|Summary:||An impromptu sparring match starts up between two members of the Jackal's crew.|
|Cast:||Malion, Rhian, Swiftfoot, Torr|
Warning: Contains Vulgarity
|Cockpit <IND Jackal>|
The hatchway opens up to a small metal platform which overlooks a compact command center. Light filters out from hidden coves, evenly illuminating the bridge consoles. A rainbow of telltales and monitors add a touch of color, breathing life into the maze of metal and machinery. A few steps down, the main terminals are arranged in a rough semicircle, following the curvature of the ship's bow. Twin stations centered beneath the main canopy face forward, while another pair face the port and starboard, situated on either side of the cockpit just before two bulky turrets outfitted with the gunnery controls and targeting computers. The whole space is tight-packed, with little room to move when all positions are occupied.
The interior lighting being low doesn't really make Swiftfoot any less visible, with her pale coloration and all. The felinoid sits at the nav console, watching the landing pad on the viewscreen for the moment, a bottle of vodka in one paw.
Torr strides onto the bridge, dressed for the beach and looking a little sandy. "Meowmix. What the fucks up?" An eyebrow quirks a little as he makes his way toward the pilot's chair.
"Some kinda parrty, I guess," the Demarian says, shrugging. "I dunno. Don't feel like goin, cause that outfit won't let us in with weapons. I don't feel like walkin arround unarrmed when two of ourr crrew got prrices on theirr heads." Swiftfoot flicks an ear and takes a pull directly from the bottle. "You? Haven't talked to ya in a few days."
"Yeah. Saw that shit. Got the fuck outta there," Torr replies, smirk still on his face. "Fuckin' too many tubertroopers too. Fuck it." He drops heavily ino the chair. "Sol might have some shit for us to do. Little danger, little combat."
Swiftfoot blinks a bit muzzily, looking back at the Martian. "Rreally? Sounds like fun. Count me in," she agrees. Her ears flick back momentarily before perking forward again. "So what all would we be doing?"
"Sol has some shipment or someshit on TK," Torr replies, leaning back a little in the chair. "Fuckin' problem is the warehouse she stashed it in recently ended up in some gang territory. We gotta go in, extract the shit. Get a cut, of course." He extends his hand, gesturing for the vodka as he speaks.
"Hrr," the Demarian says, one ear flicking uncertainly. "Sounds like fun. Gang territorry, though? Not exactly a tourrist destination." Swiftfoot chuckles and offers the bottle to the Martian. "Ungstirri, of courrse. Mayaswell make any trrip therre worrthwhile by picking up enough vodka to drrink ourrselves blind."
"Why the fuck are we gonna get vodka on TK? Shits just imported anyway," Torr replies, frowning a little. He takes the bottle then knocks some back. "See, what makes that shit worthwhile is the twenty percent we get from the job."
"I meant Ungstirr," Swiftfoot replies, chuckling. "Only rreason to go therre is to get in fights orr to buy vodka." She nods then in response to the figure. "Twenty perrcent is nice. I wonderr what kind of trrouble therre'll actually be with the gang territorry. Fagin supposedly has all that shit quieted way down, orr so I hearr."
"Yeah, well we'll see." Torr shurgs a little. "She wants that fuckin' warren piece of shit to come along. Bet he'll fuckin' set himself up as the general of that shit too." Torr snorts and shakes his head. "Figure it could be a dry run for that Nall shit though. See if any oh shitbag warrenman's people are any good."
Malion makes his way into the cockpit, hat in hand instead of on his head. "Oi... What the fuck we doin' at this shit hole?" he blunty asks as he eyes play across the view screen. "Thought we were 'voiding 'cause of that shit that happened the other day."
"Me too," Swiftfoot admits, shrugging. "I figurred we had a good rreason to be herre, so I didn't say anything." The Demarian chuckles, her tail flicking. "So she wants Luc to go with us? He's not half bad, but then again, I don't have the historry with him that you do."
"Sol wanted to come to that goddamn party. I wanted to test out the fuckin' ship, make sure this shit is functioning. Seems to be." Torr knocks back more of the vodka after he speaks, then extends the bottle back toward Swifty. "Fuckin' warren scum. Don't need a goddamn history, he thinks hes hot shit and has a right to tell everyfuckinone else in the orion arm what to do. Bullshit."
"Ain't gonna get involved," Malion says, as he makes his way towards his usual post. Wack! One Demarian tail connecting with a knee later. "Fuck Swifty... Watch that thing."
The Demarian holds up both paws and shrugs. "Okay, geez. I alrready told ya I don't rreally trrust him. But hell, it can't hurrt to have someone along that's familiarr with the arrea, ya know?" Swifty takes the bottle from Torr, but nearly drops it as Mal's knee collides with her tail. She bobbles the vodka briefly before getting it under control. "Ow, shit, you have bony knees, Mal," the felinoid observes before knocking back a drink of the liquor herself.
"Shit, we should have a little fight up in here," Torr muses as he watches the contact, the smirk coming back to his face. "And I can fuckin' work with the shit. Thats about all I can do with him."
"Twenty credits on Torr," Malion says, as he slips into his chair. He glances over his shoulder to Swifty. "Don't force me to shave fuckin' symbols into ya fur... Might start a fashion statement."
Swiftfoot snorts softly. "You couldn't get within ten feet of my bed without waking me up," she says, chuckling. "You walk like a herrd of bumblerrs." Swiftfoot grins and offers a wink, then shifts her eyes back to Torr. "Yeah... I dunno. I'm a little weirrded out by Sol and Luc being 'a thing,' but hell, what can I rreally say? Can't bloody well grround herr orr anything." She chuckles again and takes another pull from the vodka, then offers it to Mal.
"Shit, not between me and Meowmix," Torr replies, still smirking. "Fuckin' you and Meowmix. I fuckin' fight all the time. Little sick of that shit." He nods. "Lets see whatcha got against her Bigman."
Malion waves the off the bottle. "Nah..." he says replies. "Trying to go dry and shit for this job... ain't gonna be all that good if I'm wan'ing a bloody beer in Cairo, am I?"
"Hrr," Swiftfoot says, nodding in agreement and retracting the bottle, only to take another pull from it. "Meh. We faced off on the landing pad the otherr day, chief. Wasn't prretty. I think it was an off day orr something." The Demarian shifts her eyes to Mal then. "Hey, that was the day that Tiana and that weirrd prriest guy werre having it out, too. Whateverr happened with that? Why in the hell was he trrying to spank herr, anyway?"
"Thought I heard somethin' about that. But shit, lets see it." Torr smirks a little and shakes his head. "What the fuck? That fuckin' priest again with this goddamn crew? Shit. I swear I know that shithead from somewhere."
"She stole from him," Malion informs as he looks over the displays on the gunnery console. "Serves her fuckin' right too. Makes me wonder if she's fuckin' pinched anything from us."
Swiftfoot snorts softly and shakes her head. "She betterr hope she didn't," is all the felinoid says before she turns to shrug at Torr. "Dunno. He seems damn familiarr to me too, trruth be told. He said somethin about if we wanted to beat each otherrs' heads in we should do so in the prrivacy of ourr own home orr something." She chuckles and shrugs. "Like I said, I think it was an off day. Orr maybe I just got lucky, I dunno."
Torr snorts at this. "Yeah. I know the fucker. I know I do." He shakes his head. Then he waves toward the two. "C'mon then. We're in our own fuckin' homes now. Lets see this shit. Come on. Don't be bitches."
"Nah," Malion says, still watching the control console. "Got some shit coming in." He slowly pushes himself up into a stand and slowly makes his way aft.
"Surre, sounds... oh," Swiftfoot says, then shrugs and offers a wave to the departing Malion. "Anotherr time then." The Demarian blinks and shifts her eyes to Torr. "Did I hearr you say you get sick of fighting? You? I don't believe that at all. Think you just wanted to sit and -watch- one of us get ourr ass kicked, instead of doing the kicking yourrself." She chuckles and takes a pull from the bottle, then offers it back to the Martian.
"What the fuck is this?" Torr raises his hands up as he looks at Malion. "What shit comin' in? Christ." He shakes his head a little as the man leaves then looks back to the cat. "Fuck. I gotta get my kicks, Meowmix." He waves off the bottle then stands. "Fuck, lets do this shit, huh." He takes a few steps back, eyes narrowing a little at the cat.
Swiftfoot blinks and stands. "What, herre? Now?" She chuckles and shrugs, retrieving the cap for the vodka from the console in front of the chair, replacing it and setting the bottle carefully underneath the pilot's chair. The felinoid shrugs out of her coat then, folding it up and setting it aside on the chair before eyeing the Martian. "Want that I should take off the arrmorr and shit? Orr doesn't matterr to you?"
"Doesn't matter. I'm dressed for the fuckin' beach. Could get attacked there. Who the fucks knows." Torr does take off his pistol as he replies, sliding it away across the deck. "Fuckin' been a while. Too long."
Swiftfoot chuckles and ditches her holsters as well before shrugging out of her flak jacket and setting the whole lot aside, on the same chair as her coat. "I oughta stop wearring that damn thing all the time. Fucks up my furr,", she notes, shaking her head and making a brief attempt to smooth down a patch of her fur before giving up with a long-suffering sigh. "Alrright then," she says, then turns to face off against the Martian. "You wanna take the firrst swing, orr shall I?"
"I usually wear mine all the fuckin' time." Then the Martian lunges at the Demarian, reaching out to grab her just enough to attempt to slam his head into her face, pulling her slightly toward his level if he manages the move.
And the felinoid, quick as you please, leans back enough to slip out of Torr's grasp, the Martian's hands coming away with nothing but a stray wisp of fur. Swiftfoot steps in then, feinting a wide sweep at the side of his head with her left paw, while the right comes in a bit lower, straight for his midsection.
Apparently Torr is stunned by the lovely fur he managed to collect and confused by the feint that he ducks at the entirely wrong place and time. He grunts as the blow strikes and staggers backwards a little. "Fuckin' shit, lucky." Then, staying low, he makes a rush toward Swiftfoot's midsection, seeking to take her down with a tackle.
"Lucky, my ass," the Demarian replies, a smirk creeping briefly across her muzzle. That smirk is wiped away by the attempted tackle, though, as Swiftfoot sidesteps, the Martian missing her by a margin of inches and continuing right past. The felinoid, never one to pass on an opportunity, takes a swipe at Torr's back as he passes by her.
Torr uses the momentum of his attack to avoid hers, but just barely. He spins once he avoid the strike. The Martian sneers a little, then swings a fist toward the Cat's face.
"Whoa," Swiftfoot notes, leaning back far enough that the punch goes harmlessly past several inches in front of her nose. Tail lashing, she crouches down and closes with Torr again, this time aiming a quick flurry of paw swipes at his head.
Torr's hands move blindingly fast, batting aside every last blow with apparent ease. A slight smirk flick across his face, then he dives toward the cat again, trying to take her down.
The Demarian blinks in surprise at the speed of Torr's hands, but is only momentarily taken aback. The second try at a tackle results much the same as the first try - Swiftfoot merely steps to the side at the last moment to avoid the attack. Also like last time, she turns to take a swipe at his back as he passes by.
The swipe, combined with Torr's already large momentum, sends him sprawling forward, face slamming into the deckplates. He rolls over, smirk on his face, bloody streaming out of his nose. "Lucky bitch." Then he surges back to his feet, sending his fist ahead of him toward her stomach.
"Shit, sorry," the big cat stammers, backing up a step, then arching her back away from Torr so that his fist passes harmlessly through the space so recently vacated by Swiftfoot's midsection. "OK, so I take it you wanna keep going," she observes and steps back in, this time taking a swipe at Torr's midsection.
The fist connects, but barely. Torr smirks a little, blood running down over his teeth and coloring them red. "Fuck Meowmix, just havin' some fun." He circles to the side, then lunges at her, seeking to try the old grab and headbutt move he attempted earlier.
"Damn, man, that's fuckin scarry lookin," Swiftfoot admits, offering a dry chuckle as she again stands tall, leaning back so her head is out of the Martian's reach, his hands again coming away with a few stray strands of fur. Stepping in close to Torr, she kicks out with one foot, aiming for the Martian's legs.
Torr tries to stop the shot, but fails. He thuds solidly to his back. "Shit Cat." Then he kicks out toward the Demarian while he stays on his back, aiming to land a solid hit on her knee.
Torr's foot connects with Swiftfoot's knee, enough to knock her slightly off-kilter, but not enough to send her down to the deck. A faint grunt escapes her, and her ears lay back. She regains her balance quickly enough, however, and sidesteps so that she's beside the Martian instead of near his feet. The Demarian raises one foot up then, attempting a kick at Torr's ribs.
The stomp lands solidly, a hefty grunt emitting from the Martian. "Shit," he grunts. Then he makes a grab for the foot, and if succesful he attempts to yank it out from under her.
Hmm. That foot proves awful tough to keep a hold of. With a grunt of effort, Swiftfoot pulls herself free, which leaves one foot on the ground and one up in the air above Torr. Again, taking advantage of the opportunity presented to her, the Demarian brings that foot down, aiming another kick at the Martian's ribs.
Again the foot lands solidly, another grunt coming from Torr. "Fuck, tryin' to break my goddamn ribs?" Then the martian makes another swipe at her foot, trying the same move as before.
"Get up off the damn floorr then," Swiftfoot says, a quick step carrying her back just out of Torr's reach yet again. She drops into a crouch. "Orr I could just join ya," she muses, springing at the still-prone Martian, seeking to grapple with him.
Torr snickers a little, then attempts to push the cat away. He fails, and she manages to end up on top of him "Shit, this is hot," he grunts out, then sends an elbow jabbing up toward the side of her head.
"Yeah, totally," the Demarian replies, jerking her head to the side just in time to avoid the Martian's punch. His elbow grazes along her cheek, but doesn't seem to slow the big cat down at all. "Turrns me on." Swiftfoot snorts and rolls to the side, off of the Martian, ending up on the deck beside him and aiming a quick flurry of paw swipes at Torr's head.
Malion makes his way into the cockpit, only to his crewmates either practicing a strange mating ritual or sparring. For the time being, he just hangs back at the door, a smirk residing on his lips as he watches.
Torr smirks a litttle, the swipes all landing on the distracted man's head. "Shit, gettin' all hot and bothered? Love it." He shakes his head a little, shrugging off the shots and sending a few droplets of blood from his nose around the room. Then he is trying to spring on top of the cat, seeking to gain some hold on her.
Swiftfoot rolls out of the way just in time, Torr landing on nothing more than the deckplates. That done, she smirks faintly. "You like this shit, don't you?" The orange-furred felinoid snorts and takes a swift swipe at the Martian's head with one paw.
"Most likely getting a fat," Malion says, leaning against the hatchway. "Bloody glad I came up and ya both bloody dressed... Don't think all the treatment in the world would fuckin' get right seeing ya two naked." He continues to watch the spar with a great interest.
Torr ducks under the punch, grinning a little. "Didn't I say I had to get my fuckin' kicks?" Then the Martian is launching himself toward Swifty, doing his best to wrestle her onto her back.
"Damn, I know it's been awhile, but shit," the Demarian grunts, again rolling out of the way of the Martian's attack. This time instead of swiping at him, she gets her feet under her and pounces, attempting much the same thing as he was just a few moments ago.
Again, the cat ends up on top. This prompts another smirk from Torr, bloody teeth revealed again. "Shit Meowmix, you like it on top huh? Fuckin' impressive." This said, he jabs a fist toward her face.
Whether she's distracted by the comment or by the continued bloody state of her crewmate is up for debate. However, the point is pretty moot. Torr's fist connects, smack on the end of the felinoid's nose, and this time it's Swiftfoot that ends up with a trickle of blood running down her snout. She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, sending a couple of droplets of blood flying. She growls then, and aims a quick series of swipes at the Martian's face.
Torr doesn't quite manage to block these shots. He still appears a little distracted, smirk on his face despite the hits. "Shit Swifty, takin' charge. I like." Then he grunts, doing his best to roll them both over and end up on top.
Swiftfoot snorts and tries to stop the Martian from landing on top of her, and almost succeeds. Almost. The Demarian falls back to the deck, Torr perched atop her. She smirks and wrinkles her bloodied snout. "Now who likes to be on top?" That said, she hauls back with one paw and takes a wide swipe at the side of Torr's head.
Torr takes the blow, the hit just grazing him. He seems unfazed. "Shit Swifty, gotta have my fun. Ladies don't usually complain when I take charge." He smirks, then slams a fist downward toward her face.
Swiftfoot snorts and starts to make some witty rejoinder, but is interrupted by the incoming punch. She jerks her head to the side, avoiding the worst of the damage. Torr's fist again skims along the side of her snout, mostly catching fur. "Ain't no lady," she finally grunts, before taking another swipe at the Martian's head.
The swipe again barely skims him, he manages to take the brunt of the blow with a fist. "No lady - you're a fuckin' animal. Lovin' it." He snickers, then sends another fist down toward her.
This time Swiftfoot deflects the blow with a slap of her paw, the punch going harmlessly wide. She shows her teeth in a feral sort of grin, then makes a grab for the Martian, trying her damndest to get a grip on Torr so she roll back over on top of him.
Swifty manages the move, and the tables are once again turned. "Damn, gettin' me all hot and bothered now," Torr quips, smirking. He makes a grab then tries to lift his head up fast enough to smash it into hers.
The Demarian leans back, getting to her knees and avoiding the Martian's attack. She snorts and wrinkles her snout, her whiskers twitching as she aims a quick flurry of swipes at Torr's midsection.
At one point during the spar, Malion got his PDA out and appears to be recording the conversation that's going on during the training session. He's still leaning against the hatchway, his bandaged up arm across his across his stomach and a roguish grin residing on his features. He's still remaining quiet for the time being.
Maybe its the lack of dialogue now, but Torr seems to be able to block the shot, if barely. The Martian smirks a little now as he clambers back to his feet. "Fuck, Meowmix, you all turned on enough now?"
Swiftfoot snorts and rolls back, coming to her feet in one fluid motion and facing Torr again. "Oh, yeah. Definitely. Nothin hotter than a sweaty Marrtian in swim trrunks." She chuckles and flicks an ear, her paws still held at the ready.
It's about now that Malion turns off the PDA, slips it away and snickers. He goes to slink back through the hatch, if he isn't stopped.
Torr snickers. "Yeah, you know you like it. Especially the fuckin' blood, huh?" He smirks , wiping the palms of his hands down his shirt. "Think I had enough of this shit."
"Oh yeah, nothin turrns me on morre than being bloodied up," Swiftfoot says, rubbing at her own snout with one white-furred paw. Bad idea. Blood shows up extraordinarily well on white fur. "Ah well. Just glad I took me coat off. Though, it's rred. Wouldn't make much of a differrence." She snorts and shakes her head, eyeing her paw critically. Meh. I needed a bath anyway." Uncharacteristically, the Demarian doesn't seem to have noticed Mal.
With the incriminating evidence, Malion does indeed slink off deeper into the ship. A moment later, the sound of the almost play back of Torr saying "Damn, gettin' me all hot and bothered now." This results in one gunsmith roaring out laughing, and the sound of the internal airlock door opening.
Torr snorts at this, bending over to grab his gun. "Yeah, I need a fuckin' shower too. Now that I'm all fucked up I need one even more too. Fuckin' Christ. Good shit though."
Swiftfoot chuckles and nods. "You firrst. I leave furr in the drrain," she says, then snorts. "I'm gonna get my shit togetherr, then I'll be back." She offers a nod then, and a flick of her tail. "Good shit, definitely," she agrees. "I'm pickin up on things. Might even be able to take Rrazorr on now, if'n he'd ever fuckin come back."
"Well good luck with that shit. I'll try not to get too much blood in the fuckin' shower," Torr replies. Then he moves toward the aft of this ship.
<< A LITTLE WHILE LATER >>
|Crew Quarters <IND Jackal>|
The narrow passage opens up into a small wardroom. This space is ingeniously outfitted; its furniture and surfaces configured to serve either under nominal local gravity conditions, or that provided by the freighter's acceleration. Flanking the wardroom are a set of personal bunk modules containing a bed with built-in cabinetry, storage lockers, and privacy screens. Forward, a compact efficiency kitchen is located starboard, while to the portside is a small refresher unit. Between the two we find a little fitness space with a punching bag and workout center and a cozy niche with a fold-out sleeper couch and holoviewer.
|Gentle light flows down from coves recessed into the dorsal and side wall framing, softly illuminating the room. Its deckplates are sturdy and diamond-gridded and provide a tough, rugged utilitarian feel, but what really completes the atmosphere is the bold, stylized jackal's head painted in fiery scarlet with bold, confident strokes on the hatches leading fore and aft.
Malion's kicked back on the futon, playing with his PDA. He isn't playing the recording at the moment, but has a smug grin on his face. "That's gonna come in handy."
"Hmm?" the Demarian inquires as she enters the quarters, head tilted to the side. She carries her flak jacket and her coat in one paw, and her holsters are slung over her shoulder. Her snout has been bloodied, and there seems to be blood smeared on the paw that isn't carrying anything either.
The Martian looks up from his reclined position, glancing away from the PDA to the Demarian. "Stop picking ya nose with ya claws out," he comments, snickering. Back down to the PDA once more, where he slips a black datadisc from it. "Find ya won't have that many fuckin' nose bleeds."
Swiftfoot snorts softly. "Torr fuckin punched me is what happened," she retorts, shaking her head. "He decided we should have a go at it up frront." The felinoid pauses for a moment, one ear flicking uneasily as one eyeridge quirks upward. "So... What's on the disc? What did ya mean it's gonna come in handy?"
"Firearm schematics," Malion replies, looking up to Swifty. The smug grin's gone, and he slips the datadisc into his pocket. "Got enough of the things from Miss Blue, so I might as well put the spares to use." Malion's kicked back on the futon, fully clothed. Swifty... She's bloodied up, suffering from a nose bleed.
"Firrearrm schematics my furry ass," the Demarian retorts, chuckling and shaking her head. "But whateverr you say, chief." She sighs and clomps over to her bunk, tossing the items she's carrying carelessly onto the bed and digging in her drawer for something. "Ah, therre," she murmurs, coming up with a handkerchief, which she presses to her nose to stem the slow trickle of blood. She grins then, turning toward the Martian again. "He didn't beat me this time."
Rhian comes in through the hatch, yawning a bit as she heads for her bunk. She looks to the demaarian curiously, then Mal with a slight blush to her cheeks before smiling to them both, "Elllo..."
"Little present for Mika," Malion says, giving a sly wink. He glances towards the familar voice, and then offers its owner a smile. "Hey babe... How ya going? Ya catch the sun?" Once again, he's seemingly oblvious to the blushing.
Swiftfoot snorts and looks between Mal and Rhian, quirking an eyeridge. She eyes the Martian again, her eyes narrowing slightly. The felinoid shakes her head then, ears flicking uneasily as she sits down on the bunk, the handkerchief still pressed to her snout.
Rhian quirks a brow towards Swiftfoot curiously, the woman getting up from her bunk and standing, "You okay Swifty?"
Malion arches a brow at Swifty, and seems to slink away from the Demarian's gave. "Go on," he says, quite serious. "Ya ain't gonna be able to tell her anything that I haven't told her Swifty." He doesn't say anything else, dropping into a nervous silence.
"Not my place to tell," the Demarian says simply, her voice muffled slightly by the handkerchief. Swiftfoot nods at Rhian then. "Yeah, m'okay. Torr just landed a punch on me nose, and it stings a bit. Lookse worrse than it rreally is," she says, holding up the one blood-smeared paw for inspection. That blood really -does- stand out in a startling contrast against the pure white fur on her paw.
Rhian looks to the paw with an expression of suprise, "Wow, lot of blood. Torr musta' really gave you a slug..." She looks to Malion, the pink arriving on her face again, "Hey, no didn't get much sun, was wearing these the whole time, "She gestures to ther clothes.
Malion leans out to look at Swifty. "I'm a one woman man these days," he informs the Demarian, giving a slow nod. "Ya can thank that nutty priest for me change... He's a good bloke to speak with." He looks back to Rhian, smiling. "Ain't gonna break that promise."
Swiftfoot snorts softly and nods, pulling the handkerchief away from her bloodied snout. "The bleeding stopped yet, Doc?" she inquires, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Hurrts like a motherrfuckerr. He didn't hit me that harrd, but we've got sensitive noses, we Demarrians." The felinoid blinks at Mal and nods. "Yeah, seems like an okay guy, frrom what I've seen of him. Could swearr I've seen that fuckerr somewherre beforre, though..."
Rhian's blush only reddens a bit and she gives him fond smile in return before going back to eyeing Swifty's nose, "Just about it looks like...though wait..a little's left..."
"Told her to stop pickin' it," Malion replies, as he brings his legs up onto the futon, but leaves his feet hanging off the end. "But she never listens to me." He's rambling again. "Swifty, don't pick ya fuckin' nose I tell her... But Nah, she ain't gonna listen... So what she do? She picks her nose with her claws and then blames it on poor little innocent Torr. The guy wouldn't harm a fly."
Rhian looks to Malion with a snicker, "Well I'm sure it's got equal fault with both. Punching someone in the nose causes nosebleed as well as nosepicking with sharp nails."
"Bah, fuckerr," the Demarian mock-growls then puts the handkerchief to her nose again with one paw, while offering the Martian the one-fingered salute with the other. Interestingly, it's the blood-stained one that she chooses to give the archaic gesture with.
"Fuck Swifty," Malion says, grimacing slightly. He slowly stands up, taking a moment to make sure his shirt is hanging right, and slips his PDA into his pocket. "Only one finger? Don't wanna know if it's that time of every three months for ya." He snickers, and takes a step towards safety, the aft hatch.
Rhian merely quirks a brow at both and moves to her bunk where she begins undressing...her feet.
Swiftfoot snorts and eyes the Martian as he retreats. "You better rrun away. Fuckerr. Bloody nose orr not, I'll kick yourr ass frrom herre to Sivad if'n I get ahold of you." She chuckles then, and winks at Rhian. "It's all in good fun. I know that as well as any of us. Kinda nice to have a crrew wherre you can have a little fun, but you know who's got yourr back, meh?"
"Ya gotta find me first," Malion retorts, as he pauses at the aft hatch. He seems content to stand their, not exactly stirring anymore. "It's good to have blokes and shielas ya can joke 'round with," he says, giving a nod. "Remember when I was with the AES... Couldn't joke 'round with them without them getting pissy 'bout something. Can't recall how many times I was called up for warnings... Fuckers." It's a story aimed at the other two. "What ever happened to Rokke? Ain't seen that little bastard scurryin' 'bout for sometime."
Rhian smiles to the captain and nods in agreement, "Yeah." She looks to Malion's hiding place with a grin and settles herself under the covers, dissapearing under them for a bit before her pants come out the bottom and so does her torso, with legs concealed.
The Demarian taps the side of her nose. "I can smell ya frrom a mile upwind, Mal. Like most Marrtians, ya smell funny." She chuckles then, and offers a wry smirk. "I can see Marrly gettin all up in yourr business about makin a joke. Shit, she trried to get all lippy with me. Prroblem is, she serriously underrestimates just how much schooling I've actually had in that kind of thing. Grranted, it was subjectively thrree hundrred yearrs ago, but..." Swiftfoot shrugs. "Still got it, meh?" Rhian's undressing goes completely unnoticed, or at least completely uncommented on. Nakedness apparently isn't a real priority for a seven-foot feline.
Malion doesn't seem at all concern with Rhian's getting undressed, as he's been caught in more public places with less clothing. "Fuckin' Marly... I'll kill her meself if she fucks this Cairo job up. I've already got a round with her name engraved on it." He narrows his eyes slightly, patting a non-existant weapon. "Three thousand lives are not something ya fuckin' toy with."
Rhian still has her tank top on so she's still suitable whether the others care or not. She looks towards Malion and Swifty each silently, observing and watching.
"Glorry hound," Swiftfoot says, shaking her head. "That's what she is. Fuckin bitch. She betterr not fuck things up with herr own fucking agenda. You'll have to beat me to herr. You can have what's left, though, afterr Torr and I arre done." The Demarian removes the handkerchief from her snout and pats experimentally at her nose with the clean paw. "Fuck yes, it stopped. Aight, I'm gonna go get cleaned up rreal quick. You two kids don't do anything I wouldn't do, you hearr?" Swiftfoot jumps up from the bunk and starts across the floor toward the fresher.
Malion makes his way back towards the futon, dropping into it. Straight away he starts to twiddle his thumbs. "Wow... the only thing I can do," he comments to himself. He contines to twiddle his fingers before starting to hum. He holds a key pretty good.
Rhian's lips curl into a small grin as she watches him silently, "You wouldn't have been half bad in the karoke competetion."
"Don't sing in public," Malion replies, looking over to Rhian with a smile. "Me adopted old man's sister taught me a few things 'bout singing... I ain't sung for years." He frowns slightly at this, and then slowly stands up.
The Demarian blinks and looks back over her shoulder. "Damn, you'rre not half bad, chief," she says, chuckling. "Tiana wasn't kidding about yourr singing." Swiftfoot's brow furrows slightly, and she falls silent, turning to enter the fresher. "Ey, don't wait up forr me, you two," she says, eyeing her paws again. "I'll be awhile cleaning all this up. But hell, I fought him to a drraw. S'worrth it." The fresher door closes behind the orange-furred pilot with a muted click.
Rhian gives Swifty a smile, "G'night ahead of time!" She then looks to Malion with some confusion and concern, "You okay?"
Malion glances across to Swifty, blushing slightly. "... Thanks," he says in reply. He glances back to Rhian, streching his back out slightly. "Nothing to worry 'bout, backs just playin' up a bit."