threats of not getting paid at all did spark some activity.
"Since y' got y'self a little bounus fer that, y' can mop this up an all"
The guard began the start of a scowl before McMillan nipped it in the bud.
"Unless a' course y' think thats unfair? And y' other employa' treats y' better?"
A short pause later and the guard shuffled away to begrudgingly clean away the brawls aftermath.
McMillan allowed himself a little smile as he turned away and walked to the bar, where the new barmaid was slipping on a pair of leather gloves (They stopped Buccaneer drinks from burning your hands if any spilt). McMillan becconed to Nelson.
"Com'mon then, get these documents signed so a' can get goin'"
Nelson held the little stylus over the datapad like he was defusing a bomb.
"I'm going to miss you Steven..." Mumbled Nelson.
"Christ Nelson! Its a bar not devorce papers"
"...You sure you cant stay?"
It was pathetic to watch. The insecure barman dithering about loosing his boss and having to think for himself. It was going to ruin McMillan's reputation if it got out somone actually liked him.
"Nelson, sign the damm thing or a'll give the bar t' this guy" McMillan jabbed a thumb in the Buccaneers direction.
Nelson looked mortified.
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It had be quite a while since McMillan had been in Trafalgar Base. His posting at Yanagi had come to an end and he had been granted permission to take up his old post back here in Bretonia.
He had lost quite a few of his ships in the Sigmas, including the McMillan family Salveger Class Frigate. But he had also managed to get himself a replacement.
The Opportunity, McMillan's new Pilgrim Liner flagship, was passing through the Debris toward Trafalgar now. Trafalgar Base blinked up on the short range scanners.
"Right then" McMillan said to the bridge at large "Prep ma' fighter an moor up somewhere quiet"
"Do you want let them know your coming Mr McMillan?"
"Nah, I'll supprise 'em" Smirked McMillan, before walking out.
Moments later McMillan was touching down in the hangar of Trafalgar. Engineers hurried over to tend to his ship.
"Welcome back sir. We were expecting you to arrive later than this. We would have preparted you a welcome."
"Nah, I woulda' felt 'art a' place in a crowd a' well-wishers" McMillian took in the hangar bay. "Why s'it so quiet in 'ere?"
"We havent had much Traffic for a while, place was pretty much run by no-one for a while" replied the Enginieer.
"Is that so? Guess 'al a bit a' work to do then eh mate?"
McMillan turned and headed out. He had a couple of things he needed to do before he settled back into the routine.
As he stepped up to the door of Nelsons the familiar scent of wood polish wafted through to greet him. Inside the place looked allmost the same as he left it. Except it was empty, and all the lights were off.
The wooden floor echoed his steps as McMillan walked behind the bar and flicked the lights on. He also flicked the switch for the Roof Mounted Barrager Turret which decended down and did a quick scan of the room before hiding away in its compartment again.
The bar was in good shape. There dident seem to be much more damage than when he left. The corner tables that the Bretonian Buccaneers had taken up residence were suprisingly clean and the rest of the bar seemed quite untouched. McMillan ran his finger over the bar and as he suspected a thin layer of dust wiped away.
He flicked the dust from his finger has he walked around the bar to the secret door leading to his old office. He fumbled for the catch before slowly opening the door.
"GGGGgghhhh-aack" Came the noise from within the office.
McMillan pulled the door back slightly. Has somone put a dog in here? No? Dogs dont sound like that. What the hell is it?
McMillan unholstered his pistol and gingerly opened the door again. The room dark. The only light being cast was through the one way mirror that looked out into the bar. Its effect being reduced somewhat by somthing stacked up in front of it allowing only slats of light through.
"Gggggghhh-Ghh" Came the sound again. It seemed to be coming from under the desk.
Some Gaian Beast perhaps? Some sort of Pig creature?
McMillan slowly moved towards the desk and steadily put his hand of the back of the chair.
One... Two... Three!
McMillan dragged back the chair and fired a round right under the desk. The sound of wood splintering as it broke through the back of it.
"Ahhhh Crap! Ahhhhh Stop Stop!" Came a startled voice from the gloom.
McMillan mashed the switch on the wall for the lights.
"Ahh christ, Im sorry for whatever I've done" said the man climbing out from under the desk. It was Nelson. The pistol shot has flown by his head and knocked a hole in the desk
"Nelson?!" Shouted McMillan "What the hell a' doin' sleeping under ma' desk?! A' though wer'a Nomad Dog or somthin'!"
"Wha?" Nelson rubbed his eyes. The man looked a mess "Steven! Your back!"
Nelson rushed over for a hug, but McMillan pushed him back with one hand.
"Nelson, y' stink. Whats happened t' y'?"
"Ahh, hard times Boss. The bars not seeing any buissness anymore. I couldent pay the rent on my room. I figured I could sleep in here"
McMillan took in the room. It did seem to contain most of Nelsons possesions, includidng a pile of clothes on the Leather Sofa and stacks of old computers up one wall.
"Right... Well y' cant stay 'ere now" McMillan stuffed a credit chit into Nelson's hand "Go get y' place back an' then take all y' junk out of 'ere"
Nelson beamed at McMillan "Thanks Steven" Nelson scuried out to the door "Im so glad your back" He said before leaving.
"Yeah, yeah. And get a shower!" McMillan shouted after him.
He let out a sigh as he looked around his office once more and sat down at his desk, powered up his console and sent a short comm to The Opportunity to let him know he had arrived.
Guess I had better man the bar till Nelson gets back
McMillan picked himself up and walked back out to the bar and sat himself down in one of the Booths by the Window.
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A familiar figure strolls hastily through the bar's doors. It was Andrew Beast, sporting a black suit and a wine-colored tie. His look was diminished by how unkempt it was. Shirt tucked out, tie untied, tux unbuttoned. He looked as if he was just dying to get out of that outfit.
“Oi! McMillan! Long time no see!”- he said, raising his hand and giving off a warm smile, still walking towards the counter.-"I haven't heard from you since you packed and moved to the Sigmas."
Andrew threw himself onto the stool directly in front of McMillan and took a moment to eyeball the bar.
“This place 'ere reeks of dead! Ye ought ta give Nelson a smackin'!”- said he, setting his elbow onto the polished wooden counter, much to McMillan's dismay
“The smacking can wait. Right now I need to get this place up and running properly”- replied McMillan, looking down at Andrew's elbow, then suit, and back at his face.-”So, what's with the suit?”
“Had a meet-up with some independent contractor group, y'know, boring company stuff. He looked like the professional type so I dressed accordingly.”- he said, unleaning the elbow and tossing the tuxedo and tie onto the nearest stool.-”Been sitting on my ass for hours,could really use a drink...”
As Nelson went into the insides of the bar trying to unearth whatever it still held in stock Andrew turned and laid back onto the bar, looking at the TV. With the bar this empty there really wasn't anything better to do.
McMillan needed to get this place turning a profit again before he was going to take it back from Nelson. He was not going to buy into a sinking ship, even if he did build it. The TV echoed around the room with the place so empty.
Nelson retuned with some drinks.
"Its all there is left in the stores guys" He said putting down a couple of bottles of Libertonian Ale.
Andrew blew the dust off the glass before twisting the cap of with his hand. McMillan however was not a fan of the beer that Dave Pajo had gotten delivered here all that time ago, it tasted weak.
"Wat's 'appened t' rest 'a stock Nelson?" Questioned McMillan
"Had to sell it off to traders in bulk. The place was going under Steven, I had no choice" said Nelson.
McMillan sighed "Not a great place t' start. You need t' restock before wi' can expect any trade. Ther' any money left in this place?"
"A little bit, should be enough to get a basic supply in. Ill get on it"
Nelson hurried off out of the door leaving McMillan and Andrew alone again in.
"Need t' drum up some customers in this place. Any ideas?"
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Andrew grabbed one of ales and drank it down in one go. He looked at the bottle with an unsatisfied expression on his face.
'Bloody hell, this crap couldn't get a 5-year-old drunk...'
He reached for a second one and opened the cap.
'Bars are good place to go to when you need something. The landscape might have changed a bit since you left. You need to get to know the new trends and make sure that whoever is popular needs you. They'll come flocking here to get you.'
He looked to the empty table where the rowdy Buccaneer group used to sit.
'Remember the Bucs? Like that. They might be drunk and noisy but you'd always turn a profit.'
He drank halfway through his ale.
'On a lighter note, Happy Hour! And drinks from 'Ness! Hell, I'd come here more often! In fact...'
Andrew pulled a holo-comn from his pockets and placed it on top of the bar. With a few button presses, the image of Johnny Gunn, the Purple Mist's bartender popped up.
'Oi! Johnny! Send a few crates of liquor and beer to Nelson's in Trafalgar. On me'
'Nelson's? I thought that place was shut down...'-the holografic Johnny turned to McMillan.- ' McMillan! Good to see you back in Bretonia!
'Well, it's up and working now, and low on stock. So send some 20 crates each.'- said Andrew, pulling the conversation back on track.
'Roger that, they'll be there soon.'
Andrew took the comn, put it back into his pocket and finished drinking his ale.
'There ya go. If you ever need more, I can hook you up with some suppliers.'
It had been a little while since the bar was reopened. Visitors were still rare, too rare to be making any real money. Right now a lone Molly sat in the corner booth nursing a glass of whisky while two scrap miners discussed the days haul on one of the center tables.
McMillan was at the bar talking with Nelson.
"An' they jus' stopped comin'?" said McMillan
"Yeah, one day the Buc's were here making a mess and th next there was a Pirate news broadcast about how they had disbanded. Strange realy, I thought they were here to stay"
"Hmm, they wer' good customers too" Mused McMillan. The Buc's were a loud bunch, but they knew when to call it a day and how to keep in the good books of the right people. "Have y' been keeping up t' date on things around 'ere then?"
"You pick up bits from other barkeeps and traders" Replied Nelson
"Anythin' I might need t' know?"
"Council sightings in the border systems, new pirate group, nothing you wont know from Congress files I imagine."
"Those Pirates, Indians they called? What they like?" Questioned McMillan, as he took a mouthfull of his pint
"Not sure to be honest with you, they dont visit the bars much apparently."
"Keep an ear open for me Nelson will ya'. I need t' know more about 'em"
"Of cource Boss"
McMillan and Nelson both looked casualy around the bar. Topics of conversation had dried up and the pair dropped back in to familliar silence that often accompanyed them in the bar these days.
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The wooden door to the Nelson's bar slowly slid open, and two figures walked into the room:
one was evidently a Corsair woman in her mid-20's, who was wearing a scorched, black flight suit, her black, shoulder-length hair, green eyes and pinkish-white skin seemed to contrast her chiseled build, yet the latter wasn't that great, and her figure still looked graceful enough to be called a woman's;
the next person was a bit younger and somewhat harder to read of his origins, what with his short, dark, copper-red hair, green eyes, light tan, his clothes being a brown trench-coat lined with various tools and instruments that looked like they were made from scrap and spare parts, a dark-brown cargo pants equally-lined, and black boots.
The latter featured a still face and an ice-cool stare in his eyes, while the former sported a wry grin to herself.
As the two entered the bar, the man began with a heavy sigh, and says with some disappointment in the tone of his monotonous voice, "... You just had to open your big mouth..."
The Corsair woman turned her head to him and said with upset, "Oh, shut up, Leonardo. I'm not in the mood for this."
"In the mood for what? Realizing that if you hadn't called that Molly in the Ahoudori 'scum' we would've continued on with the mission instead of getting The.Relicanth blown up? I thought you were more of the realist of us both, Casini." The man called Leonardo pointed out.
"Ugh... just forget about it...
"Right now... I need a drink." The two finally sit down on one of the tables, and the Corsair called Casini calls for Nelson with a snap on her fingers, "Bartender... Give me a whisky," She then turns to Leonardo and continues, "What'll you have?"
"Ugh... I don't drink. Just water for me."
Casini rolls her eyes in disgust, "Suit yourself..."
She lets out a slow sigh for herself, "... Ugh... I hate to admit it, but The.Relicanth was nothing but trouble: attracted too much attention, wasn't the most noteworth of ships, and it was already starting to fall apart."
She waves her hand around the air in a relaxed gesture, "Though I feel kinda relieved I don't have to pilot that thing again...
"... I'm broke. I don't have enough cash to buy a decent enough ship for myself."
"Well... I could pay for the ship. It's not like I'm going anywhere else, am I?" Leonardo remarked.
"Really...? That's mighty-generous of you, Señor, I'll appreciate your offer."
"You don't have to thank me... but the bigger question is, 'what ship are we going to purchase?'"
Casini delves in thought for a moment before replying, "... There is one ship that I have in mind. When I was still part of the Empire, I came upon this Freelancer who piloted a Raven's Talon. It looked beautiful, and the pilot managed to down many Outcast Sabres with it."
"The IR-7? That should be adequate enough, yeah. It's a two-seater at the very least, and it's got above-average specs...
"... Problem is, the only shipdealer I know of that sells the IR-7 is at Java... and with your rep being a Corsair, well... that'll present much of a problem, wouldn't it?" He cracks a faint, wry smile.
"There is one other place they sell the ship... Porto Nova, over at Omega-50. It's a bit somewhere in the southern edge of the galaxy, and is a bit treacherous to cross, but it shouldn't present much of a problem."
"Hmmm... Porto Nova, you say...? Is that another Corsair base?"
"No... It's a Freeport, so we should be fine when we get there."
"Alright. Sounds like a simple plan: get a temporary ship around here, ferry ourselves over to Porto Nova, then get the IR-7.
"... But why that ship? Surely the Eagle would be more suitable, and I think those things are also two-seaters. Besides... It's actually IMG-make, and I thought you Corsairs 'pride yourselves in your own weapons'"
"Yes, well... I'm not a Corsair..." She looks away hurtfully, "... not anymore, at least. It's complicated, and it's personal.
"Anyway... Having those tech is just asking for a large target to be painted on your head, so yeah. I have no qualms getting equipment from other sources if it'll mean I won't have to salvage scrap metal from debris fields just to patch up permanent repairs for my ship.
"I'll talk with the local shipdealer if we could rent over a CSV for the trip after we get our drinks. You go and reserve us some rooms, okay?"
"Fine." All that's left was for the two to get their drinks.
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