The smell of sawdust and fresh shellac drifted over the long carved table. The heavy doors shut out the noise from the street, but the revving of Harley engines in the parking lot came through. Young-old men straggled through the twin doors, a couple still holding the thousand-yard stare of old combat in their eyes.
One slipped in the back entrance, sunglasses and cap suggesting an outstanding warrant.
One was prematurely grey, time spent patching up Cylon-torn men taking its toll. He'd be white-haired before thirty.
Decorated leather vests spread out along the long wooden table. Stylized Vipers with a grinning skull in the cockpit, an outline of a Battlestar worked into the background, a patch showing a human hand at the sweet spot on a broken Cylon neck. A nod to their first backer, to the Adama heritage, in a rusty red and brown image of Tauron seen from space. There was one for each man, and a few extra for those who would come later.
Saul Tigh took his seat next to the head of the table, his grin wild and crazy, a streak of coral lipstick on the edge of his white t-shirt and last night's beer still on his breath. He handed Bill a stolen gavel with a hand still showing red swollen knuckles.
Bill looked around the table, counting unfilled chairs. Hints would be dropped at VA halls all over Caprica, Viper tats flashed and recognized, names of Battlestars whispered between restless, cynical men. The table would fill.
Outside this chapel of structured lawlessness, the garage would hum and grind, earning legitimate money for the families of the men at the table. Inside, over the carved wood, other business would take place.
Bill banged the gavel down and opened the meeting.
So say we all.