(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f5/MalePilot.jpg)<br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">Alexander Briggs, Former Alliance Deputy</span></span><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Character Sheet</div><div class="spoiler_body">Attributes:<br/>Mental D10<br/>Physical D8<br/>Social D6<br/><br/>Skills (Specialties):<br/>Craft D6<br/>Fix D6<br/>Fly D12 (Pursuit)<br/>Focus D8<br/>Know D8 (Alliance Military)<br/>Notice D10 (Investigation)<br/>Operate D8 (Security Systems)<br/>Shoot D10<br/>Survive D6<br/>Throw D6<br/><br/>Distinctions:<br/>Ship's Pilot D8<br/>Obsessive D8<br/>Alliance Record D8<br/><br/>Signature Assets:<br/>Gold Pen D6<br/>Lucky Gas Mask D6<br/><br/></div></div><br/><br/><strong>Six months earlier…</strong><br/><br/><em>Jack Ryder must die.<br/><br/>Death to Ryder.<br/><br/>I <span class="bbc_u">will</span> <span class="bbc_u">kill</span> Jack Ryder.</em><br/><br/>The messages covered the walls of the office, iterated over and over like a mantra. On bad days, the words were scrawled straight onto the plaster; on worse days, carved with whatever hard edge came to hand. Standing like islands among this sea of madness were signs of a more productive mood – maps pierced by coloured pins, crime reports with notes scribbled in the margins, schematics of Ryder’s ship – though far from being redemptive, they merely told of a patient side to the author’s obsession. Taken as a whole, the room looked like the den of some maniacal serial killer. In actuality, it belonged to a maniacal Alliance deputy.<br/><br/>Two men regarded the room in melancholy silence, each holding a beer in one hand and a rubbish sack in the other. At length, one of them gave a thoughtful whistle before speaking.<br/><br/>“Well… guess you can finally cross this of your to-do list. What’s next, deputy?”<br/>“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Alexander replied. “Huh. Guess I’ll have to find a hobby, or something.”<br/><br/>The pair studied the room a few moments longer, before Alexander drained the last of his beer and gestured for the cleaner to do the same. “Come on, Rob. I don’t need this stuff anymore.”<br/><br/>They started tearing the various charts and notes off the walls, condensing a vendetta of five years into a few sacks of rubbish. They weren’t far into the task before Rob – the station’s cleaner and unofficial counsellor – regarded Alexander with a sideling glance.<br/><br/>“I thought you’d be happier about this, deputy. Ryder killed three of the marshals you worked for, and left you humiliated or stranded ‘Verse knows how many times.”<br/>“I guess. It’s just…” Alexander shrugged, then sighed. “I don’t know. It won’t be the same going back to work now he’s actually dead. There’s still some small fry trying their luck at smuggling, but he was the only real threat to Alliance enforcement around here.”<br/>“And now you’re upset that the Alliance has won.”<br/><br/>Alexander tensed, and kept his tone cautiously neutral as he turned to the other man. “That’s not what I said…”<br/>By way of response, Rob’s weathered face broke into a sly grin. “Let me rephrase, then. You love the Alliance, but you also love the thrill of the chase. With Ryder dead, you feel like a big-game hunter who’s just shot the last bloodthirsty tiger, and now there’s nothing left to hunt.”<br/>Uncertain of where the other man was going, Alexander was wise enough to stay silent… but his poker-face had started to waver. Rob pressed on, knowing he’d hit a nerve:<br/><br/>“Ever occur to you that’s why Ryder never actually killed you? Maybe he didn’t<em>want</em>his trail to go cold. Maybe he loved the chase more than he loved his career.”<br/>“And now you reckon I’ve got a similar choice to make,” Alexander said, finishing the line of thought.<br/><br/>Rob pretended not to hear – pretended the entire conversation hadn’t taken place, for that matter. “Say, deputy… you keeping this Ryder voodoo doll?”<br/><br/><hr/><br/><strong>Present day…</strong><br/><br/>The last job had ended in a<em>spectacular</em>chase, Alexander admitted to himself. He usually preferred to stay back on the ship to run diagnostics and do whatever small repairs he could, but such magnificent victories demanded celebrations. Besides, a close shave and last second triumph tended to work up one hell of a thirst. That was something Alliance and smugglers both had in common, regardless of which side of the fence he belonged these days.<br/><br/>Alexander was still a little hazy on what exactly went down on the last job: one second was he babysitting the ship while the others “sealed the deal”, and the next instant everyone was rocketing up the cargo ramp, screaming at him to take off. There was also something about Clay having an arse full of buckshot, but Alexander was happy to remain ignorant on that particular detail. It’d been close…<em>bloody</em>close… but the Thundercracker could give any interceptor a run for its money, and by some miracle (and a not insignificant amount of piloting skill, according to Alexander), they’d made it out largely intact and with the hard-won cash in hand.<br/><br/>Glancing around the bar, Alexander got the impression he was in a minority of people following the tavern’s titular prerogative. It couldn’t be helped, though: concealing weapons wasn’t really his thing. He was used to wearing a gun as a deterrent, not hiding it as a surprise. Still, aside from the name, reputation, location, clientele, and general atmosphere, No Guns Allowed wasn’t so bad. If nothing else, it had alcohol and the promise of work, both of which were duly appreciated. After carrying his share of the drinks back to the table Michal had so generously freed up, Alexander gestured to the selection.<br/><br/>“For those who don’t want the bourbon: vodka and whiskey.”<br/><br/>He poured himself a glass of the latter, and raised his glass in an informal toast.<br/><br/>“To a job well done… and to Clay’s arse, which stopped a shotgun shell hitting anything important.”<br/>