(Untitled)

[fighting_mad]

There is a tall female pilot inna bar. How long she's been there is anyone's best guess, but Plourr's there all the same, wearing high boots, gray trousers, a loose violet shirt, and a black vest, with a heavy blaster strapped to her thigh. She's sitting at the Bar with a glass of whiskey, flipping through the same book that Bar seems to be

Comments

[i_love_kettch]

Wes peers over her shoulder at the book and says, "Ooh."

Beat.

"Would that work?"

[fighting_mad]

"No," Plourr says with a bit of a residual grin from the laughing she'd been doing just a moment before. She doesn't spare a glance at Wes, studying the drawing of a 19th century revolver. "It would implode with its backward-ness."

Real words? Pff. Who needs them.

[i_love_kettch]

Certainly not pilots. Real words are for lesser people.

"That might be fun, though," Wes muses, "as long as you weren't the one holding it. If it was, say, an enemy using 'em -- hardly any point in fighting, really."

He sits on the stool beside her and deposits his plate of Oreos on Bar. He doesn't, however, bother offering Plourr one.

[fighting_mad]

Plourr is wounded by the non-offering. Really.

"According to this," she stabs a finger at the book, "they fought entire wars with these things, both sides using them. So your imploding theory wouldn't work."