World Tree MUSH

     Location: Sargasso Station, within the Meteo Asteroid Field. 

     A number of Star Wolf raiding ships have just docked after an excursion to intercept and pillage Space Dynamics supplies being sent from Macbeth to an outpost in extended orbit above the deadly planet Titania in the militarized No Fly Zone. The operation went fairly smooth, although there was a larger presence of Cornerian Alliance escorts. The resulting fight resulted in the loss of at least two pilots and ships, but the guard had a higher casualty count; the force and cargo ship surrendered eventually. 

     One of the larger docking bays accommodates the stolen cargo vessel while the other ships, some battered and heavily damaged, limp into the smaller bays for docking and a little TLC. It's just another week; the scene is typical to witness for those aboard the Venomian Station. "Medical Team on standby for Bay 12, 13, 17. Medical Team in response," chimes in a voice over the intercom across the Deck. "Mechanical Personnel standby. Loading Personnel standby." Most everyone goes about their usual business throughout the event. A team of medics with supplies cross the deck toward the indicated bays where the pilots so injured in the scuffle can be carried to the Infirmary and out of the way so others can go about their duties. 

     In a casual pace, not far behind the team exiting one of the lifts, strolls Wolf toward the cargo ship. It's like opening a treasure chest. You never know what kind of loot you're going to get, so there's a feeling of anxiety in hoping that your trouble and losses are worthwhile. The main doors to the cargo ship open after the craft's internal pressurization equals the atmospheric pressure within the station and the first thing seen is a group of armed guards stepping forward to secure the Space Dynamics Co. employees serving as couriers for the goods. They show no signs of resistance, and so the guards don't show as much force (for what having deadly energy rifles pointed at you counts as less force), and are ushered off and away...presumably to the brig where they'll be ransomed to the company for additional profit. 

     O'Donnell pauses without much of a look toward the Space Dynamics personnel -- they most certainly give the lupine hard stares (mixed with fear and dread) -- and decides to light a cigarette while waiting for the next group to move in and start offloading the extremely heavy crates with proper machinery. It's at such a time then that mechanics move in, as well, to start looking over the ships that are damaged to diagnose and repair.

     A sortie of any flavor would mean work for Sargasso's engineering team. The exact nature of the target meant little difference to Fionn in this regard, although the involvement of his former employer certainly evoked an amused smirk at the time of dispatch. All the same, their return, success or failure, would merit the duty of the station's mechanics. 

     Fionn's hands touch, for a time, little more than a personal electronic pad. Logs, reports, and a quick assignment roster for Sargasso's finest. He passes through the bay, pausing for a moment to confer with fellow engineers and the occasional pilot. Though me might be tempted to chastise some for the workload, he keeps it to himself. 

     Curiosity finds its own excuse. The fennec straightens his collar and makes a line for Lord O'Donnell's approach, giving a salute when he's in close enough. "One of our cleaner runs, sir. We're waiting for..." 

     One ear swivels, and then another, and he finds himself distracted for but a moment. Searching the faces of the couriers for familiarity. Finding none, or at least none of merit, he shakes the thought off like water and continues. "... waiting for confirmation, but the wolf's share of the repairs should be complete by 2000 hours." 

     Routine. Professional. The fox's tail doesn't give even a twitch as he stands by and waits, expecting either command or dismissal.

     Sargasso Station might be called dirty by many. It lacks the immaculate cleanliness one might find in more traditional military outposts. However, it isn't a cesspit, either. It's very well lived-in. It's a varied mix of high and low tech, and the station, originally built during the Lylat Wars, shows its age now more than ever. Still, the station has seen a number of upgrades over the years and it, even now, remains a very hard to find base of operations within the dangers of the magnetically chaotic asteroid field. 

     Hover jacks are pulled up the ramp into the cargo ship's main storage bay to begin lifting and slowly hauling crates out to where they can be placed to the side for individual inspection. One technician seems to go over the large crates with some kit to help detect any potential hazards or traps. It wouldn't be the first time that a technology company such as Space Dynamics has attempted to bait pirating groups with booby-trapped merchandise, but so far it doesn't to be the case. 

     Wolf O'Donnell quietly watches the goings-on at first while Fionn approaches, salutes, and gives an estimate on work detail scheduling. If he takes note of the fox's appraisal of the captured freighter crewmen, he doesn't seem to show it. The cigarette is pulled from the wolf's muzzle and a cloud of clean smoke is exhaled off to the side opposite his general facing in relation to the fennec. "We have satisfactory numbers of available ships in reserve," he says in response. "No other opportunities at present we need to gear for, but we have a few lining up for next week." With a wave of the hand holding that cigarette, Wolf gestures with a small sweep at the damaged ships in sight. "Depending on how it goes, you might wind up with a larger workload compared to this." 

     Replacing the burning Katina-grown tobacco stick to his mouth, Lord O'Donnell thumbs to the nearby crates. "So, want to open up the first one with me? They were heading to Titania, so I'm guessing it's mostly shielding gear and excavation supplies for the surface, but it could be anything. Who knows, maybe we'll wind up with an anti-grav waterproof toaster."

There are a few spaces Fionn might obsessively clean; the docking area is not one of them. A lesson in entropy he'd learned long before he even first arrived in the organization. It feels like so long ago... and Space Dynamics would know his name little more than a curse. 

     A quiet but incessant rattle of three claws on the edge of the pad continues. Delegation is one thing, but idleness doesn't become him. "A week... even were it a month. Not fixing up after a mission is like not washing your hands after taking a--" Ahem. "... anyway. It's nothing we can't handle." 

     Then there's the matter of the crates. Whatever is in there is clearly not worth Fionn's time or interest, but the invitation is met without hesitation."Sure, what the heck. If we're lucky, it'll be interesting." With a regular shipment to Titania... who knows. 

     Fionn follows in stride and smoothes his palms over the surface of the crate before looking back with a hint of permission. "Kinda like Christmas, eh, Sir?"

     There is slight distraction as another figure approaches Wolf. This monkey brings up the subject of the newly acquired prisoners. "What? Oh, right. Just ask them for their employee numbers and get them something to eat from the Cafeteria. Authorities'll know about the goods getting jacked by now, so we'll let them sweat for an hour or two before transmitting a statement on their identities along with a ransom for their return to their...loving families." The boss fakes a grin as he mockingly says the last two words with a tip of his head first one way, then the other, before rolling his eye. "Get somebody on looking into their personal histories; maybe we can charge more than usual, if we're lucky." 

     Turning away from the monkey who then takes his leave to head off toward the brig, O'Donnell steps up to the crate beside Chief Engineer Nichols. "Yeah, something like that. With any luck we'll get some gear to use. Maybe replacement parts for McKinley Station. Those ion storms have that place falling apart at the seams. S.D. Co. has been sinking a lot into that heap to keep it going. Guess there's something on the surface worth it all. Shame they don't have you working over there, huh?" 

     Wolf continues to tease as he looks over the crate. Seems the internal stability field just needs to be shut off before the lid unlocks and hinges open. "If you want to put in a request to transfer, I'll understand. I'll just be sure to leave the whole 'ripping off the supplies they need to keep from breaking up into pieces before crashing in through the atmosphere into some of the system's deadliest terrain' out of the referral."

     Fionn may have met the first occasion with a mixture of shyness and shock. Now he witnesses the processing of captives with little more query or concern than one receiving a truck of produce. "You know, it very well could have been me stepping off of one of those ships. In another time..." He dusts out the inside of his collar and grins. "I wonder if I'd have had the same appeal." 

     Those large ears slowly tilt back as he leans and looks back from the crate. "... probably a waste of credits, if you ask me. They've been rolling in investments ever since the war ended, and are happy to spend it at the drop of a hat." 
     Fionn gives the cargo a good scrutinization all the same. Even if the team has checked it, he's rather insistent upon giving it another scan before putting in the necessary sequences to deactivate the field. "I'll keep that in mind. And in turn I'll let them know that I've kept this place up to the finest safety standards." He chuckles, and looks up with a slight smile. "No, sir. Everything I want in the galaxy is right here."

     "Grand larceny, smuggling, people trafficking, damaged ships in eternal need of repair, aging station systems, and a battle to keep giant hunks of metal and stone from smashing into us; what's not to love?" One of the nearby mechanics pauses to stop near a bench of tools and supplies to pull out a thermally insulated container to sip from before capping it, nodding to Wolf as a glance from the wolf makes eye contact, before putting the vessel back and wandering off to whatever duties are assigned to her. 

     Holding his cigarette between his lips, Wolf puts a hand atop the crate's lid ready to help open it up once all is said and done. "Still, if it wasn't so expensive, I'd like to get some guys of my own down there for a look around. I won't say 'it won't happen', but it's sure as heck not going to happen this week. Or next. So this, as far as I'm concerned, is the next best thing. What's behind door number one?"

     "I mean. Chicks dig the whole 'bad boy' look..." The fox quiets a moment, flusters, even, and manages a business-frinedly smile at the mechanics before shrinking into his coat a little. "Still. This is what I am. And you wouldn't... if the whole system was on fire, you wouldn't just shove me in my dorm atory like a spoiled child and tell me to sit on my hands. You know where you want me." 

     Enough hand-wriging though. He shrugs, crouches, and braces the lid before giving it an encouraging push. There's a soft *hss* of air as the sealed container equalizes with the station's atmosphere, and some of the containers settle. He leans back for a moment, hands on his hips. "... huh." 

     The top layer of the box contains a small assortment of sealed containers with transparent tops, containing carefully cradled... toys? On closer inspection, despite their cutesy, retro-robot looking form, they have a passing level of intracy to them. "Drones... a bit of a personal touch, too. Not exactly top of the line, but they're... cute. Perhaps my Christmas remarks are not too far off."

     Lord O'Donnell is right there, as it opens, leaning in to look over the goods as the shorter of the two does the same. "Well, they can't all be winners. Maybe that toaster will be in one of the others," he jokes while leaning in to poke about at the contents to see what might lie beneath. "Still, in the off-chance they planned on using these on Titania's surface to gather information, they might last a little longer than the usual fare. Maybe we can find a practical application for them. Have somebody do some testing and find out what we have to work with here. If they're junk, send them to the station commissary." 

     "Heh." The sudden exhalation in amusement, accompanied by a puff of clean smoke, comes in prelude to his reaching in under that layer of goods to pull out something and hold the two items up to the light. "Can't do drone reconnaissance without your coffee, huh?" Apparently, including a set of pristine white coffee mugs with the company name Space Dynamics written on the side was important. They also have fittings for a lid and fixture to allow the mugs to work just fine in microgravity. 

     The eye patch-wearing lupine turns to practically thrust one of the mugs over into Fionn's hands. "Here. Can't say I never gave you anything." Wolf is so amused at this that he turns to walk away, over to that mechanic's station, with rather wicked laughter. Pulling that thermally insulated container out that he spotted before, he lifts the mug still held to the light, blows into it to dislodge any packing dust, then gets annoyed and spits into the mug to wipe it out with his fingers. All...clean? Wiping his hand off on his shirt, he puts the mug down and unscrews the lid to help himself to somebody else's coffee.

     One of the perks of having a shorter crewmate, one supposes. Just mind looking at the word between big fox ears. "I'll let them know to flag it if they see it." Fionn replies striaght-faced, before giving a little nod. "For Titania, but also cheap enough to be disposable... more likely to get gnoshed by some creature before the heat gets to them, that's for sure." 

     Fionn swivels an ear at Wolf's change in tone, curious as ever. "We do run on the stuff. Pure liquid joy. Ahh..." 

     He finds himself holding the mug in both hands and staring at it with a look of dumbfounded uncertainty. One ear tilts back like a radar dish until both are pointed upwards and he lets out a quiet chuckle. "I'll treasure it forever, sir." At that point, he may well be out of earshot, and Fionn has his own duties that he could hardly shirk. Even if the garage could handle itself, he'd have checks to do, and ducts to crawl into. He stuffs the mug into his jacket and takes a step out. 

     Then he pauses, and looks back into the crate. Fishing around for one more mug, he claims one more and loops his finger into it. Of course, taking a quick moment to mark it off the manifest. If it comes out of his pay, well, it'll be well worth it.

     The dark liquid is poured into the questionably spit-cleaned mug before capped off and the thermos replaced, but something is off about this coffee. Wolf removes his cigarette and gives the drink a sniff at first before sipping it. His face immediately contorts into a toothy grimace with a one-eyed squint. The middle-aged merc wanders back toward the crates; no doubt other personnel are going about opening the others to classify, categorize, and sort the goods. No good having cargo littering the deck. It needs to get put away. 

     "Well, let me know what we get out of this that is actually useful. We lost Barnes and Brooks in the assault. ...and their ships. I hope something in this mess is worth it." How classy: Wolf stands there all chill with a mug held in one hand so gripped in a way that allows the same hand's fingers to hold what's left of his smoke as it smolders away. "Once you're done putting out this fire and have a report on the ships, come drop it off later. Oh, and you might want to look into the small matter of one of your crew drinking on the job." 

     Wolf begins to turn away. He has to go get things done, too. No rest for the wicked. "Oh, and Nichols, when you find out who it is, I'll let you handle the disciplinary action. Might I suggest a lecture in which substances make for safer lubrication when elbows deep in their boss' Wolfen?" He starts walking away. "Last thing I need is a fuel inlet manifold seizing up mid-flight and blowing half the ass-end of the ship off because somebody made an oops because they couldn't wait to nip the bottle until after their shift."

     Fionn is none the wiser, of course. While he runs a tight operation, there's still only so much you can do for space pirates. Wolf's return makes his neck fuzz stand on end a bit, and he gives a half turn. "They might be a piece of corporate work, but there's bound to be something." Not like Fionn sent out the crew, and not like made that call; he can pick out easy enough what was worth the haul. Worth the lives, though? That's the place for philosophers. Not pirate engineers. 

     The matter of his crew acting out of line does steal a moment of sourness into his own contenance. "That so? Mmm... Were it up to me, they'd be lucky if they see duty again... good hands are hard to come by around here. Even if they need a right whipping into shape. I'll keep the grease in mind..." 

     Fionn shakes it off and gives a soft sigh. "Not a chance o'that, sir. I'll see to it..." His ear flicks to the side, and his nose twitches. "Immediately." He takes a few steps, before giving another salute and nodding. May as well end the whole encounter. "Thanks for the souveneir."