star (starspeeder) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-11-07 23:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | !backlog, castor vance, star |
WHO: Castor Vance & Star
WHAT: Cats on a Ship
WHEN: BACKLOGGED (Angie, help)
WHERE: B52
WARNINGS: N/A
It was late at night and everyone was sure to be asleep. Peeking her head out from the kitchen doors, she made her way through the cold hallways of the ship. The small brunette did her best to not let her steps echo throughout the ship. Instead of wearing shoes she wore several layers of socks to keep her feet warm and the metal from clattering. If there was a picture definition of conspicuous it was Star. With the cans and plates she was carrying and the way her head darted around to look for any other crew member-- it was a red flag that she was up to something. She gave one final look around before passing through into the cargo bay. Unfortunately, she hadn't taken into consideration that her surly captain didn't understand the concept of proper sleep, especially at normal hours. Night owls on board would know he wasn't a completely unfamiliar sight, though he attempted elusiveness as when possible, creaking metal permitting. He spied her sneaking about from a corridor away, but said nothing of it, not while distance meant an echo that would have the rest of the crew stirring. Only when she'd disappeared from sight did he pursue, curiosity getting the best of him. With the door shut behind her, she let out a sigh of relief as she pressed her back against it. “Alright guys, brought you some of the good stuff,” she called out to the seemingly empty room. She made hushed calls, shaking one of the bags of kibble she had bought on their last stop. The jingle of a bell and the pitter patter of paws, Star counted the three persian cats she had picked up from Mars. Setting the bowl down, she poured the dry food out for them. “There ya go. Bet you were all hungry, huh?” Crouching down she opened a water bottle and poured that out to a bigger bowl next to them. All of those otherwise quiet sounds bounced off the walls of the cargo bay, falling back toward the threshold of the entrance where Castor had found himself drawn. He hadn't seen them yet, but oh, oh he would. "Star," he prompted, keeping his voice quiet in the meantime, his What the hell are you doing implicit in his tone alone. Star had nearly jumped out of her skin, stumbling forward and spilling the water all over the cargo bay floor. A hand went up to press against her chest where she could feel her heart thumping at a thousand miles per hour. “Oh geez, Cas--” she had almost left it at a nickname, “--tor. You scared me half to death.” She did her best to hide the cats behind her oversized sweater. “What’re you doing here?!” she tried to be loud-- to overpower the jingle. “Everything’s clear here you can go back to your room now.” There was a nervous laugh. Castor was on that laugh in record time. The grated floor was unforgivingly loud as he approached her, a sigh lingering in the bottom of his lungs at the spilt water. "Not until you tell me what the hell you're doing," he shot back without any real anger. Mostly, suspicion that all suspicions would be confirmed: she was up to no good. Not up to no good in the way her brother might have been, but they were cut from the same cloth, sometimes. Star immediately spun back around looking down at the cats. One by one she picked them up and stuffed them underneath her sweater. By the time he had reached her, the pilot now had three wriggling forms underneath her. “No-- It’s really nothing,” there was more nervous laughter. A meow interrupted her at which Star cleared her throat, “I uhh mean meow?” And if looks could kill, they might have tried. "Take them out." There was no room for discussion in that. “What?” she was losing her footing. “N-no. I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s nothing here.” She could feel a fluffy tail slipping past down her arm and poking through the bottom of the sweater. “Captain, are you drunk?” He pointedly ignored that. "Unless you're planning to take up cat juggling, take them out." To punctuate that, a hand was held out, as if whatever fluffy shenanigans were occurring within her sweater could fit within one palm. Star frowned at him, before kneeling down and letting the cats drop from underneath her sweater. Their faces were flat, whiskers crooked and poking everywhere, but one managed to walk towards Castor and rub himself against his leg. “Listen, I can explain everything.” Promise of an explanation didn't make much of a difference as Castor could only manage to stand perfectly still, stiffening at the sensation. God, it was an ugly cat. Correction, three ugly cats. With great hesitation, he lowered into a crouch, securing the wandering fluffball by the scruff of its neck to keep it from wandering into water and stray food. His look back up toward her said everything. The pilot let out a sigh as she pulled out a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. She handed him the flyer. “I mean, it’s kind of like a bounty, right? Missing animals. Besides, look at how much woolongs the lady’ll shell out if we return them. It’s a lot more than the bounty we failed to get the other week. I’m sure it’ll raise the crew’s spirits. I’ll even forfeit my share.” How three ugly cats could amount to anything close to the offered sum for that (failed) bounty, no one could really know. Rich folks with their precious things, with their money growing on trees, could afford this, he realized, uncrinkling it as best he could with one hand as the other restrained his furry friend. "Do I want to know," he began, "how long it took you to hunt down three missing cats?" The one in his hold squirmed, though not from the mention. Castor could vividly imagine her chasing cats down the street, and it was alarming how much so. The two were at eye level, kneeling and crouching on the floor. Star only smiled back at him as she picked up one of the ugly cats, scratching his chin. “It took a couple of days of looking, but I found the three together thankfully so we’ll get the full reward. One of these cats can range up to five thousand woolongs!” Star grinned, motioning to the one Castor had. “That one seems to really like you.” "I'm flattered," he deadpanned, relinquishing his hold just enough to keep the thing from moving so much or making so much noise with its stupid collar. As if on cue, it glanced up at him, squashed face clearly desperate. It made no sense. Five thousand woolongs for a fucking cat? Without realizing, he'd spoken the last part aloud. His comment was enough to cause a frown on the girl’s lips. “They’re pretty rare and besides some people really care for their pets. I’m sure if you had one you’d do whatever you could to get him back.” When she noticed she was frowning, Star forced a smile. “I know I would.” Five thousand woolongs for a person, sure. An animal? Not so likely. That much showed on Castor's face without him having to voice it, and when one of the others began a horrifying approach toward him, he let his captive go. Cats, at least, he could tolerate. Dogs were another story. The second smush face must have had some sort of dislike radar, because it was soon within a foot of him and looking suspiciously anxious to rub its face into his knee. Castor, still crouched, could only shift back some in an attempt to prevent contact, but to no avail. They were coming for him. Star reached out to pick one up and at least now he would only have to deal with one incoming cat. “Did you ever have pets growing up?” she couldn’t help but mindlessly ask. The instinctive answer was No. Upon consideration, however, he thought there might have been a cat once. Something fluffy, something his little brother loved. But that had been too long ago to form any concrete images, so only one reply made sense. "No," he sighed. A pet might have been ideal then, when he'd really needed one. Now, it seemed pointless. She couldn’t help but grin at him, finding this the perfect time to pitch her idea. “You know, I have a cat back at home. He’s kind of like a persian. I mean, a little overweight but super cute. I read that having a pet around helps reduce stress and you’re less likely to have a heart attack. I might help you destress a little. Oh, and he’s litter trained. He’d be really good, I promise.” Whether or not she took a breath in that entire speech was up for debate. And really, all her captain could do was watch her speed through the words, scarcely even catching the idea she was offering until the very end. He made a grab for the first cat again before it could wander away and lose itself, one finger hooking around the jingling collar. "Not happening, Star." The consistent crouching was beginning to tire him; he shifted just slightly. "They—" For fuck's sake. "—can stay here for as long as we return them. I don't care about the reward. Just split it, or don't." Cats didn't belong on a vessel or in space. “I think you should take one,” she watched him with the cat in his arms. “It’ll be an experience!” He doubted that. Animals were needy and messy, and the less of that the better. Besides, these cats didn't belong to them, and woolongs for his crew were a better reward than keeping one. Another sigh left his lips. "Again, not happening. And you're not taking one either," he added, expecting something in that vein to follow. Star frowned again. “Fine,” she paused. “It wasn’t like I wasn’t going to return these cats to her. I mean I bet she really loves them if she’s willing to pay that much for them.” She glanced back over at the captain. “I was going to let them hang out in here, unless you want me to shove them in Kirby’s room. She’s got the space.” A mischievous grin grew on her lips. “Unless you want the company in your room.” No, he most certainly didn't. Company of the human sort could be tolerated, but a cat would find its ass booted out the nearest open door. Probably. Castor couldn't remember the last time he'd touched a cat; they were surprisingly softer than expected. Unconsciously, he dipped his fingers beneath that collar. "Just give them to Kirby. Either way, you're cleaning this all up," he sighed. It wasn't permission per se. It wasn't him punting them out the airlock, either. (Yet.) Whatever, it was progress. |