"Report ta' my quarters once we're in the air."
Ruffles didn't answer, but carried on up the boarding ramp. I, Jake Miller, as my last will and testament bequeath all my earthly possessions to those left behind. To Aesop, I leave my boots. To Axel Monroe, I leave the wallet-size nude photo of my ex, Linda. To my Captain, Meredith Monroe, assuming she is not responsible for my death, I leave my still, 'Valhalla'.
The gallows humour put a small smile back on his face as he passed the prisoners into Cranston's hands, and headed off towards his workshop. When he got inside, he set his shotgun and holdall onto the desk, then started digging around in a box, producing a beat up old clip on holster. He transferred the glock handgun to it, and strapped it to his work belt. As long as there were hostages aboard, it was necessary to stay armed, despite the fact it wasn't his preference.
Exiting the room, he headed down to the engine room. A cursory glance told him everything was fine. He nodded to himself. Alone with his thoughts he wondered how his tongue lashing was liable to go down. He wouldn't shift blame; he had his principles. He supposed he was about as indispensable as it was possible to be, a fully trained shipwright not under the control of the Nobles. But even so, given the side of herself she'd exhibited with that fatass Noble, he didn't think it would be smart to put it past Pixie to have him thrown out of an airlock. He grumbled to himself as he polished a ventilation grille with a rag, which came away with sticky dark patches. After several minutes the engine became louder, and he felt the juddering beneath his feet accompanied by the slight pressure shift. They were in the air. Throwing the balled up rag at the wall, he turned and headed up towards Pixie's cabin. Rapping on Pixie's door, he waited to be let in.
Ruffles didn't answer, but carried on up the boarding ramp. I, Jake Miller, as my last will and testament bequeath all my earthly possessions to those left behind. To Aesop, I leave my boots. To Axel Monroe, I leave the wallet-size nude photo of my ex, Linda. To my Captain, Meredith Monroe, assuming she is not responsible for my death, I leave my still, 'Valhalla'.
The gallows humour put a small smile back on his face as he passed the prisoners into Cranston's hands, and headed off towards his workshop. When he got inside, he set his shotgun and holdall onto the desk, then started digging around in a box, producing a beat up old clip on holster. He transferred the glock handgun to it, and strapped it to his work belt. As long as there were hostages aboard, it was necessary to stay armed, despite the fact it wasn't his preference.
Exiting the room, he headed down to the engine room. A cursory glance told him everything was fine. He nodded to himself. Alone with his thoughts he wondered how his tongue lashing was liable to go down. He wouldn't shift blame; he had his principles. He supposed he was about as indispensable as it was possible to be, a fully trained shipwright not under the control of the Nobles. But even so, given the side of herself she'd exhibited with that fatass Noble, he didn't think it would be smart to put it past Pixie to have him thrown out of an airlock. He grumbled to himself as he polished a ventilation grille with a rag, which came away with sticky dark patches. After several minutes the engine became louder, and he felt the juddering beneath his feet accompanied by the slight pressure shift. They were in the air. Throwing the balled up rag at the wall, he turned and headed up towards Pixie's cabin. Rapping on Pixie's door, he waited to be let in.