Taven Moore's Blog, page 7

Dead Heat, Part 12

The fairies all took the flying equivalent of a very big step away from the white-stoned bridge, brushing past Rose with an odd sensation like minnows darting in a brook.

Rose stepped forward, terror pounding in her throat. “Wait, please!”

Against all odds, the troll’s meaty fist stopped just shy of disappearing into the utter blackness beneath the bridge.

Fairies and Trolls froze for just long enough that Rose realized she’d moved into troll-grabbing distance, standing on the edge of sunlight and shadow cast by the bridge. She swallowed the very rational desire to take a step (or seven) back. Showing fear was almost never a good idea when dealing with the fey.

Still. She swallowed once, hard. That troll’s hand could probably wrap around her skull.

“Why?” asked a gravelled voice in what Rose had to admit was actually a pretty reasonable tone.

“Want to squish bug!” shouted a different troll in a voice that might have wilted flowers, had any been nearby.

“Bad bug,” agreed the shorter troll.

“You’re right, he has been very bad, indeed.” Rose said, mind spinning frantically to think of a plan as she dusted off her oil-stained skirt in a gesture she hoped seemed more businesslike than nervous.

The surrounding fairies gasped at her.

“Troll-friend!”

“She’s taking their side?”

“Unseelie!”

“I thought she was Fairy-friend!”

“Traitor!”

Even Orchid flew back a bit, the look on her tiny face shocked.

Rose couldn’t separate all the voices, but she got the gist of it. She tried not to wince at the obvious horror wafting off the fairy cloud, but her answer to the trolls had its intended effect.

They were curious.

The shadows around the troll-eyes dimmed. Almost exactly as if someone had used a dimming switch on a room, except the darkness didn’t go away, it just … faded back a little so that she could see the pair of them. One stood so tall that the tops of their mossy green hair brushed the uppermost arc of the bridge. The other was almost as short as they were wide, with long red hair like ocean kelp.

“What are your names?” she asked politely.

The fairies sent up another cloud of dark mutterings, but the trolls blinked at her as if she’d said something completely novel.

“Reginald,” offered the taller troll, first.

“Mossbucket, spewer of filth and friend of toads,” the shorter one said breathlessly, as if not wanting to seem more afraid to answer than the first.

“My name is Rose. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Rose lied.

It was only a small lie. It wasn’t often one got the chance to speak civilly to Bridge Trolls, but on the other hand they did smell absolutely revolting. And they were in the process of murdering someone.

So all in all, probably not very pleasurable.

The trolls didn’t seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm.

“Rose,” repeated the first troll, as if memorizing her name.

“Rose,” whispered the second.

A chill went down her spine and she felt oddly comforted that there didn’t seem to be three of them. A name spoken in threes might well have power in the realm of faery.

Rose clapped her hands together, as much to bring warmth back to them as to seem cheerful. “Right then! Reggie — ” she paused. “May I call you Reggie?”

A smile spread across the larger troll’s face, ending with a serpentine grimace that nearly split his head in half. Rose tried not to think about what that might mean about their feeding habits.

He nodded. “Reggie. Is good nickname. Is friend name.” He paused, scratching the top of his mossy head with one long fingernail. “Why friend want not squish bug?”

The smaller troll, not to be outdone on the conversational department, piped up. “Naughty bug!” Just to be certain they hadn’t forgotten the entirety of the situation.

Rose nodded agreement to the trolls, then bowed courteously to the Queen. “Queen Orchid, I myself have witnessed your fairies knowingly using a troll bridge without paying a toll.”

Orchid drew herself up to Rose’s full height, wings buzzing imperiously. “I am a Queen! These are my people.” She gestured to the others, who rose and gathered around her in a protective formation.

Reggie’s knuckles whitened, but Rose answered before they could fully squeeze the life out of the little fairy.

“You are Queen out here, Orchid. That bridge belongs to the trolls. You were a visiting monarch and you did not pay them even a minimal toll for the safe passage of your people. You took it without permission and without regret.”

“We are monarchy,” whispered Mossbucket, tugging at Reggie’s arm.

“I am bridge Queen?” asked Reggie in a slow voice.

“No! I am bridge Queen!” Mossbucket growled.

“NO! I AM BRIDGE QUEEN!” shouted Reggie, and suddenly the darkness came alive.

As if a light switch had been thrown, no light at all pierced the deeper darkness beneath the bridge. Things curled around the legs of each troll, where the late afternoon light tried and failed to fully illuminate their bukly bodies at the edge of their territory. A smell arose, like burned candy and mud, billowing around the trolls.

Poxy red pixies, this is not what I meant! A flush of fear spilled down the back of Rose’s neck and made her hands clammy.

“Wait!” Rose lifted her voice. “You are clearly BOTH Royal Bridge Trolls.”

Both trolls paused, shadows spilling over their lower bodies in liquid motions that shadows should never make. “VERY Royal,” Rose added.

“Am Royal,” stated Mossbucket vehemently.

“Am ROYAL,” boomed Reggie.

Both nodded, and just like that, the shadows slithered back into the darkness. The weight of impending violence receded enough to allow Rose to take full breaths again.

Worried, Rose shot a glance to the Reggie’s fist. Pansy’s feet still kicked and his wings still fluttered, but any more theatrics like that and the trolls might kill him by accident.

Or on purpose.

Neither of those options worked for her.

“They are Unseelie Court. We owe them no tribute.” Orchid stated, as though the outburst had never happened.

“That can’t be true, Orchid.” Rose motioned towards the bridge. “Because if that’s true, then you have nothing with which to bargain for Pansy’s life.”

“If they kill him, we shall kill them. We are warriors, not cowards!” This from Poppy, who hovered near Orchid protectively.

Rose never let her eyes leave Orchid’s. “You would start a war to avoid an apology?”

“We have done nothing wrong!” shouted Poppy, wings fluttering madly as he gained altitude.

Rose made her voice as flat and emotionless as possible. “Is that the truth, Queen Orchid?”

The tableau paused, only the fluttering buzz of dozens of fairy wings breaking the silence.

Finally, Orchid dipped her head. “The human is right.”

The fairies nearby gasped, but the wine-colored Queen fluttered elegantly above them all and held out her hands for silence. She turned to face the trolls. “I wish to make reparations for our transgressions. Please release my knight, and we can discuss how best to do this.”

“Not squish bug?” asked Mossbucket.

“WANT squish bug,” replied Reggie, as if this was the sort of logic that rarely lost an argument..

“Aren’t there other things you want more?” asked Rose desperately. What sorts of things did bridge trolls even like, aside from the occasional human child. “Money? Clothing?”

Two pairs of luminous troll eyes stared at her from the darkness, and Rose felt a cold dread in the pit of her stomach before finally Reggie spoke.

“Troll-Friend Rose.”

Mossbucket sighed mournfully, but apparently that was that.

Rose’s stomach settled back down into its proper location.

“What about food? Trolls like food, don’t you?” Rose offered.

Mossbucket perked up at that. “Pizza?”

Reginald’s face-splitting smile was back, this time showing teeth of various sizes and positions, all of them pointy. “Yes. Pizza! Many pizza! And Dr. Pepper.”

“No, Mountain Dew!”

“DR. PEPPER!”

“You shall have both,” said Orchid, interrupting what seemed to be an ongoing feud. “Please release my knight and we can discuss toppings.”

A trollish grunt, and suddenly Pansy shot from the enclosing fist like a purple firecracker, his light fizzing and spitting erratically.

“My Queen!” he cried out, zooming in to hover a foot below her, kneeling in mid-air. “I have brought you dishonor. My shame knows no limits. Please, tell me how I might redeem myself, that I can give myself a clean death.”

Orchid looked down upon him, eyes flinty. “I am so very disappointed in you, Lord Pansy.”

As though the words themselves landed as blows, Pansy dipped even lower, his purple light browning as the scent of molasses rose from him.

“Is there nothing I could do? No way to return to your good graces? I will do anything! Any task, just name it and it shall be done in your name, my Queen!”

The sheer anguish in his voice tightened Rose’s heart.

“I cannot simply forgive you. You know this. I am a Queen and my people deserve to follow a just and fair ruler. There can be no favoritism.”

Briefly, Orchid’s gaze met Rose’s. Her own wine-colored aura darkened just as Pansy’s had, and deep sadness filled her eyes.

Rose bit her lip. All of this just because Pansy had mouthed off at her?

She didn’t know the first thing about fairy politics. She did know about people, though, and Orchid hadn’t saved him from those trolls simply to sentence him to death afterwards.

No, she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. “It was me he was insulting, right? Just before he got grabbed.”

Hope lit up Orchid’s face. “Indeed. He needs to address that insult, and mere death would offer you no absolution. Have you a worthy task to assign him?”

Pansy’s tiny shoulders tightened and Rose knew without asking that he would probably have preferred being put to death, but it was too late to back out now.

“I am here on a mission. Let him assist me with it.”

Orchid considered this. “Is this task very dangerous?”

Rose gave an involuntary tired sigh. “Honestly Orchid? The way my day is going, I’m pretty sure just finding the bathroom is going to be a death-defying act.”

The little Queen nodded, hiding the very ghost of a smile. “Very well. Lord Pansy shall accompany you and serve you as he would serve me. At the end of your task, we shall meet again and discuss further punishment.”

“Have you any disagreement with this arrangement, Lord Pansy?”

“No, my Queen,” he said in a voice that very much indicated that yes, he had a very large disagreement with this arrangement.

“Good.” Orchid smiled. “Now leave my sight. It makes me sad to look upon you.”

She turned to face a familiar red fairy. “Poppy, you shall assume Pansy’s old position for now.”

The little red fairy zipped upward, his crimson glow brightening with jubilation. “Yes, my Queen.”

With that, she turned away and began to discuss pizza toppings with the two trolls. Every other fairy followed suit, turning their back on the still-kneeling Pansy in a very obvious shunning.

 

[Perry] Aaaaand Wildstar is Free to Play

So the time has come.

The game has suffered a little bit in recent months, primarily due to a pretty severe dip in population, and the free to play model is likely something that will breathe in a surge of new life to the game.

I think I can say pretty confidently that with the change to its pricing model? Wildstar is pretty much the most feature rich free to play MMO on the market.

A lot of things have been added since launch, including new dungeons, adventures and shiphands. The raids have been tuned down from 40-man raids to 20-man raids, so they’re a lot more in line with its contemporaries.

The humor? Is abundant.

The gameplay? Is fast-paced and challenging.

The world? Is colorful and VIBRANT!

The PvP? Is…well, that’s still in a pretty bad state…

But the housing? Great fluffy bears, the housing is FABULOUS. The plots have grown larger, the decoration limits have been increased. Countless features added, such as the ability to change the ground of your plot. To have a house that’s an underground bunker. To have windows! And interactable doors!

Suffice to say that housing has gotten amazeballs.

So what exactly does the free to play entail?

Well, there’s a cash shop, of course. They sell the usual gamut of various cosmetic options for your hard-earned, real life monies.

You also have the option of subscribing anyway for ‘signature status’. It generally has the same sort of things you’d expect. Premium status grants you extra character slots, the ability to put up more auctions at once. There’s probably a higher decor limit on your house as a premium player, as well as various other bits and bobs that aren’t game-breaking? But just super convenient.

One nice thing they’re doing is if you’ve ever bought the game or subscribed in the past? They’re granting your account premium status retroactively, based on how many months you were subscribed. Sort of a reward to the people who stuck in there during the not so good times.

I dunno, there’s a lot on offer here, guys. And so far? After several months hiatus, I’m having a blast.

If you think even remotely that you might find it kind of interesting?

Hells, it’s free now.

What’re you waiting for? ;)

Addendum: From what I saw last night, the game IS dealing with some technical launch day woes, including spikes of heinous lag and oddly delayed actions (moving stuff around in your inventory or buying things takes a good 3-4 seconds). So if you’re looking to try it out in a more smoother fashion (AKA, the way it’s supposed to be), you may want to hold off a few days or a week to let things settle down.

Introduction to Volume II

Volume II shall ever remain a bizarre, accidental mystery. You see, none of this was supposed to happen. The first poll of Volume II asked the readers if we should move on to Bespin, or perhaps be delayed on our trip for various reasons.

The delay of picking up a new shipmate was chosen, and somehow a little stop at the Rusted Spark for equipment turned into a merry chase through multiple cities.

The crew added one sour-dispositioned mechanic, we learned Remora’s looming fate, and laughed at her abysmal cooking skills.

Then? Then Remora had to go and get herself kidnapped, the story acquires the enigmatic Snow, and we finish this beefier Volume no closer to Bespin than we began!

I don’t regret a moment of it, though. Not one single syllable.

As the second half of the volume followed Remora and Jinn, an entire story arc was added to the end so that the readers could join Hank, Bones, and Hackwrench on their adventures.

A poisoning, a secret, muffins, kidnapping, and a high-stakes race.

Not too bad for a plot arc that wasn’t even supposed to happen, what do you think?

Hannibal – the TV Series

(Note: As always, no spoilers in the post itself, but comment sections are allowed to be spoilertastic.)

Apparently? I mentally blog to you guys more often than I actually do. I was shocked to see I hadn’t discussed this show yet.

So. *ahem* Let’s rectify that, shall we?

Hannibal is a TV series based on the iconic cannibal Hannibal Lector from various movies such as Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal (handy, that), Red Dragon, and others. Even if you haven’t seen the movies, you’ve likely heard of them. Hannibal Lector, the gentleman serial killer, nibbling on human body parts with fava beans and a nice chianti.

You might not have watched the tv show, however, and I strongly recommend it as long as your stomach can handle artistic gore.

Because it IS artistic, and that was the biggest surprise for me. (Granted, there are two scenes in Season 2 that are pretty spectacularly cringeworthy, so it’s not ALL artsy).

It took me a while to warm up to this new Hannibal, as portrayed by actor Mads Mikkelsen, but I’m 200% on board with his Hannibal now. To the point where I rewatched Silence of the Lambs and found the original portrayal to be almost crass in comparison.

The tv show is a reboot. It borrows heavily from events in the movies (so if you want to be surprised by a few things, don’t rewatch. If, however, you want to see the nods and homages to the originals, I recommend a rewatch.)

We start Season 1 with a Hannibal who has never been caught, helping the FBI solve serial killings. Hannibal’s foil in the show is the superbly portrayed Will Graham (Hugh Dancy), a profiler with the unique ability to put himself in the place of a killer in order to understand and capture them.

Aaaand that’s all I can tell you about the plot without being spoilery. The first episode is good and it skyrockets from there into one of my all-time favorite tv shows.

It’s not a scary show. It’s not intended to be a horror series at all. It’s … cerebral, with a lot of tension and no shortage of horrific ways for people to die. (or delicious-looking ways to eat them)

Will’s character is prone to … well, not “visions” really, but they’re certainly stronger than daydreams. For example, early on in the series, he begins seeing a black elk. The elk is his brain’s attempt at creating a symbol to help him solve a mystery that he doesn’t even really realize he’s trying to solve that early on.

Symbolism, color use, and very deliberate scene setups are rampant throughout the show. A favorite shot seems to be a balanced camera shot, with something in the middle of the screen and two characters (usually Will and Hannibal) placed evenly on either side of it (typically with one of them in shadow and the other in light).

There are throwaway lines in the very first episode, tiny little seeds planted that seem nearly unimportant until the FINAL episode of Season 2.

And then? Let’s talk about it from a writing standpoint, shall we?

Season 1 ends with a situation that just … honestly? When I watched it? I couldn’t imagine how they’d possibly continue the show after it.

But they dug themselves out of that impossible hole, with me watching incredulously at how deftly they did it … only to shove the characters into an EVEN DEEPER hole at the end of Season 2!

I haven’t seen 3 yet (we’ve been watching via Amazon Prime, and Season 3 isn’t available for free yet) but HONESTLY. I can’t imagine how they’re going to resolve this, but I can’t WAIT to find out.

The writers of this show have taken the writing advice “think about the absolute worst thing you can do to your characters … then make it worse than that” and polished it to diamond perfection.

There will be no Season 4, much to the despair of everyone I know who has seen the show.

I’ve been rewatching it with Perry (thanks to the rabb.it web video sharing site) and it’s EVEN BETTER on a rewatch, because I know what I’m looking for. (Plus, Perry’s ever-expressive two-hands-in-the-air exclamations are fun to see)

So yes. If you are even remotely inclined to watch this show, I super-duper-double-dog-dare you to try it.

16. Bodyguard

A pained grunt reclaimed Remora’s attention. She hurried around the bulkhead to Hank’s side only to stop abruptly when she managed a proper view of the seated captain. “Oh, dear.”

His right shoulder visibly throbbed, a blackened mess. Hank saw the look on her face, his eyes widening as he awkwardly turned his head to see the area. “Bah!” he said, relaxing. “Had me worried a moment there. It’s just a flesh wound. A few days and some fresh bandages and it’ll be fine.” He grimaced, waving her concern away. “What was that about Bones throwing his arm at someone?”

Remora ignored his attempts to deflect her attention. Kneeling, she frowned at the wound, placing a hand on the side of his neck and watching carefully to make sure the blackened area wasn’t spreading. A Nurati shouldn’t be able to afford a flesh-eating corrosive, but it was hardly worth assuming. McCoy could lose his whole arm.

Absently, she replied. “It was quite heroic, actually. You should have seen it. Bones has impeccable aim—the arm collided with the assassin in mid-air.” Abruptly, she sat back on her heels, peering critically at the shoulder. No sign of corrosive, but it really was a nasty wound, regardless. “You know, I could mix up something to put on this. Might speed the healing.”

Hank jerked away from her touch, eyes wide. “Oh, no you don’t. I’d wake up from one of your potions and find I’d grown a thatch of fur or sprouted fish scales. And that’s assuming I still had an arm to worry about.” He snorted. “I’ll take my chances with infection.”

She sniffed primly. Really. As if she couldn’t fix any damage done by an alchemical miscalculation. She should think a little extra shaving would be preferable to possibly losing a limb, but if he wanted to be fussy, that was his business.

She looked around. “I do wonder what happened to Jinn.”

Hank barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time a Shima brother conveniently disappeared just before a scuffle.”

As though speaking his name had conjured him up, the black-clad Shinra loomed nearby. Remora started. She’d never actually seen someone loom before. She had seen a few people attempt to loom and manage instead to appear incredibly foolish. Jinn most certainly did not appear foolish. She wondered if he practiced looming or if it came naturally to him.

“A small group of men approached the off side of the ship from a small vessel. I ascertained their intent as an attempt on the life of Miss Price.” He paused, eyes bland. “I convinced them to depart.”

Remora smiled, delighted. “Thank you, Jinn. I’m sure you saved us a great deal of trouble.”

Hank snorted. Remora ignored him. The man truly did have an unreasonable opinion of Jinn. Then again, she had yet to meet someone whom the captain held in high regard.

Jinn spoke. “If I may be so bold as to inquire, did you and Mr. McCoy conclude your business? I hesitate to offend, but my own need is quite pressing.”

“Are those . . . sprinkles . . . in your robes?” asked Hank, nose wrinkled.

Jinn’s posture straightened, one hand surreptitiously moving to swat at the front of his robes. A small fountain of rainbow sprinkles fell to the ship’s surface, plinking tinnily before rolling off. “Yes.” Jinn coughed. “Yes they are, though I do not see how this has any bearing on—”

“You were eating pastries!” Hank accused.

“And fighting assassins,” Jinn corrected.

“Gentlemen,” Remora interrupted. “Although I would find this conversation riveting at a later time, I can only assume that the Nurati will be only the first attempt on my life now that I’ve left the safety of the Price Estate. It would be in our best interest to present a moving target. As to your question, Jinn, Hank and I did indeed complete our business and I am the owner of the ship and in charge of her movements for the foreseeable future. Please state the nature of your emergency.”

“My brother has been imprisoned on the skycity of Bespin. I seek his release.”

“No,” said Hank.

Remora’s eyebrows winged upward. “Bespin? I am listening.”

“No!” repeated Hank, wincing as the outburst caused his shoulder to shift. “You are most definitely not listening. I am the captain. He is not a member of my crew, nor is he in any danger of becoming one.” Hank sat up and began removing the tattered remains of his shirt, gingerly peeling the fabric away from his wound.

Remora paused while he wriggled out of the cotton, counting slowly to regain her composure and retain control over her tongue. She allowed herself, briefly, to hope that Hank’s gyrations hurt. Hank’s pride was rapidly becoming a point of serious contention between herself and the captain.

She turned to Jinn. “How many assassins did you handle?” she asked sweetly.

“There were three,” he replied, “though I do not wish to overstate the feat. They seemed . . . ill-prepared.”

“Even so, besting three Nurati is impressive.”

“Impressive?” Hank crumpled the shirt into a ball. “He was eating pastries! How impressive could it have been?”

Patience lost, Remora snapped. “Yes, Jinn single-handedly dispatched three hired killers and enjoyed a better breakfast than either of us. In the meantime, I see you managed to get your shirt off and mangle your shoulder. Rippling chest muscles appear to have been less than effective at delaying the assassin. Furthermore,” she paused and took a deep breath, seeking to calm her temper, “although Bones’s rescue was quite masterfully executed, he would have run out of arms to throw had it become necessary for him to take on further combatants. It would seem that I am in need of a bodyguard.”

“Unless, of course,” she smiled sweetly at Hank, “you had any other brilliant plans for ensuring my safety during our outlined period of employment? I can assure you, our trip is not likely to become less dangerous.”

Hank glowered, but said nothing.

“Now then,” she said, shifting her attention back to Jinn, good humor restored. “You mentioned something about Bespin? It just so happens that I have business in Bespin. As you can see, I also have a rather irritating habit of attracting assassins, not all of whom are as inept as the Nurati. In return for the attempted rescue of your brother, would you accept a position as my personal bodyguard for the duration of my business with Mr. McCoy? Currently, our contract is set for six months.”

“Done.”

Remora paused. “Though I am gratified by your swift response, I do wish to make certain the points of our agreement are quite clear. I cannot guarantee that we shall succeed in rescuing your brother.”

“But you shall at least make the attempt,” responded Jinn, evenly. “I am satisfied.”

Hank spluttered, regaining his feet. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea what the security is like on a skycity prison? Especially Bespin, where they have unions? Not to mention the fact that these are the selfsame brothers who left my crew high and dry on our last business agreement!”

Remora waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Pish tosh, Daniel. I am an excellent judge of character.”

She reached a hand out to Jinn, meeting his red eyes squarely. “Do we have a deal, Shima Jinn?”

His own hand, dark gray and tipped with what might properly be termed claws rather than fingernails, lifted and grasped her own. His skin felt warm and dry against her palm. They shook.

“We have a deal, Miss Remora Price.”

“Splendid!”

A flash of movement caught her eye. “Ah, Bones!” she called out, waving him over. “I see you’ve got your arm back. Do you need any assistance reattaching it?”

“That shall not be necessary.” The ticker stood a few handspans away, his eyebeams flashing an unsettled rainbow. After an awkward pause, he spoke again. “Thank you. For asking someone to retrieve my arm. I am . . . unused to being treated with such . . . generosity.”

“It was no problem at all, Bones. I do not know if you need to breathe, but I daresay swimming and floating are not exactly your primary functions. Getting out of the water might have proved a task, and the man I sent is less likely to take to rust from it. I’ll see he’s properly compensated.”

“Ah,” Bones relaxed, if such a term could be applied to him. His stance appeared less awkward, in any case, and his eyes ceased to flicker. “A decision made from logic. I approve.”

Remora smiled. “Yes, that . . . and I could hardly ask my rescuer to retrieve his own arm. Not when I have perfectly capable staff standing ashore and gaping uselessly while you did all the work. Thank you, by the way. For saving my life.”

Immediately, Bones’ eyes resumed color flashing. “I . . . that is . . .” He straightened. “I believe I shall resume my checks upon the Miraj’s systems. Have we a destination?”

“Indeed we do! We head for Bespin, and we do so in haste. I have an auction to attend in less than a fortnight, and I should like to be on our way before any other assassin clans can muster a more impressive attempt.”

“An auction?” Hank narrowed his eyes. “I thought we were treasure hunting.”

“And so we are. Our agreement states that I shall declare a destination and we shall go to it. Have we a problem with Bespin that I should be made aware of?”

Remora almost felt a pang of pity, but it was hardly her fault he believed her so dreadfully unprepared. Did he think she began planning this expedition in just the past month? Lunacy!

He growled. “If we’re going to be regularly assaulting skycity security, I’m going to need a bigger crew.”

She patted him on the leg, not bothering to hide her smirk. “Well, you are the captain, as you have so frequently been wont to remind me. You may, of course, hire the necessary crew.”

Scowling, he jutted his jaw. “The crew does not need a cook,” he pointed out.

“Fine, fine. As it pleases you. Eat beans from a tin, if you like.” She stood, dusting off her hands. “Now, which room is mine? I shall need my things delivered immediately.”

Bones took a step forward. “The largest quarters are the captain’s quarters.”

“My quarters!” objected Hank.

Bones continued, unperturbed. “They are also the only quarters with a window, offering an impressive view both in the air and on sea.”

“No!” Remora objected sharply. Too sharply, it seemed, as Bones, Hank, and Jinn all paused to look at her.

She lifted a hand to press against her torso, the feel of stiff bone ribbing of her corset against her fingers comforting. “No, that shall not be necessary.” She straightened. “The captain may retain his customary quarters. I shall take a normal room. Without a window,” she hastened to add.

Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Mighty generous of you.”

“Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t dream of turning you from your bed.” Her heart fluttered nervously. “Jinn will also need a room, near mine, so that he may fulfill his duties as my bodyguard.”

Hank cocked his head to the side, one eyebrow cocked. “Isn’t it normal for a bodyguard to room with the person he is guarding? I believe we have a room large enough for the two of you.”

Remora stiffened and swallowed. That would never do, not at all. She adopted a prim frown and sniffed. “Think you the danger on the ship so severe, Captain, that I should need a guard even in my own quarters? Quarters which, as we have already established, do not even have a window?”

“Hmm,” was his only reply.

Drat, she must have been less convincing than she’d hoped. She swished her skirts, dusting her hands on them and avoiding any overly curious gazes. Best to just gloss over it then. “Well? Who shall show me to my room?”

Hank strode forward. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this,” he said, an irritatingly cheerful smile on his face.

“Thank you.” She turned and walked to the still-open portcap and lowered herself to the first rung. She would most definitely not be allowing that scalawag to precede her. Not with so few petticoats, and while he wore such a wolfish expression.

“So,” he said, an odd note in his voice.

She paused, one hand on the next rung, and glanced up at him.

“‘Rippling chest muscles’, was it?” His green eyes laughed down at her, darkened with humor.

“Oh! Well . . . I . . . never!” she spluttered, a rush of warmth to her cheeks. “You, sir, are a cad! Taking my words out of context!”

His chuckles rolled past her, thick as bubbles. “Seemed like exactly the right context to me.”

She set her mouth in a thin line and descended the pipe ladder, face still warming. Six months, she reminded herself sternly. Six months, and she should have completed her venture and she could be done with Captain Daniel McCoy and his incorrigible humor.

(End of Book 1)

15. Assassin

t is not, as you say, an attempt to bypass your authority on this ship, Mr. McCoy!” Remora hurried to keep up with Hank’s long, loping strides.

“CAPTAIN McCoy!” he roared in reply.

Remora bit back an aggravated sigh. “With all due respect, Captain, you are being childish,” she began as he reached the foot of the pipe ladder leading up to the surface.

He paused, one hand on a rung, and glared back at her. “Well, you are!” she protested. “It’s only a cook, not a pilot! Furthermore, he’s quite a good cook. I daresay he makes the most marvelous pancakes you’ll ever eat, and his muffins border on the divine! We need to eat, and I see no reason for us to dither about with tinned atrocities when we could have fresh pastries for breakfast! Do be reasonable.”

McCoy lifted a hand, pointing a finger at her, his face furious. His mouth worked once or twice as he searched for the right words to say. “No,” he growled, “and that is my final say in the matter. Any person on this ship is part of my crew, present company excluded, and I’ll not have you adding cooks and hairdressers and clowns and seamstresses ad nauseam. No. Should you wish more elegant dining than that which you’ll find in a can, I recommend either staying home or learning to cook.”

With that, the infuriating man turned and climbed up the ladder, leaving her to splutter alone in the hallway.

Remora took a deep breath and counted to five before starting up the ladder herself. The heels of her boots slipped dangerously on the rungs and her petticoats, though drastically less than formal wear dictated, still threatened to catch on her toes and send her sprawling. She could only imagine what a sight she might have been for anyone standing below, as she scrambled and stumbled her way up the ladder after the now-disappearing boots of Captain Hank McCoy.

Rejoinder in mind, her shoulders barely cleared the portal when the ship lurched once, throwing her sharply against the bulkhead. Grunting at the impact, she dropped below the surface, only her grip on the ladder saving her from a nasty tumble to the hall below.

A stream of fat bubbles, glistening in the sunlight, sailed dolorously past the overhead portcap mouth. Outlined neatly against the blue sky, she clearly saw the liquid inside each bubble.

An assassin with an alchemist gun then, and an attempt that very nearly succeeded. Had the ship not bucked, she would have been in the bubbles’ path. What did the bubbles carry? An explosive? A corrosive? A tracking agent? Impossible to know.

She felt like stomping her foot. She did not have time for this nonsense!

“Stay down, Miss Price!” shouted McCoy from above, unseen. “There’s a gunman aboard!”

The sound of gunfire followed, interrupting her acidic reply. Did the man think her an infant? Another platoon of fat bubbles sailed overhead, reminding her who she should really be irritated with.

“Here now, assassin!” she shouted. “Quite a solid attempt, but you’ve quite failed to kill me. Do just leave. I’ll not come back abovedecks while you’re here.”

“You KNOW this person?” shouted Hank, incredulous. “He’s here for you? What’s he after?”

“I can hardly fathom as how I should be said to be acquainted with every person who makes an attempt on my life, McCoy! As to his goals, I can only imagine they’re the same as all the others. My death puts the bulk of the Price fortune up for grabs among the other Price family branches. Shall I come out and draw you a diagram, or could we perhaps discuss this at a later date, and under more favorable conditions?”

Another staccato blast of gunfire, and she heard McCoy cry out. “Daniel?” she called out, concerned. “Daniel, have you been hit?”

Silence. She bit her lip. Should she go up? No, certainly she would only present a better target. Still, she couldn’t simply dangle from the ladder and do nothing!

A grinning face appeared, framed by the sky through the porthole. A man, face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat and a mechanical monocle over one eye. One of the Nurati, then. Hired killer, but not the most expensive clan. He pointed an alchemist’s gun at her.

Remora froze. Hanging from the ladder as she was, she was in no position to dodge even a slow bubble.

A flash of light against metal, and the gunman grunted as he was hit from the side and pushed from view. Hastily, she climbed out to see Bones, brown duster jacket billowing like a sail in the wind, outlining his mechanical skeleton. The Nurati’s gun was gone, presumably knocked from his hand. The killer took a swing at the ticker’s face.

Remora winced at the painful thud it made as it connected. Bones’s broad-brimmed hat sailed away, revealing a gleaming, polished copper dome of a head. The Nurati took one look at him and opted to run rather than continue combat. He fled nimbly across the ship’s hull, making good speed toward the dock and the crowd of alarmed onlookers.

Calmly, Bones reached to his shoulder, detached his arm, and hefted it like a spear at the gunman’s back. Midair, the two collided and fell into the murky waters of the bay.

Well, that was one less thing to worry about.

Remora looked around, spying the seated form of McCoy leaned against the backside of a nearby bulkhead. Blackened circles peppered the facing wood where the bubbles had collided.

“Daniel?” she called out. Silence. “Daniel, if you’ve allowed yourself to be killed by that second-rate assassin, I daresay I shall never let you forget it!”

“I believe,” he drawled, and she felt a disconcerting jolt of relief at hearing his voice, “I mentioned my dislike of you calling me by that name. Although I find it credible that you could be annoying enough to haunt a dead man.”

She snorted and shaded her eyes, looking to the crowd. “You there!” she called out, waving down the closest person standing amidst her belongings. The short man startled, pointing to himself questioningly. “Yes, you! One of my companions has thrown his arm into the bay. Do be a good fellow and swim down to retrieve it for him?”

The man’s eyes grew wide. “M-m-me? Begging your pardon, miss. I’m just a cook!”

She frowned. “You can swim, can’t you?”

“Well, yes’m, but—”

“Ah, good, then it’s all settled.” She dusted her hands over her skirts, freezing as her hand brushed against the hard metal lump in her pocket. Oh, bother. She’d forgotten that she had her derringer, which she could have used while the Nurati leered down at her and brought his weapon to bear. Cheeks warming, she thought perhaps she might leave that particular detail out of her chronicle of the day’s events.

14. Bargain

Hank closed his eyes.

Clearly, she was insane.

Nobody capable of rubbing two thoughts together believed in Starbirth as truthsome. The story was just as pretty and twice as useless as the dawnstar it talked about.

Still.

Insane or no, she was obscenely wealthy. He’d be a fool to toss her overboard if there was easy money to be found through exploiting her fanatical quest.

He opened his eyes, steepling his fingers and eyeing her carefully. “Just what do you propose, Miss Price?” As intended, she straightened at his use of her full name. If this was to be a business meeting, it should be formal. “Be mindful, I’d appreciate if we could base our agreement in details rather than generalities.”

She nodded. “What I’d propose, Mr. McCoy, is a collection mission. A treasure hunt, if you will. This is but one fragment of a larger find, I am certain of it. I need transportation—the kind of transportation that may require air travel for expediency—to each of the sites, and both assistance and protection while I hunt down the other pieces. In addition, some of the pieces may require . . . less than legal methods to obtain them.” She paused, gesturing in his direction. “I trust that won’t be a concern?”

So that was her game? She just needed a chauffeur whilst she chased ghosts and children’s tales?

“I’d need a time frame and guaranteed payment,” he asserted. “This ship doesn’t fly on wishes and dreams alone, nor am I interested in any kind of open-ended job.”

Her eyes gleamed. He made a note to be certain she was never allowed near the card tables. She telegraphed her every intent, plain as brass.

“A year. One thousand gold doubloons.”

Immediately, he countered. “Unthinkable. A full year’s engagement is out of the question, and I’ll need a full crew for this. One thousand will barely cover expenses.” Inwardly, he swallowed hard. One thousand gold doubloons would see his ship the repairs she needed and have what was left of his crew fat and happy for more than a year. He never accepted the first offer in a business agreement, though, and he’d be damned if he’d spend a full year babysitting a fluff-headed moneybags.

“Six months at the same price,” she said without flinching and without pause. She’d expected haggling, then.

“Three,” he countered, lifting a brow.

She laughed. “Six,” she repeated, “and I will see to the proper outfitting of my ship at my own expense, and ownership of the Miraj shall be transferred to you with neither question nor clause at the end of that time.”

Hank paused. Six months was still longer than he’d like. He could probably still bargain her down. There weren’t many sky pirate captains sitting around waiting for work, so he was probably her only bet for getting this done soon.

“Take the deal, Hank,” Bones advised, his voice hollow and metallic. Bones? How could he—Hank glared up at the row of copper speaking tubes lining the front of the room.

“Bones! I told you to check on the ship!” Hank barked.

Bones’s voice came again, rattling through one of the tubes. “As I am, Captain.” He sounded smug. “At current, I am testing the communications system.”

“You subversive tin can, I’ll have your gears recycled for the waste collection system! You’re spying on me!”

“I am your first mate. I determined that the outcome of this conversation was more important than examining the hull for sparkbarnacles.”

“I am your captain! I determined I didn’t need your meddling in this meeting. I outrank you, and while you’re a member of my crew, you’ll do as I order.”

“You outrank me, but leaving you to do your own business agreements is what got us in this mess, Captain. Had I been present at the meeting with the Shima brothers, I would have made certain the deal included their continued assistance.”

Hank scowled. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but the Shinra’dor brother did promise assistance.”

“A promise that you cannot prove, as you had neither witness nor signed paper to uphold it.”

Hank opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, clenching his jaw tightly. There were times when he wished his first mate were a bit less bullheaded. The ticker was at his most irritating when he was right.

Absent Bones to glare at, Hank turned his frustrations to Remora, who merely blinked at his ferocity. He could have done without her hearing that particular conversation. Gathering the tattered scraps of his authority, he bristled. “I am the captain,” he asserted.

“You are the captain,” she agreed without argument.

“I pick my crew!”

“You pick the crew.”

Her easy agreement just irritated him more. “You’ll keep that upturned nose of yours out of my business.”

She sighed. “Mr. McCoy, I have no intention of trying to run your ship. Elsewise, I would not have gone to such lengths to hire you. Do we have an agreement, or shall I go back on land and find another pirate to make ridiculously wealthy?”

Hank bit back his first response, which could be considered impolite at best. “You heard all the particulars of the deal?” he barked up at the copper tubes.

“I did, Captain,” Bones replied.

“You’ll honor the bargain as stated,” he warned Remora. “This ain’t the kind of deal I can take you to court over. You cross us and you’d better hope we die in the doing, else it’s your blood on the line.”

Her face looked suitably serious as she nodded.

Roith’delat, a goodly portion of him still wanted to just toss her overboard and set sail as far from her and her crazy Starbirth ideas as he could. The deal seemed sound, and the job cushy as they come, but all his alarm bells jangled and his arms itched with gooseflesh.

Can’t win the game if you never place your bet, though. He lifted his open palm and spat into it. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and he felt slightly better. Girl was so high-bred she couldn’t even admit to spitting. How much trouble could she be?

She repeated the gesture and they shook hands over the table.

“Good! Then it’s done,” she said.

“Boss?” Bones’s voice. “I believe the current activity topside will be of interest to you. There are about ten wagons full of sundries parked dockside, calling permission to board.”

Remora brightened. “My things have arrived! What marvelous timing!”

Hank closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose against a rising headache. Six months. He resolved to get a calendar, that he might mark off the days.

13. Starbirth

Hank and Remora sat on opposite sides of the table bolted to the floor of the Miraj’s ready room. Hank sat back, comfortable in his captain’s chair, and waited for Remora to speak first. He’d spent most of the trip plotting the course of this conversation. First, she’d say something along the lines of, “I bought it, it’s my ship,” or maybe even “I’m a Price, so you have to do what I say.”

Remora watched him with wide brown eyes, one finger idly spinning a long lock of red hair. He readied his replies and waited for the inevitable. Fifteen minutes—thirty on the topside—and she was off his ship and out of his hair.

“I’m curious,” she said. “What is your plan to get rid of me?”

Hank’s tongue stumbled, choking back the prepared response to the questions she hadn’t asked. He’d carried sacks of potatoes that weighed more than this girl. How did she manage to catch him flat-footed every time she opened her mouth? It was beyond irritating. “What do you mean?” he finally asked, his voice as even as he could manage.

She waved aside his attempt at politeness with a short laugh. “Oh, don’t be so modest. Everyone always has a plan to get rid of me. Well, everyone but Uncle. It’s okay. I won’t be mad, I’m just curious.”

Hank frowned, searching her face for an angle. What was she up to? He saw nothing but genuine inquisitiveness in her brown eyes and felt incredibly disturbed by that. A normal person assumed that everyone wanted to be around them—he had several good confidence scams that hinged on precisely that ego. What made a person nonchalantly believe that nobody wanted them around?

And damnably, she was right. Of course he had a plan to get rid of her.

He straightened his shoulders. As if she needed his pity—the richest woman on the entire western coast.

He switched tactics. Maybe if he played along with her bizarre games, she’d leave of her own volition. “I planned on telling you that I was going to pay you back for the debt to Ratchet, kick you off the ship, and sail away before you could send airships looking for me.”

She thought about that for a moment and nodded. “Not a bad plan. You could muscle me off the ship fairly easily if you wanted, and I’ve no doubt you have experience avoiding the authorities. At least, I hope you do. The basic plan outline seems sound, but I’ll admit to feeling a bit disappointed. Among other things, you didn’t take my motivation into account. Then again, perhaps that lack of planning is how you ended up in jail.”

Her eyebrows winged upward. “Do you really believe I care about being repaid for your debt to Ratchet?”

He opened his mouth, then just as quickly shut it.

She leaned forward, the gold sparks in her brown eyes dancing with mischief. “Aren’t you even a little curious? Haven’t you wondered why I was in the Jolly Rooster to begin with? Why I was so interested in you being a pirate captain?” She paused, letting that sink in. “Why do you think I would go to all of that trouble? Do you really think it was about money?”

“I suppose I thought you were just getting your kicks. Slumming a little.”

He’d hoped to shock her, but she simply gave him an enigmatic smile and shook her head. She reached up and behind her neck, her fingers working at the clasp of a necklace. After a moment, she lifted a hand toward him, a golden locket on a chain dangling from her outstretched fingers.

“It’s not dangerous. Open it,” she said, gently lowering the locket to the table and pushing it over to him.

He eyed it suspiciously. It didn’t look like it was going to burst into flames or send shrapnel flying through his ready room, but he had to consider the source. Remora had a different definition of the word “dangerous” than he did.

She lifted an eyebrow and he scowled. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Just careful, that was all.

Gingerly, he picked it up. The outer shell of the locket was detailed with tiny decorative gears woven alongside a delicate golden filigree. He gave the topmost gear a curious flick with his thumbnail. To his surprise, the other gears spun as well. He’d thought them too small to actually be functional. The gears activated the tiny golden arm keeping the locket’s clamshell locked, causing it to lift with an audible click.

He pried open the locket’s mouth and peered inside. Instead of the sepia photo he’d expected, a tiny purple crystal tucked neatly into a custom setting. That was it—just the crystal. He frowned at it uncertainly. After a moment, he shrugged and put it back down on the table. Immediately, she reached for it, folding her hands around the locket as though they’d been hungry for it.

“What is it?” he asked.

Her cheeks flushed with excitement and she leaned forward, pressing the locket close to her chest.

“I think it’s from Starbirth,” she whispered.

Hank paused a moment, certain she was joking. She didn’t laugh.

Hank scoffed. “Starbirth is a myth.”

She shook her head, eyes bright. “No, it isn’t! I’m certain of it. Tell me, where do you think starshards come from? Why are there so few of them? Why are they so different from anything else found anywhere on the planet?” She paused to take a breath. “It’s because they’re from Starbirth!”

Hank frowned. He didn’t want to burst her bubble, but nobody took Starbirth seriously. It was a story to keep children still at bedtime. “I know Starbirth’s a pretty story, but that’s all it is. Starshards are rare, that’s all.”

Undaunted, she immediately countered. “Then why have they always been found so close to the surface? Why can we not mine for them? Hundreds of years ago, our ancestors saw something in the sky. Something that glowed, brighter and brighter, for weeks on end. We have written proof of this—of people, in their own words, describing the Starbirth! Every account agrees that after two moons of growing light, when the night was bright as day, the light shattered and fell to earth as starshards. The sun’s child still sits in the sky today—visible even in daylight.”

Hank sighed. “I know the story, Remora. Everyone knows the story. The dawnstar is unique, but that doesn’t mean Starbirth was real. We can’t even use the dawnstar to help navigate. It’s just a pretty, useless light in the sky.”

Frustrated, she gestured sharply, trying a different approach. “Then why are there no records of Seraph before Starbirth? Why do people only write of the winged Seraph after Starbirth? Why are flying cities only mentioned then? Why do people start collecting starshards and building airships after Starbirth? It was real. And I can prove it.” Once again, her eyes gleamed. “But I need the help of a pirate and his ship to do it.”

Kingsman: The Secret Service

I have been a poor friend to all of you, and I apologize most sincerely.

In what way have I failed you, you might ask?

I have yet to recommend (nay, DEMAND) that you acquire a copy of Kingsman and watch it post-haste.

(Unless you’re SUPER squeamish, because there are some truly epic fight scenes you’d want to avoid in that case.)

Seriously. One of the best movies I’ve seen in a very, very long time. Perry recommended it to me while it was still in theaters (it is now available in Redbox, for the curious) and to my ever-lasting shame, I did not heed his recommendation in time to see it on the big screen.

Samuel L. Jackson. Colin Firth. Michael Caine.

Do I REALLY need to say more?

Yes? Well, that’s fine, cuz there’s plenty more to say.

On the surface, it’s a James Bond-esque film. (Old school rather than modern, gritty Bond) It’s a coming-of-age tale, as the main character is a boy learning to be a spy. It’s a true Bond flick, complete with gentleman spy, secret rooms, clever equipment, and megalomaniac villain. It’s got the absolute best fight scene I have ever seen in my life … and the next two fight scenes on the list as well. (Church, Ending Battle, Bar Scene, for the curious)

It also has enough over-the-top humor to have you giggling at a pug puppy, gasping with surprised laughter at a stapled-together dead guy, and startled into utter delight by the climax.

(Also, glorious, glorious British accents.)

It is a wonderful, delightful romp of a film that rides “not taking itself too seriously” without ever actually devolving into goofiness or slapstick humor.

Do yourself a favor and check it out as soon as possible.

12. Sea Legs

Hank boarded the Miraj like a man coming home. She floated in one of the broad harbor bays on the wealthier side of the docks. On either side of her, bright-canvassed clippers nodded like sleek thoroughbreds. By contrast, she looked like a rusty lemon dropped in a bathtub. She rode low in the water as if she’d sprung a slow leak and her sails spiked outward at odd angles, a crazed patchwork of scavenged canvas.

She looked like an accident, as if she could fall apart at any moment.

That was precisely the way Hank intended her to look. He couldn’t hide the fact that she was an airship—but older airships commonly had their starshard uncoupled and repurposed for a newer airship design. The shardless ships often found themselves scrapped, but a few were seaworthy, if a captain were desperate enough to want a ship that old.

The Miraj’s wood creaked and groaned in welcome and he smiled as he ran a hand across the rusted metal of her deck railing. She pitched once, like a spirited horse testing her master, and his weight automatically shifted to the rolling deck. Behind him, Remora gasped and gripped the railing tightly.

Hank’s smile deepened. Perhaps a few minutes on board a real ship was all it would take to frighten the girl back home to her bankrolls and fancy parties.

It had been amusing to watch her flabbergast Ratchet—satisfying to watch that old goat, pampered and bedecked in a costume that would put the playwrights to shame, flap his lips like sails in the wind. Even so, the Miraj was his, just as surely as he was hers. No piece of paper could change that.

He’d thank Remora for paying off his debt, assure her that he’d pay her back what he owed, toss her back ashore like a discarded fish, and be on his way.

Jinn wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of, but Hank was on home ground now. He had the advantage, and as long as he had the Miraj, he was never unarmed.

He moved behind the nearest sailarm, kneeling down to spin the rusty metal hatch wheel covering the stairs to belowdecks.

“Bones!” he barked. Immediately, the ticker stood at his side.

“Captain?”

“We’ll be setting sail soon. I need you to check her, stem to stern. Make sure she’s still seaworthy. And make sure that rat of a loan shark didn’t install any nasty surprises while we were away.”

“Aye, Captain.” The ticker sketched a salute and moved off to do his duty. Hank nodded, grateful that his first mate hadn’t argued the order. Bones was business itself when it came to the ship—that’s what made him such a great first mate.

Still, Hank knew Bones would rather stay and discuss the business with Remora, but he didn’t like the way the ticker got all soft when the girl was around. She was trouble, and he didn’t want any latent heroics from Bones to keep him from throwing her off the ship when they were done.

The girl’s baffling hold over his first mate was a worry for another day. For now, he just wanted to get everyone except himself and Bones off his ship, and out of sight of land as quickly as possible.

He glanced around and saw the girl still clinging to the railing. His grin widened. No sea legs on her, then. She looked like she’d never even been off land before.

“Come on then,” he called to her, one boot kicking the portcap securely open. “I thought you were in a hurry!”

Her face flushed, then paled. She bit her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, visually screwing up her courage before releasing the railing and darting across the curved metal deck to his side. The ship took that moment to give a particularly nasty buck and the girl skittered off course, nearly losing her footing. Every breeze seemed to toss her slight form to the side, and every pitch and roll of the ship caught her by surprise.

More slowly, Jinn followed, his black robes catching the wind and billowing sharply. Some of Hank’s mirth fled. He’d have liked to see the calm and collected Shima brother fly artlessly across the hull, but he supposed that was a bit much to ask. The Shinra’ere walked the ship as easily as he’d walked the land, hardly even leaning to keep his balance.

Remora finally made it to his side, clutching the portcap with a white-knuckled grip. She turned her face up to his and instead of the frustration and embarrassment he expected to see, she smiled. Pale, but with two bright patches of red upon her cheeks, she grinned. “Goodness! That will take a bit of getting used to, won’t it?”

She looked . . . exhilarated. She was too thin by far and as out of place as a sea minnow in a bucket, but something in those wide brown eyes made him want to smile back at her.

He quashed the feeling, killing the last of the mirth he’d felt at watching her tossed about the deck. She was the enemy. “Are we going to have that business meeting now, or would you like to play about on the decks for a while first?” he said.

The brightness in those brown eyes dimmed a little. He scowled at the pang of guilt he felt for ruining her mood. He wasn’t her wet-nurse. If she wanted coddling, there was a continent full of pandering simpletons she could go back to.

“You’re right, of course.” She turned to Jinn. “May I request you please wait out here until McCoy and I complete our business?”

The tall Shinra gave a shallow bow from the waist. “It is my understanding that the outcome of your business will affect my own mission. I will wait.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Jinn.” She began to descend the ladder through the open portcap, then paused, looking back up at the Shinra. “Oh! If my things arrive while I’m still downstairs, could you please tell them to begin setting up without me? And if the cook arrives, tell him I’d like a cup of Melange, my orange spice tea, please? And order something for yourself as well if you’d like.”

“Scratch that,” Hank barked. “She won’t be staying. Don’t let them put anything in my ship.”

Remora rolled her eyes and winked at Jinn. The Shinra had the audacity to wink one red eye at her in return. Hank growled. “You. Inside. Now,” he said to Remora.

Wisely, she walked.