Captain Archer strode into the cargo bay at 16:30, knowing that he still had half an hour before departure but wanting to check that all of the arrangements were in place. He had attracted more than a few startled glances from the crewmembers he had passed in the corridors, but he'd paid them little heed. He wore tan coloured trousers, a black t-shirt with a white skull emblazoned across the front; and an old denim jacket that had been patched and faded with age. At his waist was a heavy holster; the tattoos on his arms still itched slightly but Phlox had done a good job of making them look like they'd been there forever. His hair had been cut to a very short buzz-cut, giving him a more menacing air. A thick silver chain hung around his neck and the tattoo of a spider on the side of his face was just a little bit too realistic and had made him jump when he'd first looked in the mirror. He strolled into the cargo bay, and was met by Trip. They both did an immediate double-take, and then smiled in amused recognition as they took in each other's appearances.
"Cap'n! Wouldn't want to meet you in a dark alley dressed like that."
Archer laughed; "It's 'Jack', Trip. You've got to get into the habit of calling me Jack."
"Then you gotta call me 'Charlie'," Trip's face twisted in distaste, "Malcolm said I agreed to it. Truth is I wasn't really listening at the time."
"Keep the sour look, it suits your pirate persona," Archer grinned.
Trip glared at him, but stood aside so that Archer could stow his luggage in the hold of the Chanteloup. The quarters were extremely cramped but functional. The cockpit was narrow and housed the navigational console with a single pilot's chair, while the optional co-pilot sat to the left to monitor secondary systems when necessary. The cockpit was cramped but there was a sofa available for passengers. Beyond the cockpit, there was a small room which contained both a kitchen and a workbench with tools. Next door to this was what looked like a short corridor, but which was in fact the crew quarters – two fold-down single beds were tucked up against the bulkhead while not in use. Clearly it was intended that someone was going to be awake at all times, with only two beds between the three of them. To the left at the end of this sleeping area was a tiny bathroom, and beyond this were the cargo bay and the engine core. Archer nodded in approval; it certainly looked the part of a smuggler's ship.
"How's Malcolm getting on?" Archer asked, conversationally, "Have you seen him yet?"
Trip snorted; "Mr Woolf, you mean? He left about an hour ago to get changed. He seemed to think I was still too clean."
"Three days flight with no shower, Trip – sorry, 'Charlie' – it'll wear off soon enough."
"Great, sounds lovely," Trip groused.
Trip had just finished showing Archer around the basic controls and functions of the heavily modified Orion scout ship, when they heard the cargo bay door open. They exchanged a glance, and then headed to the shuttle hatch to greet the third member of the party. Archer knew what to expect; still, it was a surprise to see Reed in his get-up. Trip, who had not had any kind of forewarning, almost fell out of the shuttle.
"Malcolm?!" he exclaimed, incredulously.
Archer could not prevent the smile that spread across his face. The normally stoic and reserved Reed was wearing black leather trousers with heavy-looking, metal-studded boots. He wore a tight-fitting black tee-shirt and a black leather jacket with the sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows. He had also gained tattoos; a snake coiled around his left forearm, surrounded by flames. His right hand and arm were covered with stylised patterns in a tribal style. On the left hand side of his neck, a black outline of a wolf's head howled in silhouette against a full moon. Reed's hair had been dyed a jet black and gelled up into spikes. He had a gold hoop in his right ear and a distinctive silver cross hung on a chain around his neck. He was sporting a rough yet stylish goatee. The holster on his belt at his right hand side held an energy weapon that Archer could not identify; he had a knife strapped to his right thigh, and he had a rifle slung across his back on a leather strap.
"Who're you callin' Malcolm?" the figure before them took a step forward, "Ain't never heard of no Malcolm. Name's Woolf. Kyle Woolf... but you can call me 'Mr. Woolf'. And don't you forget it, mates."
The smile he gave them was chilling to behold; Archer and Trip exchanged wide-eyed looks. Archer was beginning to realise he had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Reed – 'Mr. Woolf' – shouldered his rifle, and strode aboard the shuttle, carelessly flinging his bag on the floor and hanging his rifle on a hook beside the hatch. Archer noted the action was done so casually that Reed must have done it hundreds of times when he had been forced to live as Kyle Woolf in deep cover. He reflected on how easy it was to slip into old habits, as Reed dropped into the pilot's seat, and began to power up the systems, running through the pre-flight checks with practiced ease.
"Shut the bloody door, would you, Jack? There's about to be one helluva breeze in here if you don't."
Trip nudged the stunned Archer with a chuckle; "He means you... Jack."
"Oh! Yes, of course..." Archer reached out and closed the hatch.
With that, the cargo bay depressurised, and they left behind the last traces of civilisation that they would see for some time.
"Modified Vulcan neural inhibitor or phased particle hand pistol?"
"Uh... which is better?"
"You'd better have the inhibitor, Charlie, it's less likely to blow up in your hand. This is stun, this is kill, don't mix the two up if you gotta ask any questions after the shootin' stops, got it?"
"Yes, Mr Woolf."
"Good lad. Jack, you've got this – an Orion disruptor. Be bloody careful with it, the stun setting hurts like a bastard – it'll put a human out for the best part of two days and probably leave the poor sod with one helluva hangover."
It was going to take Archer a long, long time to get over having listened to his stiff and proper armoury officer talking with such a slurred accent; it was still distinctly British, but a much more regional, indistinct version than the very correct way in which Malcolm spoke as Lt. Reed, peppered with colourful idioms and occasional swearing. Archer was realising more and more that there was a lot more to Reed than he had ever imagined.
"Uh, right, thanks Mr Woolf."
Reed stepped back from the weapons locker, pleased to note that his two 'lads' were looking more the part. Three days of close confinement, working on the Chanteloup and a lack of a shower or shave had taken their toll; all three of the men looked dirty, scruffy and rough, with thick stubble and hardened, weary expressions. Trip and Archer had learned quickly; their language even between themselves had become coarser and they were finally referring to each other appropriately. Reed grimaced to himself as he turned away; the first time he'd told Archer to "just do as you're fuckin' told, Jack", he'd thought the captain was going to have a fit. The truth was he'd forgotten himself for a moment and had simply reacted as Kyle Woolf when Archer had queried something. This mission was going to be harder than he had thought; he would have to walk a very fine line between Mr Woolf and Lt. Reed; he could not just be one or the other as he would have preferred.
"Right, lads, there's one more thing to do before we land," he said, reaching into a compartment in a storage locker and pulling out a marker pen, "you gotta know that the folks down in '66 don't like talkin', so don't talk unless you're talked to. You can say everythin' you need to with your face. They got a code down there and as long as you got the right symbols they'll know what you want without you sayin' a bloody word."
Reed turned to face the dirty, tiny mirror on the inside of his locker door. He drew a thick, black line under his left eye.
"What does that mean?" Trip asked, as Reed turned to him and drew the same line under his left eye.
"Means you're lookin' for somethin', Charlie," Reed told him, as he drew on Archer's face as well, "and this here – this means you're willin' to pay good money for it."
He drew three small triangles underneath the line. He then drew two small diagonal, dotted lines next to the triangles, followed by an upside down 'V' shape.
"This means that we're lookin' for information," he pointed to the two lines, "an' this here means the information we're lookin' for is about Starfleet. This next one says we're workin' for Orions, so no bugger'll think we're in it for ourselves and try to take us out before the biddin' starts."
He drew a circle with a squiggly line on top. He drew the same symbols in the same places on Archer's face, and then on Trip's.
"Don't worry lads, it comes straight off with a bit of water," Reed smirked, as they eyed each other doubtfully, "this next one's important, so make sure you put it straight back on if you rub it off."
Reed marked them both with the next symbol in the centre of their foreheads, and with exaggerated care. Archer glanced into the mirror, examining the markings. It was the same stylised oval with four smaller circles and elongated triangles he had seen on the hull of the craft.
"You keep that mark on you, lads, you got that?"
"Yes, Mr Woolf," the other two men chorused, together.
Reed nodded in approval, as Trip turned to examine the marking in the mirror.
"What does this mean, exactly?" he asked, curiously.
Reed reached up to the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled it down as far as it would stretch, revealing the left hand side of his chest. There, directly over his heart, was tattooed the same symbol, albeit more artistically rendered. He released the t-shirt as he turned towards them again.
"It means you're mine, boys," he told them, looking each of them in the eye in turn, "and you gotta know, that's important. Means you can't be bought or sold by any bugger else. It means some folks'll treat you nice, because they wanna be nice to me, and some'll try to kill you, because they wanna kill me, you got that?"
Archer suddenly realised that the symbol was a stylised wolf's paw with claws outstretched; he gave Reed a startled look, obviously realising that Kyle Woolf was more well-known than he had previously believed.
"Got it, Mr Woolf," Trip nodded, "your symbol, right."
The engineer's eyes looked distinctly worried. Reed nodded and clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.
"Don't look so worried, Charlie, you lads are my most valuable asset and I ain't gonna let anyone hurt ya."
Reed turned back to the mirror, and drew a few extra symbols; a thick black line under his right eye to match the one on his left, with a smaller version of the wolf's paw beneath it. He then marked a line vertically from above his right eye to just below it, finishing at the cheekbone. He drew an upturned 'V' on his right cheek, and then drew three vertical lines through it.
"This mark here, over my eye – means anyone who hurts anyone wearin' a Woolf's paw has got me to answer to – there'll be a few drawin' my mark on themselves just on seein' this," Reed explained, pointing to himself, "an' this 'un here, it means if anyone from Starfleet comes pokin' around, they're to be brought to me, so I can kill 'em myself."
He drew the same symbol again on Archer and Trip, but with only two lines through it.
"Means you take 'em prisoner and bring 'em to me, those are your orders, see? Nobody'll expect you to kill anyone just to prove somethin', they've gotta be bought to me."
Finally, turning back to the mirror, he very carefully sketched something onto the centre of his own forehead. When he turned back, Archer realised it was a stylised skull, with a cross in the right eye socket.
"Assassin for hire," Reed pointed to it, "anyone wearin' this symbol, you stay out their way. An' if anyone challenges me, I gotta fight my own battle, you stay out of it. Anyone challenges you, it's a challenge to me, so you stay out of that, too. But that don't mean you don't defend yourselves if you're attacked, you got that?"
"Yes, Mr Woolf."
"Good. Now, Charlie boy, you come here, I'm gonna mark you're a grease monkey, people'll always pay good money to have somethin' fixed proper, and it show's I got people with skills. Jack, you're gonna be a bounty hunter. S'good to have a trade."
His work finished, Reed capped the pen, and slid it into his pocket. He took out a couple of other pens, handing one to each of them.
"Hang onto these, lads," he said, gently, and Archer caught a flash of Malcolm Reed in the expression and inflection behind the words, "and remember all these symbols, but especially Woolf's paw. It's as likely to get you killed as it is to save your life, but you'll at least not be taken for slaves. You're already owned, see? Nobody'd dare steal an owned and marked slave of the Orions."
Archer and Trip both nodded, and then Mr Woolf was back on show, as he tipped them both a leer.
"Well, I don't know about you boys, but I've a helluva thirst – 'bout time we landed, innit?"
