Board Thread:Archive/@comment-24866242-20140529021935

(Damn, I miss Patch)

Subject: Friends in Low Places Date: Tue, Mar 17, 1998 2:57 PM From: KatrylleM

Toreadore - a moon of Iregyle IV...not a place any self respecting, law abiding citizen would willingly travel to. But it had been established many years before that Kat was neither self respecting *or* law abiding. Course, being on Toreadore made *not* being law abiding easy. There *was* no law.

The place was well known amongst those of the "import/export" buisness.....to put it simply, piracy and contraband. It was a place you could find anything and everything....for a price.....a *large* price. Kat wasn't worried about the funds. She needed equipment and weapons, no questions asked and no records kept.

First on her list would be fighters. Since Ry had returned, she had taken up the command of the Vextis' fighter squad once again and, although it had always been a rag-tag fleet, it was a small rag-tag fleet. She needed to fill it out. She also needed a temporary replacement for the NightHawk. There was no telling when Ben and Matt would be returning.....*if* they were returning.

As with most of the "people" on Toreadore, she kept her blaster at her side, un-safetied and in plain view. Within a block of the William S. Burroughs Interstellar Spaceport, the main space port of Toreadore, she successfully managed to avoid 3 bar fights that had drifted into the street and 2 muggings. Survival was a way of life.

She had made discreet inquiries about who to talk to concerning the items she needed. Her first contact, a man by the name of Delberth Costa, was currently 6 whiskies into his standard full dozen in a bar just two doors down. Two more and he'd be an easy mark when it came to haggling over price....at least that's what the rumor was.

Stopping just inside the door, she let her gaze stray over the motly band of misfits and criminals. Several of the bolder bunch returned her gaze, but most just kept to their drinks or games. Without a word, she made her way to the bar and ordered a bottle of Kularian whiskey. A quick glance at Costa confirmed that he was starting in on his seventh shot. Turning her back to the bar, she leaned against it and sipped from the glass in her

hand as she waited for the end of the eighth shot.

As she began to lower the glass from her lips, her arm was suddenly jostled, spilling what remained of the amber liquid over her shirt. Cussing softly, she swiped at the droplets as she turned a slow, seething gaze to the person next to her. Recognizing the man, her gaze darkened even further.

"Long time n'see, Quenton. Lose anna good card games recently?" She had only met the man once, but she always remembered those she pissed off. He was one of the more recent. Only difference this time was, Loltar.....rather Travers was not there to defuse the situation.

Quenton's steel grey eyes narrowed dangerously. "You cheated, witch. I want my money back." Kat only angered him further by laughing.

"Y'still cannae admit t'bein' a lousy poker player, eh Quenton? Bad looser too, b'th' looks o'it." She sensed rather than saw several eyes turn in their direction. Hard part was knowing how many of these losers were Quenton's buddies, if any. Still, she kept her cold gazed locked on the man before her.

He had gotten quicker since the last time they had met...or she had gotten slower. Before she could stop him, he had a rather large chunk of the front of her shirt gathered in his fist, yanking her closer to him. "I said I want my money back, witch!".

Several chairs scraped against the wood floor of the run down bar and, figuring he was close to gaining help, she needed to be in a better position to confront it. Grabbing the thumb holding her shirt, she jerked it backwards then twisted herself under their connected arms, effectively twisting his arm so he was bent in the middle. At the same instant, she reached for her blaster. It took almost a full three seconds for her to realize that she

was only grabbing at air. Somehow, the man now screaming in pain had managed to relieve her of the only weapon he thought she possessed. Cussing, she jerked his arm further up his back.

Glancing around the room, she counted seven men standing to assist. Whether they were going to assist her or him, she could not be sure, but several of them didn't look pleased. Her attention was pulled from the possible competition by something jabbing against her knee. Glancing down, she cussed again, this time much louder and much longer. Pressed against her knee was the barrel of her own blaster.

"Lemme go, witch or I swear I'll take that pretty little knee off!" Kat could only cuss again. This was turning out to be a bad day. As she began to release her hold on the man's thumb, a voice from the direction of the bar behind them made her jump.

>Lessee, 8 against two. I'd say those were pretty decent odds, wouldn't you, Kat?< Surprisingly, the pressure against her knee lessened and most of the men who had stood returned to their seats immediately at the sound of the voice. Muffled, and distinctly from a position approximately at Kat's hip, Quenton's voice took on a slightly worried tinge.

"Santana? You know her?" Encouraged by the voice behind her and the man's obvious scent of fear, Kat kept her hold on Quenton's digit, even pulling up on it a bit more.

>That's *DOCTOR* Santana to you.......<

Subject: A Good Old-Fashioned Pissing Contest Date: Wed, Mar 18, 1998 2:24 AM From: PAHws

The mouse scratches at his unmentionables, taking a long easy pull from the bottle of hooch he had bullied from the tender. He smacks his lips appreciatively, surveying the scene with something like cranky weariness. That bastard Quenton...he smelled almost as bad as he looked. Not that Patch could very well hold that against him

>Quent, I knew you was yellow as horsepiss on a raincoat, but hell, pickin' on wimmin? That's even below yer normal standards of wretched depravity and gutless, ball-less, pusilanimous behavior. Wot, boys?<

The sizable crowd of various rejects, sociopaths, retards, losers, defectives, winos, deviants, and other fun and well adjusted individuals, snicker agreeably, quickly loosing any loyalties they might have once had for the garmless Quenton. Quent frowns, hurt, and stares at Patch like a kicked dog

He whines, not letting loose of Kat's blaster

"Come on, doc...she owes me money...lemme kill her, eh? I'll split her wallet wit ye, and I'll even forget what yer did to my Aunt Tilly that time she needed that appendectomy. I really hate cheaters, and she's the worst of the lot..."

Patch smiles, not quite sober, but still very much in control of his facilities. He knocks back the rest of the yellow frothy alcohol, tossing the bottle over his shoulder at a sleeping transient

>Quent, lemme ree-gale you with a little medical trivia, eh? When a person gets killed, as you so obviously seem so hell bent on doin' ter me friend Kat there, the nervous system does some purt funky jive. All kinds a' spastic twitchin' and seizing takes place...especially from a blaster wound. Now, I kin tell from here that Kat's got a pretty tight hold on that hand a' yers...looks mighty painful now, and she ain't even pushed it up all the way yet.<

He grins, walking slowly forward

>If'n you shoot her, which I ain't condonin' none, but I don't really give a rat's ass one way or the other...< His eyes flicker to the rabble, which gives an approving murmur to this last statement >...she's gonna jerk like a cat in a blender. That arm a' yers is most likely gonna rip clean off, and while that *does* mean more business for me, I'll give you fair warning that I'm gonna charge you yer other arm to sew the missing one back on.

And we both know yer can't even afford to get yerself a bath, much less expensive appendage related surgery.<

Quent begins to sweat, his hand starts to slip away from the blaster. He looks to the peanut gallery, but there is no help to be found there

>Plus there's the fact that the women yer holdin' hostage is a close pairsonal friend a' mine, and yer shootin' her might jest cause me to snap and do somethin' rash...like, say, performing a little improvisational surgery with assorted pieces of rusty medical paraphernelia, and then proceeding to kill you in some creative and trend setting way. I'm just in that kind of fervently psychotic mood today, I think. Things have been slow lately, and that would *really* make my day...<

Patch glares, his left paw drifting inside his leather flak jacket

Quent quickly backs away, smiling a big loopy smile and holding his hands out in submission

"Er...sorry, ma'm. Misunderstanding, really. Must've confused you with some other...Katrylle Morgahn. Haha. Ha."

He nods nervously to the mouse, and proceeds to vacate the premises with uncharacteristic initiative

Patch sighs; he had really wanted to experiment with just what exactly IS behind the human eyeball. C'est la vie. He watches Quenton leave, then strolls cheerily over to Kat. He gives her a flourishing bow, pushing his bushy eyebrows together pithily

>Hullo, love! Damn good to see you! Here, have a seat...we'll catch up.< He grins >I'll even let yer buy me a drink."

Subject: Re: A Good Old-Fashioned Pissing Contest Date: Wed, Mar 18, 1998 12:16 PM From: KatrylleM

The part about not caring if the scum shot her or not kinda raked on her a bit, but, knowing Patch, only about 75% of that was true. She chuckles softly, shook her head and poured him a shot of the whiskey she had bought, completely forgetting about Costa. Settling down on a barstool, she proceeded to tell the mouse everything that had happened since his last sabbatical. She included the distruction of the DB base, but, like everyone else, she refused to give any details as to the whys or wherefores.

As she ended her story, she suddenly remembered the man she was suppose to meet, cussing as her brief glance told her he had already left the bar. "Eh...y'dinnae know where I kin git m'hands on sum spare fighters, now would ya?" She laughed, meaning for the question to actually be a joke, but the look in Patches eyes told her he had taken it quite seriously.

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Posts: 454 | From: | Registered: A Long Time Ago!

Katrylle Morgahn

Editor in Chief

Member # 27

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posted June 10, 1998 05:27 PM

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Subject: Info-mation

Date: Wed, Mar 18, 1998 1:11 PM

From: PAHws

Patch pours himself another shot of Kat's whiskey, taking a throat clearing sip. He stares off into space, the rusty cogs of his brain creakily cranking out a decision. If he were to help Kat, that would mean he would be stepping back into his old life. All his tentative plans, they would evaporate like so much twinkly dream dust

He grins, looking up at Morgahn with resolve. Toreadore was a great planet, and he really enjoyed the company. But his true friends had found him. He could not escape their love, so he would not even try

>Actually, Kat, that's a very good question. Eerily good, in fact.<

He twitches his tail, leaning in close

>Yer see, fer the past few months that I been living on this slimy rock, I been trying my damndest to get me some equipment to replace my last unit...fighters, mechs...the whole shabang. My last squadron...well...they got themselves into some trouble.<

Patch grin to Kat, seeing her confused at the whole idea at him leading a mercenary army

>It's a long story. Maybe someday when I'm good and besnookered I'll tell yer about it. Anyway, I been making contacts left and right, excercising my rodential expertise at information wrangling, and I think I hit on a little nugget of pure golden wonderment. I was goin-ter use it for my own selfish gain...but...well...I think I just decided to get out of the privateering biz.<

His eyes flash, and he rolls himself a cig. The paper postively bulges with cheap grainy tobacco

>Costa...he's small time. Strictly a middle man. All the action in Toreadore is handled by Jim Sticky's Toreadore Regulars, a big and ugly merc squad operatin' right here outta Burroughs. They do a lot more import than export, and are real sticklers for quality. Sticky - he's something else. Don't even got no legs, but still one a the best pilots I've ever seen. He's a crook though, so don't be askin' fer no autographs.<

Patch lights the cig, taking a long drag that ashifies neary half the tube. He exhales a thin cloud of bluish smoke, looking around for spies

>The neat thing is, they are really the most unorganized little business I've ever seen. They must lose half their profits to embezzlement. It'd be a piece of cake to rip these guys off, it's just that no one seems to have the balls.<

He grins sheepishly, cooly scanning the bar

>I'm itchin' ter try, though.<

Subject: Re: Info-mation Date: Wed, Mar 18, 1998 1:26 PM From: KatrylleM

She had been out of the buisness too long and, admittedly, she was a bit worried that she had been out of practice. The fact that Quenton had relieved her of her blaster without her even knowing was proof enough for her that she needed to get back into her old lifestyle if she ever intended to resurrect some semelance of the Raiders. Patch, even if he *did* want to get out of the privateering buisness, would be a perfect source of information, if not the perfect ally. A slow, cold smile spread across her face as she listened to him.

"Whacha gonna need?" Was all she said. Still, the way she asked let him know that she was in for anything and everything. She had felt her old self finally returning as she listen to him go on about Sticky and friends. Perhaps that irresponsible, cold hearted side of her *hadn't* been killed off by the responsiblity of being a Doom Bringer. Hope blossomed in her heart.

Subject: The Set Up Date: Wed, Mar 18, 1998 11:43 PM From: PAHws

"Whacha gonna need?"

The mouse laughs, stubbing out the cig and shaking his head

>That depends on how yer want ter do this, love. We can do it the easy way: march in there demanding supplies and pay through the ass. Or, we kin do things the fun and not entirely legal way. A little redistribution of the common market, if yer catch my drift.< He taps the side of his nose knowingly

>Fer the easy way, all we'd need would be a small fortune in unmarked non-consecutive bills. Sticky knows me as Dr. Miguel Santana, a prominent reconstructive surgeon, and I think he would trust me enough to do business with. The fun way, however, requires a bit more. We'd need ter falsify some documents, grease a few palms...you know, yer basic grifting set up. I don't think we'd need ter use any force, this guy really is a friggin' moron and an easy mark, but we would need some back up if it came to that.<

He watches Kat, awaiting her decision

Subject: Re: The Set Up Date: Thu, Mar 19, 1998 12:21 PM From: KatrylleM

The slow smile that had formed on her lips earlier grew steadily with every word he spoke. She knew from the second he first presented the options that she was gonna pick the hard way. Easy was just too damn boring. Immediately, her mind was a whirr of possibilities.

Her ace in the hole was Travers. She had gone to him the minute she had decided to come to this hell hole, knowing that, as Loltar the freighter pilot.....or even Linton Travers, second in command to Darrak...he could quite probably know some people to talk to. She had been right. The spaceport was on the standard route for Loltar. Winking at Patch suddenly, she flipped her wrist comm. on and ordered a stat link to Travers. After a short pause, he voice filled the small space she and Patch occupied at the bar. He sounded extremely worried. Flicking a quick glance over the other patrons, Kat slipped the micro ear jack from it hidden slot and pressed the comm. to her lips to prevent anyone from overhearing.

Five minutes later, not only was she assured to have the documents they needed within the hour, but Loltar and freighter within 30 minutes. What had started out to be a lousy day was assuredly picking up. She grinned at Patch and ordered another bottle. 