Cuthbert Allgood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wise_ass) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
edge_of_forever2013-10-29 10:37 am
wise_ass) wrote in edge_of_forever2013-10-29 10:37 am
(no subject)
Docking in Dolios in 2 days, friends. If you haven't already given all your have-to-haves to Miss Forbes, come find me this afternoon.
It's been longer than usual since their last trip planetside, almost a month, which means Bert's afternoon and evening should be completely sewn up in orders.
So the shuttle door is open and Bert's inside, slouched in a threadbare damask easy chair with a cigarette burning steadily beside him in its tray. He's using one hand to prop up his tablet and using the other to punch numbers on an outmoded keypad. The room is filled with the smell of tobacco and the musty, slightly spicy smell of antiques and old books and something else that's harder to place, green and herby. This is what passes for the sitting area though there's only one real chair; the rest are metal crates draped in sackcloth and one aggressively saffron leather ottoman. There's a Frankenstein's monster of an apparently digital gramophone playing complacently on the bookshelf across the room, nearby a curtained door that leads to the cockpit.
Bert's frowning at the screen, fingers perched in midair as he considers some of the ingredients he's been asked to source for the sake of Mister Grauza.
"Offal," he mutters to himself, expression slightly curdled as he reluctantly adds it to the list, fingers clicking busily on the pad. "And people say there's no truth in advertising."
Just then, Bert looks up to find someone standing in the doorway.
It's been longer than usual since their last trip planetside, almost a month, which means Bert's afternoon and evening should be completely sewn up in orders.
So the shuttle door is open and Bert's inside, slouched in a threadbare damask easy chair with a cigarette burning steadily beside him in its tray. He's using one hand to prop up his tablet and using the other to punch numbers on an outmoded keypad. The room is filled with the smell of tobacco and the musty, slightly spicy smell of antiques and old books and something else that's harder to place, green and herby. This is what passes for the sitting area though there's only one real chair; the rest are metal crates draped in sackcloth and one aggressively saffron leather ottoman. There's a Frankenstein's monster of an apparently digital gramophone playing complacently on the bookshelf across the room, nearby a curtained door that leads to the cockpit.
Bert's frowning at the screen, fingers perched in midair as he considers some of the ingredients he's been asked to source for the sake of Mister Grauza.
"Offal," he mutters to himself, expression slightly curdled as he reluctantly adds it to the list, fingers clicking busily on the pad. "And people say there's no truth in advertising."
Just then, Bert looks up to find someone standing in the doorway.