This chapter takes place roughly after Chapter 29 in SFTD.

As Jax stood in front of the bathrooms' mirror, clutching a lock of his hair, he was beginning to rethink this whole XCOM deal.

He was in a state of mild panic as he looked over the hair in his hands, gauntlets temporarily off and set to the side. It had been a few days now, in the Avenger, but the damage had already been done. His hair, once a silvery white and soft as clouds, was now turning dull and merely smooth as opposed to unbelievably silky. The haircare products on the Avenger clearly weren't up to the task of keeping his hair up to his usual standard—but he had hoped against hope that it would be this bad.

It was a travesty! His skin would largely maintain itself, but his hair was a special exception! It need not be merely acceptable, it had to be outstanding! Indignant, Jax could also confirm the same malady was befalling the hair on his chest. Oh, the agony. It wasn't a bullet or a streak of plasma that would be the death of him, it would be subpar hygiene.

What was he to do? All of his special formula shampoo was at his Stronghold, and it was his Mystics that handled ordering more when he ran out.

Dropping the lock of hair, he set his gaze in determination. His Mystics. Perhaps one of them would know a solution. He was sure none of them had smuggled a bottle of the sacred shampoo, but maybe one of them knew the formula? It was a shot in the dark, but he had to take it. Putting his gauntlets back on and throwing on his undersuit and armor, Jax stalked out of the bathrooms.

Of course, with his psionic-sensory abilities, he could easily find where his congregation was—currently in the Mess Hall, leftover from lunch and largely the only ones still in there. They all perked up as he entered, and he strode over to them, sitting down amongst them. "My followers."

"Holy Father," they greeted in unison. He nodded to himself.

"Surely a few of you have noticed the tragedy that has befallen me on this very day." At that, he could feel their mood shift from happy to concerned. Rightfully so, in his eyes. "Indeed; my condition worsens as my days on this ship drag on. I fear something must be done before it reaches a truly reprehensible stage, but I fear I may lack the tools to do so on my own."

The members of his congregation sat closer to him and started asking what they could do in so many words. After a few more seconds of worried whispers, he held up a hand to silence them. "It is simple if one possesses the knowledge, but that very knowledge may be at a premium." He gazed over his followers seriously. "Do any of you recall the formula for my shampoo?"

There was a moment of almost stunned silence amongst his own. Surely they could realize the gravity of the situation and were trying to recall if they knew.

At least, Jax thought that before a majority of them started laughing.

He was left baffled as the mood had once again shifted to one of mirth; watching as his followers—chiefly the non-Mystics—snickered and tried to suppress laughter. He pounded a fist on his leg, indignant. "I will have you know this is a serious matter! It is of utmost importance that I—"

"I know, Holy Father."

The laughter stopped shortly as all eyes turned to one of the Mystics. It had been Bastet who had spoken up; she was chiefly one of his best sculptors, but she also did a lot of the numbers around the Stronghold. "I recall it. What would you have of me?"

Short, sweet, to the point. That was Bastet. He nodded. "If there is no way to procure it, surely..."

As if taking his words under consideration, Bastet tilted her head... then nodded. "I understand. Tygan, yes? He would be able to replicate it from my knowledge."

Certainly it wasn't what he was thinking at all—he hadn't even thought to get Tygan involved—but he wasn't about to admit that in front of the rest of his congregation. If they found him wanting to be in physical form hilarious, he could only imagine the chortles he'd get admitting that it hadn't been his idea. "Precisely. Come, Bastet—we must be about solving this situation."

Without any further commentary, Bastet got up as Jax did, and the two of them took a silent trip off to the Lab. Admittedly, he hadn't the foggiest if Tygan would be able to replicate it or not. Explosives, acid, and poison were one thing, he could tell. Shampoo? An entirely different field.

Eventually, they happened upon the Lab. Jax opened the door and carefully ducked under it, making sure Bastet made it behind him before walking further in. Tygan himself was watching what looked like data on a screen. He must've heard them come in, as he turned and nodded to the two of them. "Jax. Bastet. Do the two of you require something?"

Jax half-turned and gestured to Bastet. "I would like to inquire if you are able to replicate something for me, but I believe it would be best if Bastet lists off what I require."

Bastet, taking her cue, walked up to and bowed slightly to Tygan. "Doctor Tygan. May I borrow a datapad?" At that, Tygan offered her the one in his hands. Taking it, she rapidly tapped through a few options and brought up a few items in a list, looking over it before presenting the screen back to Tygan. "Are you able to procure these materials somewhat reliably?"

The looks in Tygan's eyes changed from curiosity to recognition as he eyed the list. "—judging by what you are asking about, I take it you would like a specialty shampoo? I already fabricate a solution for the soldiers so we do not have to rely on trading with havens."

"Precisely," Bastet replied. "The special ingredients required are themselves compounds. Judging by the inventory list I was able to glance at, you have everything required. Would you please make the Holy Father his shampoo?"

Tygan looked between the two of them for a moment, adjusting his glasses. "My schedule is not so clogged as to make me decline. I would be able to manufacture your specific formula soon. I imagine the other soldiers—"

"It's not," Jax said, quickly interrupting. "It's not for them. Simply a personal request on my part. I humbly ask that I am the only one to receive this formula."

Further eyeing Jax, Tygan seemed to think for a while regarding the whole situation. He eventually came to an answer, silently requesting the datapad back. As Bastet handed it to him, he began. "I suppose I can honor your request—it's not as if I would be gaining anything out of spreading it against your will. But." He leveled a look at the Warlock. "I do have one condition. I have noted Bastet's prowess in her field, and have heard of her skill. She was able to size up my inventory at a glance and knew what she would need to manufacture the exact ingredients I would need. If you wish to keep this shampoo private, I request that I have Bastet as an honorary assistant. I will need her help regardless to make what you ask of me."

Hmm... to share his Mystic... well, it was as Tygan said. She would be able to help him make the shampoo, and it wasn't as if he needed Bastet on a daily basis. He looked to her, silently asking her opinion. She matched his gaze. "I will go where you tell me, Holy Father. Though, if I may speak, I would cherish the opportunity."

That was that. He nodded to Tygan. "Consider Bastet your assistant for as long as she wishes to stay."

Jax could swear he saw Tyan flash a smile just for a second—but it was as gone as quickly as it came. "Excellent. Expect to have your new shampoo ready shortly."

Jax grinned. At least one person around here saw the importance of it.

Jax held a lock of his hair to the mirror, smiling gently. Silvery white, and as soft as clouds. His chest hair was much of the same quality. It seemed as if the manufactured shampoo Tygan was making was doing the trick. Everything was right in the world once more, and he would no longer have to waste away under subpar conditions. Just because there was a war going on didn't mean he had to go without his usual personal care routine.

A wolf whistle from elsewhere in the bathroom turned his attention, and it was none other than Moody. "Am I ever glad to be a bachelor! I can definitely see why you were one of the Elders' Chosen—they plucked you right of a painting, didn't they?"

Jax was no stranger to others admiring his appearance, but something so brazen almost made him want to turn up his nose. As it stood, he gathered his bodysuit. "Your compliments have been noted and filed, but if you presume to court me, you are—in a word—bold."

Moody shrugged, leaned up against the wall. He had a towel around his waist and not much else—with his hair down, it was clear how much the braids did to shorten the length of it. "Gotta put myself out there if I hope to achieve anything—and I've had a taker or two before. You're just a tall drink of water and I am mighty parched."

Jax scoffed. "If I were indeed from a painting, you could not afford to even see me, much less take me home."

Moody clutched his chest. "Oh, come on, I'd like to think I'm a bit of a higher standard than that, love!"

The Warlock turned away from him, putting on the top of his bodysuit and replacing his chestpiece. "I am far too rich for your blood, mortal."

"And who could buy you, then?"

Jax's mind immediately shot to one answer and he turned his face away from both Moody and the mirror, lest he see the look he surely wore. "No mere rube such as yourself, that much is for certain. Consider your advances rebuffed."

Moody sighed. "Alright, alright. I'm flirty but I'm not pushy. You go on your merry way, and consider me jealous of whoever does land you."

Giving a short "hmph" to note he heard Moody, Jax put on his gauntlets and left. Jax did not ever consider romance a prospect for him—humans were below him and his "equals" were his siblings. There were none who could match him in status, and he wasn't interested in dating someone he did not think he deserved.

Of course, you consider Eliza an equal.

He sighed through his nose. He could not entertain such a thing, especially having harmed Eliza as he had. Besides... she, most likely, didn't see him in such a way. She was a Commander, he was a soldier. A high-ranking soldier and close enough to her to be comforted in his times of need, but a soldier nonetheless.

Still, even as he was shooting the concept down, he found his hand running through his hair, fluffing it out. Perhaps she would notice...