As yet another day passed into another and yet another, Rett was growing more and more restless. Of course, things were going swimmingly well with his bao bei, Wren. Why wouldn't they be? They were in a very mundane and boring place. Even the recent upheaval about Proposition 37 left Rett with a very disinterested outlook on the town they were living in.

"Wren, do you think that what we've got is considered magic by the general populace?" He canted his head as he gazed at her from across the booth that they were sitting at in the Star's End Bar. He sipped his drink through a straw, his cheek being upheld by the side of his fist.

"Need to get out of here. I hate to say this, but I miss the star ship." He sipped his drink, mud gray eyes intent on his companion. "I'd do anything for passage into the black, even for a little while." Reaching across the table, he wanted to take her hand. "It's where we both belong."

The doors to Stars End Bar whooshed open rather noisily as the pilot of the Nighthawke walked in, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The relatively large Brent Noble tossed a quick glance around the establishment before turning and walking barwards. By now, Brent and the bartender had become relatively well acquainted, what with the bar being his favored place outside of the ship these days. Thus, when he sat down on a stool and rasped his knuckles harshly along the counter top, the bartender turned quickly to toss a friendly smile the pilot's way.

"'Ey d'ere, Noble," said the bartender.

"Hey yerself," the pilot replied. "Gimme a badsider, gonna be my last drink 'fore we head off planet for a while, can't be flyin' the 'hawke with a hangover."

"Comin' up."

The bartender, whose name Brent had oddly enough, never learned, turned away from the grinning pilot to go and fetch the simple order. A moment later the hiss of a cap being twisted off was punctuated by the dull, hollow thud of glass meeting the top of the bar as the bottle was set before him.

"Thanks," said Brent as he fished out a few coins and a tip to slide on over to the ever amiable bartender.

"Anytime. I'm expectin' t'see ya the moment y'touch down 'ere again, best not disappoint us here."

Another grin was flashed from the pilot. "Oh, you c'n bet me'n the 'hawke'll be comin' by soon enough, where else are we gonna get a drink that doesn' taste like piss?"

Brent and the tender joked and laughed for a while longer, but the conversation was slowly cut off as the flow of customers increased and worked called to his conversation partner. The pilot was content with the quiet and his drink though, and didn't complain.

Wren rolled her eyes at the quiet scolding. It was only a suggestion, she thought loudly in Rett's general direction, pulling a face as he gave her that vague reassurance. She hated it when he told her to stay put; it usually meant he was up to something that he didn't want her to know about.

She followed his progress across the bar with curious eyes, leaning forward on her elbows to watch as he stepped up to the counter and ordered them more drinks. Her gaze flicked down to the two full cups in front of her, and she frowned, prodding at his mind enquiringly.

She heard his nonchalant use of the Chinese that came so unthinkingly to their lips, and her frown lightened a little. Perhaps Rett had read something off the tall, broad-shouldered man beside him that made him believe the man had some connection to Alliance space. Not that she wanted any contact with the Alliance, but someone from their space would suggest that the starlanes were open to this backwater of a planet.

And if he was Alliance ... Wren's hand slid down beneath the table, raising her skirt to bring her short carbine into her hand. She cocked it slowly and quietly, knowing she had a perfect target in the pilot's back turned towards her. If he was Alliance ... he wouldn't live long enough to put them both in danger once again.