Post by Sam Grady on Apr 26, 2012 22:29:28 GMT -5
some men die under the mountain just lookin' for gold
some die lookin' for a hand to hold
Them's the breaks was a good enough Earth-That-Was saying to fit this very moment. There wasn't much Sam could have done or said-- she couldn't be angry either. There are a rare few individuals that could take away the sky-- temporarily-- from Samantha Grady and not invoke the ire of the wiry pilot. Syeira Duvont had earned her respect-- yeah, that's right. So out of respect, she had done the decent thing and not kicked up a huge fuss at her employment under the Gypsy coming to an end. She had been sad, she had even kicked a few things, but ultimately? Sam had to let Syeira take care of her own. Granted, she didn't have much of a 'family ties' kind of attitude herself, but her old man being sick would probably drag her home somehow. After all, he hadn't asked for her, and raised her nonetheless. Took responsibility for his actions. Not a bad father as fathers on Fury went, but hardly someone appropriate. Could've been a druglord or slaver.
And yet, when Syeira had asked where she'd wanted to be dropped off, and you'd think it'd be Fury. Go back to the start, drop her off in that fighting pit she'd found her in. But that wasn't what Grady had wanted. The pilot had wanted to stay with the ship as close to the end destination as possible-- to keep flying it until the good lady Captain took over for the final leg of the journey. So Dyton. It was a broken place, full of broken people and seemed perfect for her to get lost for a few days in bars, booze and fights. Right? It would hopefully take the sting out of having no ship and being without her lifeline of flying. Or at least distract her until she couldn't take it no more and stole some junker from around here to hit the skies in again.
There was the lingering thought of falling back into her old pirate ways filtered back into the forefront of her brain-pan. Grady hadn't changed, per se. She was still something of the rotten space-dog that she'd always been... but the Veasna? The Veasna had changed a little piece of her. Maybe. Sort of. The fact was she didn't want a part of that again. The pirate part, anyway. She was just getting used to being told she wasn't allowed to do certain things. Like shoot people that annoyed her.
But let's get to the now.
Sam Grady was currently in the Dreadnought Jackal bar. She wasn't entirely sure what a Jackal was, but apparently it had nothing to do with dreadnought cruisers. The short woman was dressed to impress in her usual variety of get-up, and there was a lumpy, heavy duffel bag between her legs as she sat at the bar, propped up on a stool. A large bottle and a glass was set before Sam, but she'd long since forgotten about the glass and had been tipping the unmarked bottle down her throat. Local, house moonshine, most likely. The fancy stuff was for the fancy people, right? This very moment in time, Grady was feeling a little better. Or at least a little more in the area of numb, but still with her brains mostly intact-- not that she was too clever beforehand.
The bottle was raised, for probably the fiftieth time that night, and she'd almost slur her words, "To th'Veasna! An' Cap'n Syeira Duvont!"
A few extra, colourful, yet affectionate words were tacked on as she went back to her drink.
