Private Beat It

[Cook]

Spoiler: Music IC

Sometimes certain statements made sense under a certain context and other times they did not. He had heard that statement from someone once but, at the moment, what crossed his noggin was how wanderlust could exist inside him as much as he could exist inside wanderlust.

He was an adventurer of epic proportions if brilliant but lazy, a gambler of the highway, a chemist of fate and a mercenary who literally took just about any job without much care of what it was if it meant getting paid. He was the most interesting man in the galaxy, or so his mother hoped he would be someday, and Wanderlust was the name of his ship.

It was a VCX-100 light freighter and maybe he had won it in a card game once upon a time but he couldn’t quite remember. Whatever. More important was the fact that it was under repairs in a shop which meant for his current job he was riding in someone else’s ship and hopefully she meant well for him. Was it even her ship? Maybe they rented it but they were together for the moment. They had another ship to hit and it made sense to share the space.

He didn’t know his partner for this mission and she didn’t know him. However, if she was a thug or Black Sun affiliate, or worked for another syndicate since he might not even know that much, well she probably spelled trouble. He would try hard to not pop her bubble so as not to get tossed out the airlock. Hopefully his music didn't offend her if it could even be heard from the kitchen. Instrumental played from a radio on the countertop.

“You like it hot?” Cook called across the comm. She was probably in the cockpit navigating them to their destination. That left him to breakfast as he stood in a white T-Shirt, blue jeans and a most appropriate apron that came with his baggage. Pun intended. “I’ve got this toki-toki hot sauce that compliments bacon and eggs.” He sniffed. “At least I think it’s bacon.” He blinked at the pan. "Guess we'll find out." It's meat at least. I think. "How about that hot sauce?”

Kinley Pryse

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Oh, the stories I could tell. So many of them true​

Kinley Pryse sat in the cockpit of the borrowed freighter, one boot propped on the console, hands loosely gripping the controls as the stars crawled by. The ship The Larkspur, according to the barely legible registry plate, handled like a drunk droid, sluggish on the pitch and prone to whining during acceleration. She'd flown worse, but not by much. Behind her, the faint clatter of pans and the occasional notes of music drifted from the galley, where her temporary coworker was making something that hopefully wasn't going to stink up the whole cabin. She didn't ask. She didn't care. If he wanted to pretend they weren't about to do something borderline illegal, let him play chef.

Her eyes flicked to the nav screen. They were close. She exhaled slowly and ran a hand through her hair. This whole mission reeked of one of Flint's fast-and-loose special assignments, little info, tight timeline, and a vague threat of 'we'll talk if you screw it up.' Classic.

Unknown cargo, unknown client, unknown destination until the last minute. Just enough plausible deniability for him to walk clean if it all blew up. She would rather have said no to his scummy face. Like she had a choice. A light on the console blinked twice, signaling the rendezvous point was just ahead.

She adjusted the controls, leaning forward, gaze narrowing. Her fingers drummed absently against the panel, the subtle tick-tick-tick betraying nerves she didn't care to admit to herself. This wasn't the kind of job you walked away from if things went sideways. She'd have to be ready, and fast.

"How about that hot sauce?"

"Spicy is fine by me." She called back, though the way her stomach was clenching she wondered if she would be able to eat anything. This was probably his way of dealing with his own nerves, cooking to fill the time. She supposed there were worse ways, and she knew many of them, being a spice dealer and all.

Cook

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Die Shize]

oops

 

[Cook]

“Spicy it is!” Cook grinned, glad that this chick obliged him. My kinda lady. She was kind of like him already, at least in the sense of liking hot sauce. Maybe that counted for something. Maybe not. At the moment, though, he wiped grease from his countenance. The maybe-it’s-bacon spat at him as if to warn him that he might regret eating it come the mornin’. The statement “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” meant something totally different out of context. Just ask the toilet.

Toki-toki added to the dish, add that and this to the pan of bacon and eggs, breakfast finished with a dash of this and a splash of that, and moments passed. Finally, after a dance and a jig, jazz hands, clapping and -click-clacking-, Cook came into the cockpit with a pair of plates. “I didn’t see any peanut butter in this hunk of junk so I settled for almond butter on your toast.” He didn’t know if she liked toast or almond butter to begin with but whatever. “Here you go!”

Breakfast was served as the man sat in the co-pilot’s seat beside the woman. He made sure to keep his plate safely away from the consoles and controls. His father once slapped him in the face with a wet fish for spilling coffee in the cockpit of his ship. Said fish was a gift from his mother. Just a coincidence that this all happened in the same instant. Or was the fish from Dad and was it Mom’s ship?

Cook thought about that as he took a sip of his coffee. It was in a thermos to reduce the risk of spillage. “You know, I’m not too savvy on what this mystery meat is exactly.” He poked at it with his spork. The galley didn’t have any spoons or forks. “But the hot sauce gives it a kick.” He ate the ‘bacon’ and glanced at the viewport, still sat in his apron. He could sit and be bored or talk so he swallowed the egg. “We there yet?”

Kinley Pryse

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

I may not be as young as I once was, but I'm older​

"Thanks," Kinley said quietly, taking the food and setting it carefully beside her. Her hazel eyes remained fixed on the stars beyond the viewport, though she wasn't really seeing them. Her partner was saying something about the food, but his words barely registered. Her stomach was a knot of unease. Something about this job felt... wrong.

"We there yet?"

"Almost. Should be able to land in about ten."

She could feel his eyes on her. Not wanting to bruise his pride, she picked up the toast and took a bite. To her surprise, it was good—really good. Maybe, in another life, before crime twisted the path, he'd been a cook. She chewed slowly, wondering what the galaxy might look like without criminals like them.


"This isn't bad," she said, nodding toward the toast.

Cook

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Cook]

Ten, she said. That meant ten seconds or ten minutes? Couldn’t be ten hours or she wouldn’t have even said it. Either way, he didn’t have time for a shower. Maybe he mentioned somewhere along the way that, because of his ship being broken and hopping between stations to get it fixed, he didn’t have time to change his outfit so had a bit of BO. Deodorant did the trick, he reckoned. So he hoped.

“It isn’t, is it?” Cook was delighted that she agreed. Maybe it was the cook in him who just liked compliments. Granted, it wasn’t hard to pop some slices of bread into the toaster and scrape some butter but those eggs with that bacon? The spice might even make the difference between delicious and mystery meat but, again, they were on the same page at least.

“Try the coffee.” Right, he probably should have offered that first if she didn’t have a cup already but suddenly she did. “I like it strong. Sorry.” Then again, pretty as she was, she seemed to be a pretty tough lady.

“So,” he spoke before chewing his food. Had to give some semblance of being a gentleman. “What do you know about these slavers we’re gonna hit and their cargo?” His eyes went from the viewport toward her eyes and never mind that gorgeous face for the moment anyway. “I mean…really?”

Kinley Pryse