<div align="center"><strong>-=Simeon Gaorong - Simeon's quarters - Day one hundred twenty-seven =-</strong></div><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Days are more subjective in the less terrestrial of abodes but Simeon had a count all the same. His mind was his calendar in addition to planner and myriad other tasks for which many of his peers had become reliant upon computers to track. Alarm clock, for instance. There was one beside his bunk, yes, but it was robbed of ever ringing since his occupation of the space began some months previous to that day. He was the epitome of dependability, rising more timely than clockwork to still the alarm before it sounded. Then he would sit, legs over the side of the rack, his hands furrowed in his hair, to wait for his thoughts conscious and unconscious to reconcile. Some would call it meditation. Some not including Simeon.<br/><br/>The upper deck's shower was at the opposite corner from his quarters; every morning he made the circuit clockwise, passing by the unoccupied cabin rather than go by that of the first mate while wearing only his boxers and a wrapped towel. Though it had never happened yet, and indeed seemed unlikely, the chance of possibly showing unexpected - and unasked for - portions of himself to her while she was exiting her cabin was not worth taking.<br/><br/>His shower was routine: two minutes, top to bottom, always cold.<br/><br/>Upon returning his towel resumed its place across the low grip railing near the fold-away sink and the man himself took up position at the nearby mirror. And so began the ritual. Simeon was no fop to spend ages on his appearance, nor one to make use of makeup or the like in his day-to-day life, but he did not cast it aside as pure vanity either. Appearance is communication as much as voice, word, movement, and he recognized the value of conveying one message rather than another. They were going to Persephone; by all accounts they intended to do business both selling and buying: selling service, buying goods. That meant negotiation with all sorts, likely of a low caliber overall but not unanimously so. Too much and they would think him little more than a mark, someone to squeeze; too little and he might come off vulnerable as some xi-niu da-bian with a bounty or worth a ransom. It was all about sending the right message.<br/><br/>The orange tie would do. The one with the subtle brown stain at the bottom, the one he hadn't tried overly hard to wash out. A hint of old blood often struck the right balance of suggesting the threat without making it, to those with the sense to notice anyway. With that settled he needed only a few minutes to put things in order: black slacks over polished combat boots (one had to make some concessions for practicality, particularly in the matter of footwear), white shirt under black button-down vest, simple brass cuff links stained to closer match the tone of the tie, the tie itself, and a black suit jacket over it all. The hip holster for his sidearm looked somewhat out of place with the ensemble, but it suited the man wearing it just fine. A quick comb through his pepper-and-salt hair and he was ready for work, roughly fifteen minutes after waking.<br/><br/>Or would be ready for work. Right after breakfast.</span></span>