#para thread

Red sighed softly. He’d returned to Mt. Silver after his vacation and honesty... He didn’t like it. Spending that time with old friends and new friends he just didn’t like the solitary and silence like he used to.

He was getting antsy too. He wanted to do things, explore again. So much had changed since he was ten, and back then he didn’t even see all of his home region really. And visiting Alolah, it sparked his want for adventure again. He glanced at his old bag and snatched it up.

@solusmarshall

It has been a tiring day driving around the city and all Richard wanted to do was go to a bar, drink beer, and probably watch sports. The thing though is he didn’t want to be alone so he fished out his phone and called his fellow delivery driver, Solus, to see if he was done for the day. Once the phone was picked up, he asked “hey, I’m here at the pub down Mary Street if you want to grab a quick pint?”

Dax wasn’t sure how he’d wound up by the side of Remy. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for the man, it was more or less that he thought that he could leave the ship and hide out for awhile after he’d done his own shopping. Which wasn’t the case, even after he’d loaded everything back onto the Spectre, even then, he’d found himself back off the Spectre and with another person. Mostly, he’d trailed after a few of the more troublesome, those that really required a close watch.

There were so many of these kinds of people, the entire ship was quite frankly, a motley crew. Even with his entire background, the history of just who Dax was, he felt more like a solid father figure than an ex-killer, ex-fighter. He didn’t know what the word would really be for what he was. Kill for sport, he supposed. It caused a sort of nauseated irritation in him.

Now, he was in a bad fuckin’ mood.

A sharp sigh left his lips as he looked over at Remy with an uncertain expression on his face. He tried to keep what he felt in, the best that he could. “Trust me, I don’t think we’re ever thinking the same thing.” Dax remarked with a quirk of his brow. “You can tell me if you’re keen on it.”

"Isn't that the fun of being a pirate?" Remy spreads his hands, encompassing the Hideway's bustling streets full of disreputable looking individuals. "We're all so very different from one another."

Dax isn’t exactly his idea of an ideal wingman, but he’s got days yet on the asteroid to investigate all of its nooks and crannies, so he can afford to spare a few hours in the interest of strengthening the bonds of camaraderie. Especially if it’s Dax --

Staying on his good side means having at least a minimal input on the ship’s menu, after all. Remy learned from a young age not to be picky about what was put in front of him, but he also invested a great deal of time and effort into earning the right to be picky if he so chose. As far as he can tell, he and Dax are on steady enough terms that he can keep the requests coming, and that suits him just fine.

“So maybe I like keeping people on their toes,” Jamie shot back, smile widening as she returned his wink.

As much as she loved being on the Spectre, she lived for times like this, when she got the chance to explore new worlds. It had been her dream as a kid, part of the driving force that lead her to the academy. The Spectre had given her that after the academy made her feel like it was a pipe dream.

Their latest mission was risky, of course – most were – but Jamie was beyond excited to set out on it all the same. Her enthusiasm for exploring new worlds meant that she’d never be satisfied settling down on any one of them. Jamie needed to travel, needed to explore, and the Spectre gave her that, too. She wouldn’t trade it, or its crew, for anything.

Jamie considered the offer for a moment. She knew she didn’t look very imposing, and she could put on a pretty good innocence act to really sell it, so making money probably wouldn’t be much of an issue. “You looking for a fifty-fifty split? Sounds like I’d be doing most of the work.” She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, laughing.

At the nudge, Remy laughs, the lines at the corners of his eyes fanning out with his amusement.

"Look at you, getting savvy on me. The fifty-fifty split is for me teaching you my tricks," he says, lifting his free hand to spin his finger twice before pointing between her eyes. "Just helping you prepare for life in the real world, kid. Everybody wants their cut, especially when you're just starting out."

He hasn't had time to examine every nook and cranny of the asteroid yet, but that'll come in the days to follow. He's gotten enough of an overview that he can put a finger on the most likely places to make a little coin and not cause too many waves while they're doing it, so he begins to subtly steer Jamie in the direction of a nicer part of the settlement. (Well, nice for a measure of the word -- nothing on M'vene's Hideaway could really be considered nice anymore.)

Francis Albert Sinatra, holding a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other, stood in a dark corner of the bar between two attractive but fading blondes who sat waiting for him to say something. But he said nothing; he had been silent during much of the evening, except now in this private club in which he seemed even more distant, staring out through the smoke and semi-darkness into a large room beyond the bar where dozens of young couples sat huddled around small tables or twisted in the center of the floor to the clamorous clang of folk-rock music blaring from the stereo. 

The two blondes knew, as did Sinatra’s four male friends who stood nearby, that it was a bad idea to force conversation upon him when he was in this mood of sullen silence, a mood that had hardly been uncommon during this second week of June. He tapped his fingers against the bar fast at first, but they slowed down as he became rather disinterested with even that mere action. His blue eyes that were the most evident feature on the mans face with how bright and perplexing they were - almost like laser beams - gazed around the room solemnly. He wanted entertainment and life and charisma and drama and romance.

Yet at the same time, it was uncertain that even if one of these things approached him, he may not even be slightly interested in pursuing it on this particular evening.Sinatra had been working in a film that he now disliked, could not wait to finish; he was tired of all the publicity attached to his lifestyle including any possible dates he had or relationships that seemed to decay with the enormity of pressure that came with being with the iconic man but also because of his personality: he was a gentleman but his mood swings at times made him become a chore to be with. 

Yet what put the crooner in such a sullen, uninterested mood away from a usual air of delight that followed him combined with the tension that shadowed over him alongside his power was something that made him a victim. He was ill. He was the victim of an ailment so common that most people would consider it trivial. But when it gets to Sinatra it can plunge him into a state of anguish, deep depression, panic, even rage. Frank Sinatra had a cold.