Eavesdown Docks were crowded as usual. Persephone was the hub of a lot of space traffic, not all of it legal, and these Docks in particular were usually buzzing with commerce, also not all of it legal. Pol tramped down the ramp of the Nighthawke, one hand as ever on the butt of the revolver strapped to her thigh. She didn't trust the majority of people milling around this place. No one who wanted to stay alive and reasonably unharmed did.
They were here for one thing, and one thing only. She had an appointment to keep with one low-level bigshot by the name of Badger. That interesting piece of gou shi ran the crime syndicate in this sector of space, and he had a job for them, apparently. She hated to go visiting him alone, which was why she had insisted that Brent come with her, although she didn't think that introducing the little weasel to any of the rest of her crew was such a good idea. It was enough for him to know that she had a crew; he didn't need to know more.
Orders had been given out; supplies had to be picked up and contacts made. She'd given Chris the keys to the mule - a battered old four-wheeler that did its job and little else - and the last she'd seen, he'd been rolling towards the market with Aidyn and Cece perched securely on the back, chatting cheerfully enough. Cobb, she'd spotted heading for the whorehouses, though it was doubtful he was after trim this time of day. No, they'd picked up word on his brother being a regular visitor to Persephone, so she had a feeling he was after information more than anything. Just so long as they all got back on time to be leaving, that was all she cared about.
Brent was his usual silent, hulking self, keeping close to her shoulder as they made their way through the bustling crowds towards Badger's base of operations. The bowler-hatted 'crime lord', as he liked to think of himself, was familiar with the tall pilot; thanks to Brent's habit of not speaking much at all when they were in company not of the crew, he thought the pilot was all muscle and no brain, something both Pol and Brent were quick to go along with. The less people knew about certain members of her crew, the better, in the captain's opinion.
"Well, if it ain't my fav'rite Stardrone capt'in," Badger greeted them as they walked into his ... well, office, for want of a better word. He dismissed his last contact in favour of rising and walking over to them, standing deliberately too close to Pol for comfort. She had a feeling he did it to her only because she was one of the few people he did business with who was smaller than him. Another reason for bringing along one of the tallest of her crew.
"Badger," she inclined her head to him, her hand swinging free of the revolver at her thigh. There were too many guards in here to risk a misunderstanding. "Heard you 'ad a job f'r us."
"What, no smile fer an old friend?" he grinned unpleasantly, breathing a repulsive cocktail of stale breath and fresh wood alcohol over her face. She winced and glanced away, blinking the inevitable rise of water from her eyes. "Yer old mum says 'ello."
"Couldn't rightly care less what my mum 'as ta do wi'you givin' us a job," she replied as pleasantly as she could.
He clapped a greasy hand against her upper arm; her other hand reached out automatically to still any response to the unwelcome familiarity from Brent. Badger's eyes caught the movement, and he grinned again, chuckling to himself.
"Us from the old 'omestead gotta stick t'gether, Anapola," he told her, with another repulsive exhale right in her face. "Ain't many from 'ome I get ta do business wiv, ya know."
"S'Pol, an' I know it well 'nough." She gently but firmly removed his hand from her arm, managing to hold in the insincere smile she wanted to throw in his face for trying to be chummy with her. "Gotta job f'r us, or not?"
"Aye, gotta job for ya," Badger nodded. Say what you like about him, he did know when business needed talking over or violence would ensue. He walked away, snatching up a tattered piece of paper from his desk and thrusting it into her hand. "Salvage, eight clicks outta Persephone's space zone. All details on there for ya. M'in'trested in the contents of a safe the passengers kindly forgot ta take wiv 'em when they abandoned ship."
Pol's eyes scanned the paper quickly, picking up what she needed to know before folding and placing it in her jacket. She glanced up at Brent, giving him the look that meant it was an easy job, barring Alliance intrusion, before turning her face back towards Badger, who thankfully had remained by his desk.
"Gotta time limit f'r us, or do ya trust me ta get this done quick 'nough ta get the good sold on?" she asked, keeping her tone level. The last thing any of them needed was to insult the weasel and end up in a fire fight.
Badger's grin widened, and he waved his finger in front of her face approvingly. "Ah, see, that's what I like 'bout you," he chuckled. "Always askin' th'right questions. Answer is, y'got four days from midnight Persephone time t'night. After that, Alliance'll be headin' out ta check up on that floating wreck, an' goods'll be worff-less. 'Course, y'already know that, dontcha?"
"Four days, gotcha." Pol nodded to him, nudging Brent to back up with her as they headed for the exit. "Getcha buyers sorted, y'll 'ave the goods 'fore then."
"Pleasure doin' business wiv ya, Anapola."
Pol growled as they stepped out into the sunlight. "Hun dan always insists on callin' me gorram Anapola," she muttered, her fingers flexing around the butt of her gun once more. "Knows it pisses me off."
But pissed off or not, they had a job. An easy, standard, going-through-the-motions job. Shouldn't be so hard, should it?
They were here for one thing, and one thing only. She had an appointment to keep with one low-level bigshot by the name of Badger. That interesting piece of gou shi ran the crime syndicate in this sector of space, and he had a job for them, apparently. She hated to go visiting him alone, which was why she had insisted that Brent come with her, although she didn't think that introducing the little weasel to any of the rest of her crew was such a good idea. It was enough for him to know that she had a crew; he didn't need to know more.
Orders had been given out; supplies had to be picked up and contacts made. She'd given Chris the keys to the mule - a battered old four-wheeler that did its job and little else - and the last she'd seen, he'd been rolling towards the market with Aidyn and Cece perched securely on the back, chatting cheerfully enough. Cobb, she'd spotted heading for the whorehouses, though it was doubtful he was after trim this time of day. No, they'd picked up word on his brother being a regular visitor to Persephone, so she had a feeling he was after information more than anything. Just so long as they all got back on time to be leaving, that was all she cared about.
Brent was his usual silent, hulking self, keeping close to her shoulder as they made their way through the bustling crowds towards Badger's base of operations. The bowler-hatted 'crime lord', as he liked to think of himself, was familiar with the tall pilot; thanks to Brent's habit of not speaking much at all when they were in company not of the crew, he thought the pilot was all muscle and no brain, something both Pol and Brent were quick to go along with. The less people knew about certain members of her crew, the better, in the captain's opinion.
"Well, if it ain't my fav'rite Stardrone capt'in," Badger greeted them as they walked into his ... well, office, for want of a better word. He dismissed his last contact in favour of rising and walking over to them, standing deliberately too close to Pol for comfort. She had a feeling he did it to her only because she was one of the few people he did business with who was smaller than him. Another reason for bringing along one of the tallest of her crew.
"Badger," she inclined her head to him, her hand swinging free of the revolver at her thigh. There were too many guards in here to risk a misunderstanding. "Heard you 'ad a job f'r us."
"What, no smile fer an old friend?" he grinned unpleasantly, breathing a repulsive cocktail of stale breath and fresh wood alcohol over her face. She winced and glanced away, blinking the inevitable rise of water from her eyes. "Yer old mum says 'ello."
"Couldn't rightly care less what my mum 'as ta do wi'you givin' us a job," she replied as pleasantly as she could.
He clapped a greasy hand against her upper arm; her other hand reached out automatically to still any response to the unwelcome familiarity from Brent. Badger's eyes caught the movement, and he grinned again, chuckling to himself.
"Us from the old 'omestead gotta stick t'gether, Anapola," he told her, with another repulsive exhale right in her face. "Ain't many from 'ome I get ta do business wiv, ya know."
"S'Pol, an' I know it well 'nough." She gently but firmly removed his hand from her arm, managing to hold in the insincere smile she wanted to throw in his face for trying to be chummy with her. "Gotta job f'r us, or not?"
"Aye, gotta job for ya," Badger nodded. Say what you like about him, he did know when business needed talking over or violence would ensue. He walked away, snatching up a tattered piece of paper from his desk and thrusting it into her hand. "Salvage, eight clicks outta Persephone's space zone. All details on there for ya. M'in'trested in the contents of a safe the passengers kindly forgot ta take wiv 'em when they abandoned ship."
Pol's eyes scanned the paper quickly, picking up what she needed to know before folding and placing it in her jacket. She glanced up at Brent, giving him the look that meant it was an easy job, barring Alliance intrusion, before turning her face back towards Badger, who thankfully had remained by his desk.
"Gotta time limit f'r us, or do ya trust me ta get this done quick 'nough ta get the good sold on?" she asked, keeping her tone level. The last thing any of them needed was to insult the weasel and end up in a fire fight.
Badger's grin widened, and he waved his finger in front of her face approvingly. "Ah, see, that's what I like 'bout you," he chuckled. "Always askin' th'right questions. Answer is, y'got four days from midnight Persephone time t'night. After that, Alliance'll be headin' out ta check up on that floating wreck, an' goods'll be worff-less. 'Course, y'already know that, dontcha?"
"Four days, gotcha." Pol nodded to him, nudging Brent to back up with her as they headed for the exit. "Getcha buyers sorted, y'll 'ave the goods 'fore then."
"Pleasure doin' business wiv ya, Anapola."
Pol growled as they stepped out into the sunlight. "Hun dan always insists on callin' me gorram Anapola," she muttered, her fingers flexing around the butt of her gun once more. "Knows it pisses me off."
But pissed off or not, they had a job. An easy, standard, going-through-the-motions job. Shouldn't be so hard, should it?