After filling up her own fuel tank, Fierri’s first concern is for the Rebel Priscilla. Armed with the phaser that Penelope tossed her, she makes her way through Zenith and out into the rocky terrain where they last left the ship lying. Considering the atmosphere, the journey may be slow-going even if the sun may have passed. For a brief time, she has the communicator to distract her.
Assuming no one gets in her way, she’ll be doing a security check to make sure no one is skulking around or has tried to break in since their departure. After that, she plans on leaving her newly acquired spare part in the ship and fetching a flashlight (or the future version thereof) to check out the damage on her ship once again, this time to try determining how long she’ll be up putting in the repairs. The Major gave them eight hours of ‘free’ time before they were to meet up inside – she’d kind of like to sneak some sleep in there if she can.
The nights on Draylon are as cold as the days are hot. Not really the preferred temperature for Cardassians in general, but at least the bright sunlight has long since passed and that leaves Dejar willing to wander. She is waiting for the crew to return. Not exactly skulking in the shadows, since her height and width are difficult to miss, but lingering more in the shadows than not.
The head of Jilhari’s security grunts a greeting and tosses a heavy bag at the short engineer. It’s full of weapons. Not exactly the phasers that were checked in at the gate earlier, but a comparable replacement, as a gesture.
Hard to sneak around when you’re a big bitch like that. When Fierri first sees her, a hand touches her phaser before first, she realizes what and who it is, and second, she decides Jilhari’s bouncer probably isn’t here to kill her. Not her style, Fierri thinks, not after seeing the space pirate run that Benarbastard through in front of everyone. She clearly doesn’t mind an audience – hell, maybe she enjoys putting on a show. In any case, she had both.
Makes her wonder.
The Trill’s hand snaps up from her phaser to catch the bundle instead. She doesn’t open it, but gets a feel for its contents in the dark. Ranged weapons usually end up having the same shape no matter who makes them. Fierri doesn’t say thanks, she says:
“I’ve never met a Cardassian before. The headgear kind of reminds me of Klingons.” I fucking hate Klingons. A slight tilt of her head. “I’ve heard they’re pretty clever, though. Good conversationalists.”
They must have broke the mold when they made you, big girl. Or did they?
The expression is mirrored at the mention of Klingons, the last war the Cardassian Union fought was against the infamously crainial ridged species. But it’s another long moment before Dejar acknowledges verbally. “You might have heard that we’re civilized too.” One of those rumors was more or less truthful. Most Cardassian’s did have a way with turning a phrase. They considered intelligence a primary priority in raising their young.
“That doesn’t count for much here.”
And Dejar didn’t seem to have a problem with that.
In spite of her generally stoic personality, there is a brief flash of curiosity when she glanced over to the hull of the Rebel Priscilla. Assessing the damage, and more than likely, trying to figure out if it was equipped with offensive measures. (yes, but not obviously so)
You checking out her girl, Cardassian?
“Pretty impressive spread for a bunch of barbarians.” And not a fighting pit in sight, unless you wanted to count some of the more frantic types of dancing. She didn’t. “As feudalism goes, you could probably do worse.”
Dejar doesn’t argue with that assessment of Jilhari at least. The loyalty is a forceful thing, probably the same could been seen between the relationships of the Major and her girls.
“She’s a good boss.” But not a perfect one, the Cardassian hesitates slightly as if thinking, and overthinking what should be said.
“Better than working for Tash.”
“Tash had a job for us to do,” Fierri reveals, honest and unconcerned. She doesn’t shrug, but it’s in her tone. Her crew? They’re mercenaries now, for better or worse. They go where the money lies, where that offer is sweetest. They’re in the market, perhaps, to be convinced.
“Listen, I need to start up some repairs, and I’m gonna crank her on for a bit. You wanna stick around and pick up some heat, you’re welcome to it.”
That said, Fierri heads up into the ship. Assuming she doesn’t have an uninvited follower, she’ll essentially be putting her ship in park, letting it somewhat quietly purr away until she comes out with her equipment. If Dejar’s still around, Fierri will indeed gesture for the Cardassian to join her. The Trill seems much more at ease with her equipment box, even if she’s now got a phaser strapped to her waist.
The idea seems to tempt Dejar inwardly, a silent hulking shadow that fills up quite a bit of the Rebel Priscilla’s limited space. No stranger to tinkering, it seems, Dejar offers an extra pair of hands to pass tools and hold equipment like a lost packmule. The silence seems comfortable for a while. Until the Cardassian once again breaks it.
“Do you know what Vulcans and Orions have in common?” It isn’t the start of a bad joke. Though it could be.
“They don’t run on iron blood.” Unlike the majority of humanoids.
After dropping this bit of general observation, Dejar stands and begins to head out of the ship. Leaving one last parting comment. “We’re going to find him.”
No matter what, was the implication.