Harold Bartleby Gibbons. Veteran of the recent battle in Leeds, and amputee. He rolls over on his lumpy mattress and grabbed the pill-bottle by memory, an action which he has learned by rote. Click, slide, plop. A small blue pill drops into his hand and is quickly swallowed. He closes the bottle and places it back on the bedside table, then props himself up against the headboard and wipes his eyes with one hand.
He reaches for the lamp, again by rote, and manages to turn it on. His first sight is that of his prosthetic leg. Though a marvel of biomechanical engineering, it still hurt every now and again. That is what the pills are for. He sighs deeply at the leg and looks for his pats, which he draws on and buttons. Almost tripping over a beer bottle, he heads into the refresher and looks into the mirror. The angry, hairy face of a man forced into an escape pod one-too many times looks back at him.
He splashes some water in his face, pulls on some basic boots, and opens the door of his small apartment. Almost immediately he is beset by a sorrowful sight. Perhaps that's why he hates this God-forsaken planet. Refugees lean against the walls in the hallway of the apartment complex. His apartment, being on the first floor, is right near the bulk of them.
He doesn't hate the refugees. He hates the situation. He hates the Kusari military for starting this bloody war, and he hates this planet for being the only place the Refugees managed to escape to. This is no place for a refugee, he thinks to himself, The smog, the danger... the blight-ridden Kusari waiting on the doorstep. Ahead of him, miles of streets and buildings. Above him, miles of the same. Walking forward, he notes the little rubbish-bin campfires on the sidewalks, and shakes his head. He can't help them, so why does he have to see them? It only saddens him further.
A pub looms darkly on a street corner. That is, if you could call them streets. They're little more than glorified alleys, and this pub is little more than a synth-paste and whiskey dispenser. Still, it's cheap, and the bartender is a friendly enough bloke. A flashy neon sign proclaims the "establishment" as the Queen's Bosom Tavern. A testament to the place's respectability if I've ever seen one! Harold thinks wryly, chuckling to himself. A particularly lewd sketch of Queen Carina in an outfit that emphasizes her bosom is scrawled on the wall next to the door. Harold walks in, knocking on the door on the way.
"Ah, 'ello there Mister Gibbons! 'ere for the daily gruel, are ye?" the bartender shouts above the ruckus. Even at this time of day, people looking for a quick drink have flooded in... not to mention the refugees.
"Aye, just a bit o' the paste for me, Jerry, as usual. No drinks, I have t'be out on a patrol soon. Not officially, but they need all of the help they can get." He takes his seat at the bar as a little tub of grayish paste is set down in front of him. He suffers through it, hating every moment he has to eat it. He finishes quickly and leaves, tipping Jerry for his work. After a brisk run and the disheartening sight of many more refugees, he gets to the landing pad where his crusader lies, and preps for take off...
"Things will not calm down, Daniel Jackson. They will, in fact, calm up."
The diminutive Crusader lands on Leeds. The landing pad, black from years of scorching thrusters, groans under the weight. Out steps Gibbons, looking tired and battered. He tosses a few credits to a family of refugees as he walks down the landing pad steps. Same routine he always repeats. Instead of going to his apartment to rest, he goes for a drink, the only thing worthwhile to do on this planet. He shuffles his feet, deliberately trying to ignore the families strewn about, like a horse with blinders attached. It's not my job to worry about them, there's nothing I can do, just gotta move along.
The sky darkens, and with it, Gibbons' mood. He doesn't take the time to ogle the busty picture of Carina on the wall before entering the tavern; instead, he just sits down at the bar as usual. "Jerry, the East smog cloud has to be the most dreary patch of hell in this system," he says as the bartender, anticipating Harold's order, puts down a flask of his best whiskey and a shot glass. Of course, best whiskey doesn't mean much in a dive like this.
"East smog cloud, eh? I had some Armed Forces bloke in the other day, said he spotted what looked like a giant hulk of a ship just drifting! Fancy that. 'course, the guy had just arrived from a hospital after being sent home in a pod. Poor bastard," Jerry wipes a cup with a rag, the oily piece of cloth leaving a thin layer of grease. Harold just raises his bushy eyebrows and tugs on a tuft of beard. He mumbles softly, "Fancy that..."
He slugs back the shot, and lets the liquid burn down his throat. I bet a hulk like that could fit a lotta people...
"Things will not calm down, Daniel Jackson. They will, in fact, calm up."
A seat along the bar from Gibbons bore a young man of disheveled appearance, though not quite enough to camouflage him amongst the local refugees. His clothing was a mismatch, different pieces playing to conflicting dresscodes; a blue dress shirt and a loosely adorned tie suggested business, but his baseball cap and bomber jacket put paid to that idea. The cap and jacket were each emblazoned with two words in gold lettering, and though constant wear had taken its toll, the embroidery still proudly proclaimed his company name to the crowded bar: Highland Security.
Like his company, John Freeman had seen better days. The days of Highland's first eagerly-negotiated contracts were now a distant memory, and now, more than six months since the incident that had seen the company's pilots split in a less than amiable atmosphere, Freeman was the CEO, VP, and sole remaining employee of his security business. Wandering Sirius looking for jobs, recruits, anything, the reasons for his stop on Leeds were all forgotten for the moment as Freeman stared, transfixed, entranced, in the direction of Gibbons.
Staring at that beard, and the man attached to it.
Gibbons facial features upon noticing this prolonged gaze appeared to communicate at first an irritated discomfort, then an amused glare as he met Freeman's stare of wonderment with one of intimidation. John's amazement turned to horror as pure waves of testosterone threatened to tackle him from his stool like a grizzly bear with a beer hat.
This is too much. Need to break it off. But Gibbons wasn't done yet. Caught in a trance by the beard and its man, Freeman could only watch in horror as Gibbons picked up a shot of whiskey and demolished it in one deft gulp, his piercing gaze never shifting from their ocular showdown.
John hadn't survived this long by giving in to fear. The only thing to do was respond in kind. His hand casually glided to the bar, collecting his lemonade in an off-hand manner and slowly raising it to his lips. The next movement was lightning fast as he made to throw back his drink just as Gibbons had done; unfortunately, this was less practical with a tall glass, and instead became a long, dramatic sip. It could have been an hour, it could have been a year, so electric was the air between these two scruffy men as the patrons of the bar looked on in awe. In reality, it took twenty four point seven seconds. The tension was undeniable. So was the gas. Freeman involuntarily let loose something that straddled the line between a belch and a low roar, the unrestrained release startling all but the most hardened of onlookers.
The two men stared each other down another five, six seconds. Eight, ten, twelve. Finally, Gibbons' dangerous smirk evolved into a fully-fledged grin, and he shot his hand towards Freeman. John responded in kind, and what followed was less a handshake, more a high-velocity hand-collision as their palms met with all the force of a hydrogen powered jetpack meeting an elevator in freefall.
An exchange of names followed, but all the introduction necessary had already occurred. For now there were stories to be swapped, reputations to be boasted, and lemonades and whiskeys to be bested for as long as the Queen's Bosom would serve them.
A few stools down, a down-on-his-luck Junker relished the feeling of cleanliness after his biweekly shower. His "outfit" was little more than an oil-stained jumpsuit that, sadly, saw water more often than he did. Spongebaths using his transport's severely limited water supply just didn't cut it, and the jumpsuit helped hold in the unfortunate scents associated with living alone in an ancient transport, plying the asteroids for wrecks to salvage.
With all the refugees on Leeds, it was hard to find lodging, and harder still to find a place with clean water. And, unfortunately, his aged Percheron's plumbing simply refused to function. Hardly surprising, considering the barely operational wreck was over a hundred years old. It'd been one of the second generation of the rugged transport that Bretonia had built its trade empire upon; but it was showing its age in a serious way.
The turrets still worked - most of the time - and once every week or so he could convince the head to dispose of its fun-filled contents. It groaned and shuddered horribly under thrust, the cruise engines regularly jolted the vessel's sole occupant as they hiccuped under the strain, and myriad slow air leaks ensured he had to make port once every week or so to try to patch them - more would form, of course, but he had to try - and resupply. It was on such landings that he washed the dirt off, and washed the troubles down.
And to think, I came to Bretonia to make a living! He'd figured that, with the war going on, there'd be lots of chances for an opportunistic Junker to make a small fortune scavenging and salvaging. What the Libertonian hadn't counted on was the fact that others had gotten the same idea before he had, and gotten all the useful contracts before he'd even arrived.
Sure, it wasn't all bad...he'd managed to go from an old CSV to an even older Percheron, after all...but after nearly a year, it was beginning to grate on him. Kinda wish I'd stayed on LA. At least you can swim in the ocean on that planet...here, if floating wreckage doesn't cut ya open, the polluted water'll do you in.
And then there were the refugees. Some had once been quite well-to-do, but had lost everything when Stokes was taken, or when Harris was cut off, or in one of the many battles in Leeds orbit. Others had never been well off in the first place, but that didn't lessen their misery. At least I have a ship. It's garbage, but it's a ship, and I can get outta here. Those poor suckers're stuck. He tossed back his glass, finishing off whatever-it-was (he really couldn't recall), and doing his best to turn into a listening center.
It was one of his hobbies during his few trips planetside. He'd quietly hang out in bars, commoddities exchanges, and shops listening to the goings-on around him. He'd gotten some good tips that way, information on potential wrecks, and general info he considered more reliable than the major news outlets. A lively conversation a couple of stools down from him caught his attention, and he slowly munched on the cheap sandwich he'd bought as he listened.
The two exchanged names, and after Harold recovered from his bout of mirth, he nodded in the direction of the bartender and said, Jerry over there overheard some pilot talking about a hulk he saw in the east smog cloud. Whaddya think of that? Personally, depending on how intact it is, it could serve as a mighty-fine home for some of these poor blokes livin' on the streets... it'd have to be repaired, o' course, but it's more than nothing.
He gestured to Jerry, who refilled his shot glass. This he slugged back again, noting the burn in his throat. He smoothed his beard futilely, which itself could probably hold most of the refugees on this planet, and gestured to John Freeman to respond.
Freeman stared blankly, slowly sipping on his lemonade through a Highland Security labelled twisty straw. Gibbon's words had set off an explosion of questions and ideas in his head. Space hulk? Is it uninhabited? What kind of space hulk? Is it haunted? Ghosts? Ghosts. Oh god.
A chunk of something zipped up the straw and blocked the flow of both his thoughts and his soda. He snapped back to reality.
"Uh, what do I think of it?"
He almost lapsed into another bout of entranced gazing upon Gibbons' facial forest. He fought through its hypnotic abilities.
"I think that sounds like something worth taking a look at."
Gibbons raised a big, bushy eyebrow. He had noticed Freeman almost staring at his beard, and act which he could appreciate due to its... magnificence. He nodded to himself, and tried to slug back his drink only to find an empty glass. He turned to the bartender and, to be heard over the din, half-roared, half-belched JERRY! WHISKEY! The bartender, who was busy with another customer, sent a bottle sliding across the counter, leaving a sludgy wake behind it, and accumulating a thick drift of ichor across the front.
Gibbons grumbled to himself about having to refill his own drink, but did it anyway, spilling a bit and ignoring it. Worth taking a look at, eh? Aye, so it could be. It be my thought that should we go out searching for this... this... he slams his shot glass down on the table, shattering it; mentally, he decides to just drink from the bottle, this blasted GHOST of a chance... someone has to stick around to keep an eye on it. I've got me a suit, I can stick around. Coordinate repairs, if any are needed. May need a crate of extra oxygen tanks, but I can do it.
I'd need someone to shoot the buggers who'd want to do me in. Y'know. That sorta thing. He took a swig from the bottle, and suppressed a grimace at the acrid burn. It was little better than moonshine.
Two thoughts popped into the head of John Freeman; first, who would seriously try to kill this man, and second, did his ship have a giant beard painted on it?
The answers to both would no doubt become apparent in due time. John detected the apparent offer in Gibbons' words. He grinned at the possibilities of things to come.
"That someone is sitting right here, chappy. I'm at your service." He took a mighty swig from his glass, wincing as the curly straw poked him in the eye, then slammed the glass down, following Gibbons' example. The bartender shot him a foul look.
"Might be wearing out my welcome around here." He motioned to the door. "Shall we?"
Aye, we shall. Just remember, I'm going to have to ride with you to the hulk. I don' think it will have a mooring point or a hangar, and either way my ship is more a rusty bilge than a fighter-craft, and it can't handle being out o' port long. Blasted thing. He stood up off of the stool, shifting his weight to his remaining leg. He tightened the prosthetic, then allowed some of his weight to drift to it. He tossed payment for the glass, the drinks, and the bottle itself, onto the counter before taking the bottle to his side.
"Things will not calm down, Daniel Jackson. They will, in fact, calm up."
The nature of the conversation taking place between the bearded man and his newfound associate was such that Clyde's sandwich soon lay half-eaten on its plate, forgotten. He did a few quick mental calculations, and came up with an answer favoring speculative investment of time and what little money he had. The two men were strangers to him, but the sinking sense of Something Big about to slip out of his grasp was all too familiar. He launched himself from his seat, nearly knocking the barstool over and earning himself one of the bartender's patented looks.
"Uh, hey. Dudes. Sorry,but I couldn't help hearing you talk about a little venture...see, this is the sorta thing I specialize in." He gave what he hoped was a courtly bow, and grinned. "Clyde Lawrence, Californian Junker, at your service! I've got an old Perch. She's not much, but she can haul crap if needed, and I can fix stuff. Hell, I've kept the thing running, and she's a hundred years old! And..."
He eyed the curly straw, and was briefly disappointed that he was too far away to snatch it without being rude, "Hate to say it, but I haven't had much luck around here, either. Followed every tip or rumor I hear, and get nothin' except a day older and a few credits poorer. Just about given up on making that fortune I was gonna make...might as well have a bit of fun, eh?"
He grinned again, glad he'd brushed his teeth that day. "And trying to find a mysterious, nameless hulk drifting in space so we can fix it up...I'm in, if you'll have me." Clyde held out his hand, scarred from accidents involving large pieces of machinery. Gibbons acted as if he might stroke his beard in thought; however, perhaps in fear that the local fabric of time and space couldn't withstand another such blow in so short a time, he nodded and clasped the junker's hand.
The aforementioned rusty bilge managed to make a landing, albeit not without much in the way of swearing from Gibbons. He staggered out, belched a bit of smoke, and started walking. Meandering, really. His destination was the tavern, but he had no wish to get there any time soon, such a fury he was in.
"Blasted scoundrels, aiming to help me 'n' then ne'er showin' up. Guess I'll have te find some new folks'll help me," was one of the things he said during his monologue en route to the tavern.
A couple-dozen city blocks later, and after many odd looks from the people who saw the one-legged man muttering, he found his dark watering hole. He slammed the door open, and everyone in the room looked up for a second to stare at him. When they saw his stormy facade, most of them hurriedly turned back to their drinks; the others just glazed over and sat there. Jerry nodded and brought out a few shot-glasses, and poured his "best" whiskey.
By the time Gibbons managed to get to the bar, the rest of the tavern was back to its usual droning. "Well, Jerry, I've found the blasted thing. It's in a bad way, minimal life-support, no engines, minimal shields, hull is shattered in some portions and there be gaping holes. Entire decks tha' have no air. My help dissipated, so I dunno if I can fix the blasted thing. Comms be workin' tho', so I should be able to find someone."
He sent back the few shots, noting a grimy overtone on top of the usual acidic burning. Jerry just nodded knowingly, and gave a grunt. Gibbons tugged on his beard, wondering what his next step would be, and sat down on a stool.
"Things will not calm down, Daniel Jackson. They will, in fact, calm up."