It was nearly dusk on Beaumont, in the city. It was bustling like any other large city, these days. The lights started to kick on. The night life was starting to come out. All the underground. The gangsters. All the freaks and geeks.<br/><br/>One man, who was hanging around the dry docks seemed to be particularly particularly vexed about something. His clothes and exposed skin were smudged with what seemed like engine grease and metal shavings. His name was Reed Owens. He captained a firefly sitting comfortably in the dry dock, and it was comfortably burning a hole in his pocket. He grumbled inaudibly as he flipped through the clipboard he had in his hands with some serious vigor as he grew more and more unhappy with each passing moment.<br/><br/>At a moment's notice, Reed stopped fiddling with the papers and brought the clipboard to his side as he started walking hurriedly towards the aft of his ship. "Tristan?" he shouted. "Tristan! What in the sphincter of hell is going on with this? We've been parked here for a week and we got a job waiting for us! Not to mention this stay here is burnin' a hole in my pocket larger than any of us can afford. He continued to the aft passing along the port side of his ship where he noticed that once again, the paint burned off his hull and once again, that stupid sign showed its resilience. "And why is the gorram oaty bar still tattooed to my boat?"