ten_fwd_ooc | TEST DRIVE #3 - Alien Bazaar/Ten Forward

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test drives

TEST DRIVE #3 - Alien Bazaar/Ten Forward

Option 001. Alien planet, marketplace: So you're new to this whole space travel thing. The ship is cool and all, but there are hundreds of alien worlds out there. You want to explore. To see what the universe REALLY looks like.

Well, here's your chance! Your first stop is this lovely indoor marketplace, which looks kind of like a mall. There are stalls one after the other as far as the eye can see, and they sell all kinds of things: food, clothes, trinkets, animals, fabrics, jewelry, perfumes, books, etc etc. Some things look human, easy to recognize; other things look very alien. There are two levels, and constant chatter as people hawk their wares and discuss prices.

Do you want to explore? Poke at the weird shops? Buy a gift for a new friend? Flirt with someone at the food court? Maybe you see a pickpocket, and must run to the aid of the victim. Maybe there's some other villainy afoot. After all, a crowded marketplace is a good place for villains to lurk, causing trouble. Whether you're a hero or just an unassuming traveler, there proves to be some adventure for you on this planet.

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Option 002. Aboard the Enterprise, Ten Forward: You have no idea what just happened. One minute you were home, and now you're on a spaceship, in the middle of a crowded room. It looks like a bar. There are people eating and drinking, some in uniform, others not. Some are clearly aliens.

You've managed to land in Ten Forward a long bar with barstools and a bartender, tables sprinkled throughout, and the far wall is nothing but windows out to space. It looks like a nice lounge, low conversation making the room hum.

Better ask some questions and find out where you are, or just tap the closest person on the shoulder and try to make friends. The bar is open.

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A bazaar! Phryne simply adores bazaars, and this one may very well be the most exceptional collection of exotic items she has ever viewed. Dot would be crossing herself, and Jack would give his crossest look, but Phryne flips the filmy end of her stole back across her shoulder, and strides forward into the marketplace, heels tapping out a vibrant rhythm. She fancies it matches the heartbeat of this strange, otherworldly place -- or her own, which has never been able to plod along at the usual sedate pace.

Why walk when you can dance, after all?

But it's a point of fact that, as her things are still in Melbourne and the replicators hardly a good judge of the finer fabrics, she's in a mood to make some purchases. That glorious burgundy satin, for example -- a stunning color.

Perhaps there's a tailor here, too? After all, though she lacks the customary currency for this particular marketplace, Miss Fisher is never without something of value to trade.

"What about Senator Navarro? What did those digs..."

A man in a, clearly military, uniform pauses, having been winked in mid-sentance. His eyes widen as he looks around, startled.

The man is Captain John "Black Jack" Geary, temporary Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, and this is not where he expected to be.

After his deliberations with the Alliance Grand Council, he and Co-President of the Callas Republic, and member of the Alliance Senate, Victoria Rione, had stepped outside...

...now Rione was nowhere to be found and Geary found himself in some sort of swank bar. He pales, looking around a bit more.frantically.

"Ancestors preserve me..." He mutters under his breath.

It's been a long time since Simon could set foot in a public place without constantly wanting to look over his shoulder.

Every inhabited planet Serenity has landed on, he's been on the lookout for Alliance Federals. Even before he left Osiris, he'd been on edge, waiting for someone to realize what he was planning. Waiting for it all to go wrong. Being on Serenity had helped, of course, but there have been so many close shaves and the stakes are so high he's never allowed himself to relax.

But here, the Alliance doesn't exist. He doesn't exist.

There may be no River here with him on the Enterprise, but there's no arrest warrant out for him either.

So he's wandering, hands in his pockets, around the bazaar, stopping every now and then to finger the fabric on a dress that would be pretty on River, or Kaylee, and wishing they were there.

Simon glances up from a shawl he'd been admiring. There may not be any point in looking for gifts for River in this place, not knowing if or when he'll be able to return to her, but he can't help it.

All her life, he's looked out for things to make River smile, and that lifetime's habit isn't one he can break.

The clicking of shoes makes him look up as a woman passes, dressed in clothes unlike anything he knows, but with a richness about them that remind him of times long past, of a life that wasn't stuck on the edges of civilization with the people the Core's forgotten.

When she pauses to look at some fabric, he smiles.

"They have some nice things, don't they?"

Phryne -- used to being picked out of a crowd -- wears the attention of others like a glamorous coat she can slip on or shrug off at whim, and so when she turns to the speaker, it's with a luminous, ready smile and a total lack of surprise.

"Simply divine."

There's a particular sashay to her walk: Phryne goes everywhere as if she's modeling the latest fashions. Shoulders back, steps precise -- but there's a flow to the way she moves that mimics the fabric floating against her legs and shoulders with every motion. Reaching out, she fingers the shawl he's been studying, and smiles again. "What a lovely choice."

Her accent is unfamiliar, but here, on the Enterpise and on the worlds it visits, that shouldn't be a surprise. Still, there's something comforting about the way she speaks, like hearing Inara's carefully enunciated vowels after a week on an Outer Rim backwater world.

She stands and walks like a society lady from Osiris, though from her clothes, she's no such thing. He thinks she came with the group from the Enterprise along with Simon, and that would mean that she may be from another world, another time. Perhaps she's the equivalent in her own world.

She certainly has an eye for the fine; some of the things in the bazaar are the sort of junk you see in the souvenir shops that cluster around wherever ships dock all over the Outer Rim. This stall, though, has beautiful things. Things that remind him of the life he'd once had, of the precious parts of that life he still clings to though they're left so far behind.

"I have a sister. Back home." When it's cold in deep space, she likes to take things from Inara's quarters and wrap herself in them. This could be something to wrap herself in of her own. "I think she'd like it."

"How thoughtful."

She draws out the how and emphasizes the thoughtful, with a coy little curve of her mouth and a frank gaze interrupted only by the bat of kohl-black eyelashes -- the entire effect is one of very nearly teasing, but as if it's an inside joke between two old and intimate friends. From nearly anyone else, it would seem supercilious: from Phryne, it is merely natural inclination. Taking anything seriously -- particularly something as mundane as meeting a new acquaintance -- runs rough against her nature. "I'm sure she'll love it. You have quite a fine eye."

He's also dressed more fashionably than others she's seen walking about, with his hair slicked neatly down, and a strong-jawed, handsome face. She puts her hand out, with unfettered amiability: between her gloved fingers is an engraved calling card, styled in the best of quiet taste. "Phryne Fisher."

Along the way, there's a young man trying on a few different fedoras. He seems to be enjoying making "cool" faces in the mirror a bit more than considering which of the hats he prefers. He's off in his own little world, so much so that he doesn't notice Simon's there until he reaches for another hat blindly and whacks him in the arm. "Ah, sorry," he gave him a nod.

Bond isn't so much shopping for anything but ... keeping an eye on things. In essence, acting like a security guard without actually being one.

He'd be the first to admit he's something of a workaholic, a man intensely dedicated to his job, but this? This need to do something is ridiculous. He hasn't had a decent vacation in years. He hasn't really needed one and never requested one. But he's been fine all this time; nothing to worry about.

He can't help but make a mental note of the woman in the stall with him, watching her like he watches everything else. Her clothing is dated in a way much of that blasted spaceship's patrons is out of sync with his own time (and vice versa). 1920's, he'd guess, and from a lot of money.

Time off isn't something Bond does well, so this moment of perusing fabrics is an act, really.

"Ma'am."

"Well. Hello."

Her voice is throaty and low, perfectly modulated, as elegant as her clothing and carriage, but when she gives her new acquaintance an appraising glance up and down, there's a distinctly amused sparkle in her eyes, as if she's been waiting for him all this time and has known him for a thousand years already.

Phryne has built herself a perfect formula of facades. She's the sultry voice and knowing eyes of seduction, the bubbly grace of a polished hostess, a hidden dagger in a garter belt, and she's perfectly self-possessed -- even while speaking with a strange man in a marketplace some unimaginable distance from her own time and place. Not a thing dents her ready smile as it curves towards him. "Looking for a souvenir to bring back home?"

There's the slight quirk of Bond's eyebrows as he shifts his gaze from the woman back to the fabric in his hands.

He nods, a slow smile appearing over his lips.

"Well, one never knows when intergalactic fabric might become ... valuable back home," he replies with an equally self-possessed manner. "And yourself?"

"What a wonderfully opportunistic outlook."

Phryne doesn't necessarily mean it as an insult: she would certainly describe herself as opportunistic without batting an eye, and butter wouldn't melt in her perfectly tinted mouth.

She doesn't believe him, of course. It's obvious that this man has excellent taste in clothing -- his suit is sharply cut and professionally tailored, the sleek lines skimming over a build that she thinks is more brutish than the fine fabric would lead her to believe -- but he isn't sifting through this fabric with a seller's eye, seeking out the best quality for the lowest price.

Whatever business he's in, it certainly isn't fabric.

She lifts an elegant, gloved hand, and waves it. "I seem to have misplaced most of my wardrobe, I'm afraid -- or, rather, it misplaced me. I thought I might come out here to see about some replacements in the meanwhile."

Reaching out, she unhooks a flowing, sapphire blue piece that might be a gown or might simply be a particularly ambitious scarf; either way, if worn, it would undoubtedly show enough more than her current ensemble to require the use of an excellent skin cream. Holding it against herself so the fabric slinks against her body, she bats a guileless glance at him. "What do you think? Is it my color?"

Edited 2014-06-25 03:49 (UTC)

It's been some time since Adama's set foot on a planet, longer still to have the luxury of wandering around a market. The fleet didn't have anything like it and the last time he was on a planet Starbuck had ended up a constable and he had a Siress hanging off his arm coercing him into kissing her. Here however, there's no Colonial fleet, no Galactica, his children aren't about and he's honestly lost among the foreign items presented before him, and he's rather enjoying it when he's not worrying over the hows of being here. At least here he doesn't have the Council harassing him or has to worry over Cylons, at least so far.

Dressed still in his uniform of blue with silver trim, he picks up a bottle and looks at it with narrowed eyes before lifting an eyebrow at the vendor trying to sell the full bottle to him. "And you are certain it's ambrosia?"

Finding the beverage was hard enough back home after the destruction of the colonies, but here? He's honestly shocked, after everything else being different he hadn't expected finding it and he's a little uncertain on if it's a true piece of home or not.

Andrew had just gotten off the bus. It is offically summer break for him. He had loosened the collar of his shirt and undone the buttons to his coat. There had been a meeting earlier in the day because there had been some questions about what to do with him next year.

The school wants to have him in faster classes. He supposes he is okay with that just so long as they don't try to force the issue when it comes to talking. He doesn't care for being really chatty.

"Bernie!" He had expected to meet his dog on the way up the drive way. He blinks when it is no longer very sunny or in the low eighties. He blinks even more at the strange outfits people are in.

He frowns and sets his book bag down at a mostly empty table then tries to get an adult's attention. "Excuse me? I... I really don't think I'm supposed to be here. This isn't my Aunt's house."

This is very upsetting right now. He wants his dog.

"It suits you."

There's the faintest trace of something more than politeness in his voice, quite intentional - but it's easy enough to miss. Bond, after all, is still assessing this woman.

She is not like the others he'd met so far on the Enterprise. Most of them are too honest, too transparent with their intentions, feelings, and thoughts. It isn't particularly a bad thing - just predictable. Almost boring.

He isn't sure what to make of her, just yet, but that isn't a particularly bad thing either.

Phyrne hears that shifting tone, and smiles: she narrows on that sort of sound like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Hmm," she says, airy, flipping the garment back to cast a critical eye over it, "no, I don't think so. This, though --"

It's the wine-colored satin from before; she presses it to her collarbone and lifts her eyebrows at him in a pleased smile. "It makes more of a statement, I think."

Before he can comment, however, both garments are hung with a quick motion, and her gloved hand is held out to shake. "Phryne Fisher."

Edited 2014-06-26 01:55 (UTC)

"James Bond," Bond replies, taking her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fisher."

This might be the first day since he was 'winked' (that's the term they use, isn't it?) onto the Enterprise that he isn't completely unimpressed.

Alien species, other planets, and markets such as this one are not exactly things he'd run to. If this were a mission, it'd be an entirely different thing, what with it having a purpose (and also involving the ability to shoot at things). But as far as kidnappings go, he'd much prefer a beach house in the Bahamas with bottomless martinis and beautiful women in very little clothing.

"You seem rather at home here."

"It certainly is, Mr. Bond."

She hasn't actually stopped smiling since she looked up to see him, but it's continually shifting: here, touched by faint amusement; there, flashing white and genuine. For all she stands out, Phryne prefers a chameleon's approach to expression. Never give everything away -- where's the fun in that?

"Oh, I suppose one bazaar is much like another. To be frank, I haven't seen anything quite like this since Marrakesh."

Melbourne is shockingly limited when it comes to open air markets. She lends him another enigmatic smile. "Perhaps I was hoping to stretch my legs off the ship. Holograms and storybooks come to life are all very well, but I much prefer that which I can touch as well as see."

Edited 2014-06-26 03:48 (UTC)

The thing Noriko is truly, honestly loving is that there are people here. People with all kinds of looks--and someone who was nice enough to put her hair in cornrows once she described said look to them, which she is tossing around with the loose strip down the middle of her head adorned with the plastic beads she had in when she showed up.

"Oooh, pretty red," she says, stopping by where Phryne--not that she knows the lady--is.

Oh boy.

Oh boy. This is not Barclay's strong suit--he's a systems diagnostic engineer, so his strong suit is scanning things and figuring out what's wrong. He's happiest when left to his own devices, to sort out problems, but this seems to be happening lately--people appearing, and he's the closest one at hand to help them figure it out.

"Uh," he says. "No, this is the Enterprise."

The slight swell of panic does not just come from Andrew. He blinks at Barclay because boy that uniform is strange looking. He hasn't seen anything like it before. That is because in the time period Andrew is from Starfleet is not a thing.

"But we don't live near a Naval base," Andrew said looking even more confused scrunching up his nose a bit.

"We're in space," he says, with a hesitant gesture toward the windows.

And the starry void beyond.

What do people normally say in these situations?

"Uh, but it's safe. We're a very safe ship."

Andrew's gaze shifts over to the view screens that show the void of space with the stars silently twinkling out there. He blinks like an owlet then gapes like a fish because holy cow!

"I..." He looks up at Barclay then at the stars. "Okay. But I'm really not supposed to be here. My Aunt is not going to be happy. This isn't like missing the bus at school. I..."

He tries to keep calm. "How am I supposed to get home?"

He wants Bernie.

"You can't," he says. "Not yet."

That was probably the wrong thing to say. Sometimes it's hard for him to put statements in a good order--while it's technically true, it's probably not the way to start out.

"There's a... an omnipotent being and he brings people here. He says he'll return everybody, so--so you'll get home. We just don't know when."

And he gets walked into by some scrawny teenager who wasn't there a second ago and apparently has a great deal of timing because he managed to walk into someone who wasn't there a second ago.

"Ow! Fuckit!"

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TEST DRIVE #3 - Alien Bazaar/Ten Forward

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John Geary | The Lost Fleet | Ten Forward

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Adama | Battlestar Galactica (1978)

Andrew McKee | Original Character | Ten Forward

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Re: Andrew McKee | Original Character | Ten Forward

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Re: John Geary | The Lost Fleet | Ten Forward