Walk Ins

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People come here to do business and get a job done. They're usually looking for something in particular, or have a vague idea of it at the very least.

The acres of parts, and places to put them in, don't have much rhyme or reason to them, as far as organization goes. It means you need to either have a lot of time on your hands for exploring, or to know who to ask to find what you need.

Over in the shipyard section -- it's one big open space, made of poured concrete, where captains can land their ships to take on repairs while their passengers go have fun. The people over in the shipyards generally aren't having fun, and they probably won't take too kindly to visitors nosing around.

[master post]

On Santo, nobody has heard of the Delicate Flowers.

Some of these similar institutions aren't run nearly as well. They're not as high-class.

Could you get a Companion on Santo? Maybe. The vast majority of men and women will have to try the regular old red-light district.

[master post]

The point of parks is to give people a place to meet, to play, to relax, under a bright blue sky. There are even breaks of forest in one park -- meadows, too.

And playgrounds. Really good ones. And fountains for playing in, and statues for posing with.

Also, ice cream.

And shrubbery.

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You have to walk down a ramp to get to the sand. The ramp stretches over sand dunes, with sea oats dotting them, blowing in the near-constant breeze. On the same level as the ramp: a boardwalk, dotted with places to get sketchy-looking fried food, to try your luck at a number of games of chance, to watch performers, to ride roller coasters of the future!!!!

When you walk down the ramp, it's all white sand and blue water. Down about half a mile is a pier that juts out several hundred feet.

It's a nice beach. Not too crowded.

Daniel is nearing Whittier, maybe 5 hours out, when he sends the wave to Serenity. He isn't sure how far they are, or if the ship's outdated comm system will send the message right, but he has to try.

"To the man calling himself Malcolm Reynolds. It is important that I speak with you. I have questions that need answers. If you land, I can come meet you." He chuckles dryly. "No weapons, I promise. If I miss you on Whittier, I'll keep tracking you. As someone who claims to be a browncoat, I'll expect you to do me this courtesy. You'll be hearing from me again soon."

He keys the message off and hits send. All he can do now is wait.

Turns out Daniel has an old acquaintance on Persephone who deals in small spacecraft - ironically, another old Browncoat. He wonders to himself if he's purposely surrounded himself with these people to torture himself, then shakes it off and passes over the credits.

It doesn't take him long to familiarize himself with the small craft - his teen years helping his dad with crop dusting coming back to him as his hands clutch the throttle. He eases back the controls and enters the atmosphere, shoulders tensing as he guides the ship on track towards Praxed. He probable won't find Reynolds there, but it's a good place to start.

Daniel Hobbs is a simple man. He works his job mining phosphates during the day, and at night he reads, or tends the small garden behind his house. A couple times a week he goes down to a local bar for a beer and a game of darts. For the most part he keeps to himself, lives a quiet life.

He’s never thought about why he’s chosen the bar he has. It’s a small, rundown place. His fellow drinkers are like him, quiet, but observant, and some are heavy drinkers. He appreciates the company, however taciturn. It helps drown out the thoughts that occasionally wander unwanted into his head, memories of long weeks, hunger, blood. He’s never taken the time to notice that the majority of the patrons tend to wear brown, or that no one ever raises a toast on Unification Day. He tries to convince himself he’s never noticed it, or that it matters.

This particular Thursday is no different than any other. Daniel works his shift in the mine, goes to his house and washes off the worst of the grit, then heads to the bar. He’s hoping maybe Melinda, the woman who has allowed him to buy her a drink and take her home once or twice, will be there, but he’s in the mood for any company at all.

He takes his usual stool at the bar, nodding to the bartender, who sets a stein in front of him. He raises it to his mouth, but as he sips, the back of his neck prickles. There’s more people here than usual, and almost all have pieces of distinctive clothing, familiar shades of brown. They sit in clumps, talking quietly, glancing around at the other groups. He sets the stein down, watching them out of the corners of his eyes.

He tenses as a new man enters the bar, his steps brisk as he approaches the nearest group. The others wander over as he speaks to them and as the man shifts, Daniel notices the insignia on his jacket. Browncoat, 189th Regiment.

Daniel abandons his casual posture, staring fully at the man. Is he crazy, wearing an Independent uniform like it’s a regular jacket? He turns back to the front of the bar and begins to fumble in his pocket for a coin – he’s going to pay and get the hell outta here. As he slips the coin on the bar and turns to go, his line of vision is cut off by brown. The man is standing right in front of him.

“Daniel Hobbs? My name is Harvis. I fought with the Independents and I’m told that you did too. A survivor of Serenity Valley.” A few murmurs go up from the table behind him, a few nods from the regulars who have known Daniel a while. Daniel looks back at the man steadily, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Yeah. I did,” he says flatly. “That was a long time ago.”

Harvis meets his gaze. “Then I guess you haven’t heard. The Alliance passed a new law, a Senator Tam’s idea, called the IIGA. They’re reforming the Independents, lettin’ us be real military again, forming teams to protect our own planets. I’m heading up the division for our world, and we could use someone like you.”

Daniel is stunned. And angry. “You would trust the Alliance?” He steps closer to the man. “You think they’re really gonna let us arm ourselves? Protect our planets? You must be fēngle.” He pushes past Harvis, slamming the man’s shoulder as he passes. He is about five steps from the door when Harvis calls after him, “We’ve got the word of a Browncoat that this is on the level. Rumor is it’s a survivor from Serenity Valley. Just like you.”

Daniel stops again, and turns back slowly. “No one from Serenity Valley would ever trust the Alliance like this.” He turns back and walks out of the bar and into the night, shaking with anger.

As he walks back towards his house, the anger ebbs away, replaced with confusion. He doesn’t read the bulletins, tries to avoid news sheets. He’s been flying under the radar for so long, maybe this is real. He shakes his head and tries to think. There is one man he knows, someone he trusts to tell him the truth. He heads into the back room of his house, pushes aside some boxes to reveal a very dusty comm. He records a short message and sends the wave, then retreats to his room. He knows he won’t sleep til he hears the ping of an incoming wave.

“Arthur, it’s Daniel. We need to talk. What do you know about something called the IIGA?”

Joshua Caudill is a very busy man.

He wasn't always busy, and his wife undoubtedly preferred it that way, but being elevated to the selectmen of the Tanizaki Centre for Modern Medicine in Tingri City, Bernadette, is an honor that she can feel the benefits of, and so she doesn't complain. It means he spends time in his office, though -- much more than he used to. This in turn means that he gets to listen to shakuhachi jazz fusion concerts streamed in, in secrecy.

This is Joshua Caudill's only vice.

(That, and the medical textbook in its second draft that he swears he'll finish. In the next five years, surely. It can't take much longer than that.)

He does spend time with patients, however -- more complex cases. Anywhere from a quarter to a third of his day is spent in the examination and treatment room or on the ward with patients.

That's where he is -- examining a patient file by the nurses' station -- when the page comes from above: he's to return to his office for an administrative wave.

Ksenya is in the process of showing Kaylee the house, which leaves Dunash and Simon in the library, with a glass of wine and an armchair apiece. Outside, snow falls -- approaching ten centimeters of it, Dunash thinks, and more before morning.

There's a fire in the hearth, and Dunash looks over at Simon. Firelight illuminates; it also brings shadows and planes into prominence.

Five years is a long time.

Dunash looks over at Simon and says, "The feeds have been quiet, lately."

Call him a romantic -- he certainly calls himself one, if he thinks it'll help with the ladies -- but Edward Chao likes Ehrmann Square at dusk. That's when they put the colored lights in the fountains.

The Kelowna has put in for a week's worth of routine repairs; that's a week's leave on Osiris, and Diwali's going on, and the lights in the Square are aesthetically pleasing. Later there'll be fireworks, and there's also a bar that comes highly recommended a few blocks away. Chao can think of worse ways to spend the evening than with alcohol, stuff that gets lit on fire, and maybe, if he's lucky, a special lady.

-- no. If she's lucky.

Chao might just be smirking to himself a little (and giving himself a great mental soundtrack for walking) as he heads down Satyabhama Boulevard (one right at the big statue of the lady with all the arms, and the bar is on the left).

The smirk stops when the guy runs into him. "Watch it, buddy -- "