flybywash (
flybywash) wrote in
milliways_bar2005-07-26 10:12 pm
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Wash is in his booth, blueberries at one elbow and coffee at the other. In front of him are a slowly shifting digital map of one sector of his galaxy -- a couple of planets are scattered across it, along with markers for fuel points and major trading ports -- and a notebook scratched full of equations. His forehead's creased a little in concentration as he leans over them.
Two fuel points within reasonable distance of Illyria: one four hours before, if they burn carefully enough, the other six hours out the other side. No telling yet exactly how much havoc the shields'll play with the engine and their reserves, but....
Absently, he nibbles a blueberry and jots down a few more numbers.
Two fuel points within reasonable distance of Illyria: one four hours before, if they burn carefully enough, the other six hours out the other side. No telling yet exactly how much havoc the shields'll play with the engine and their reserves, but....
Absently, he nibbles a blueberry and jots down a few more numbers.
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She concentrates on speaking the pidgin, and not on just speaking, in hopes that the bar won't translate it. "THERE'S TOO MANY ROUGH NOISES, AND CONSONANTS ARE DIFFERENT," she says - and as the bar complies and doesn't translate it, she sounds rather like a cougar growling to itself.
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"Please don't eat me," he says before he can stop himself.
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"Like you're growling in a 'hey, that man in the bright shirt looks like he'd make a good lunch' kind of way? Yeah."
He's smiling now, though. Maybe a bit nervously, but it's a smile.
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She decides not to mention, yet, that kif can't stomach eating food that's already dead.