nexus_sages | "Will you walk into my parlor?"

In the Nexus are many streets, roads, alleys and avenues. Some are bustling with activity, featuring beings of all shapes and sizes buying and selling and eating and entertaining. In this Everything Drawer of the Multiverse one can find almost anything or anyone they want or need, provided they are willing to look for it hard enough. One doesn't have to look hard to find the busybody that is Officer Steve Austin, however. With eyes softened just a bit, stray from the beaten path, down that less traveled way, known for its overpriced, out-of-stock, and/or sub-par offerings. Down that way, there is what appears to be a dusty old pawn shop or perhaps a gunsmith or perhaps an antique store, and if one looks close enough they might notice that despite its dilapidation and darkened interior, the venue is apparently not not-in-business. Or at least, it is not closed. From time to time a figure can be seen moving within, none other than the good Nexus Officer of the Law, tinkering with assorted and unidentifiable bits and bobs of mechanical nature.

A sign --in fact, the only sign borne by the shop-- too small to be seen from further than the sidewalk immediately outside reads simply, "Weaponsmith." Fancy that; Officer Austin must be moonlighting. Will anyone walk into his parlor?

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His unflinchingly cheerful demeanor unfazed by her harsh look, Steve cradles the sword on his open hands and holds it out, so that it can be raised out of them. He holds no special curiosity at her apparent cavalier regard for antiques, as one's horizons can hardly be broadened beyond the Nexus.

*She lifts the blade with care, scrutinizing its details closely before balancing it on a finger and giving the blade a flick. Whatever she hears meets with a satisfied nod before she tests the grip, then finally offers it back to the shopkeeper masquerading as human.*

What're you asking for it?

In the same nearly ceremonial way as he offered it, the good lawman receives his ancient sword on his white cotton gloves. He does not answer her for a moment, not until the Dōjigiri Yasutsuna is resting in its case again. He is thoughtful when he returns his attentions to her.

"Well, even for a pretty lady like you, I'm afraid, it's quite the expensive item," he states apologetically. "A Heian period, 10-12th century work of Houki Yasutsuna," he tsks, but then smiles, "particularly one that can kill demons. I suppose the rebuttal would be, 'what've you got?' To some people the Dōjigiri would be worth more than a million of those alien rifles...perhaps you'd like to hear more about it."

*She smirks. Thin flattery isn't going to weaken her bargaining game any.*

I can see that you want to tell me, and I'm not one to turn down a good story, so let's hear it.

"I've never seen it myself, perhaps I lack the skill to bring forth such things, but," he turns to look at the sword with both his tone and expression taking a turn somewhat more serious. (Storytime ensues.)

"It's said to have its own spirit. For instance, on Earth, in Japan, Ryūgū-jō is the undersea palace of Ryūjin, the dragon god of the sea. Apparently, the sword's smith, Yasutsuna, once decided to offer the sword to the seafloor Palace of the Dragon King. He threw it into the waters, but it was swallowed by a whale. Several hundred years later the sword was found in the belly of the whale, in some miraculous way without rust." Steve's eyes narrow at the sword on his wall, like some skeptical falcon.

"Again, some several hundred years later it came into the possession of Nitta Yoshisada, a general who was a loyal retainer of the Southern Dynasty. Yoshisada mounted the sword in his campaign against the seaside city of Kamakura, but when he was en route, he was thwarted by a flood at Inamuragasaki, which lies to the southwest. In order to move faster, he offered his beloved sword to the sea to return it to the Palace of the Dragon King, and lo and behold, the flood drew back spontaneously for more than a kilometer. So, in the end, he was able to occupy the town." With that, his levity returns, as does his gaze to the customer.

"The sword's spirit is said to have an insatiable desire to kill demons, and that it may manipulate events and swordsmen toward that end."

*She listens to the story, nodding thoughtfully along. Her brows rise at the tale of the sword coming through hundreds of years in a whale's belly without rust--it's an interesting claim, if true, certainly. It's also interesting to consider that the tale ends with the sword going back to an ocean god of some kind who apparently makes good on his bargains. She gives a laugh, though, at that final caveat, and decides to needle the "shopkeeper" a little.*

Oh? How many demons has it made you kill?

Steve's eyes flick downwards and he purses his lips as if selecting another response. He says vaguely, "None that I'm sure about," before his smile returns.

"If I have to name a price, I would ask for _several million dollar equivalent_ Nexus credits." Ever the raptor, Officer Austin's head tilts almost involuntarily as his razor eyes study her response.

*She arches a dubious brow at that quote, giving a low chuckle.*

That makes me think it's not for sale, just the show-piece you use to get people in away from the door before you turn their attention to something more affordable, in their size. But then...

*She lets her gaze drift left, then right, taking in the array of other arms in the shop.*

...then again, maybe money isn't really what you're after. No, I think you like the pleasure of finding something new, the challenge of learning how it works and restoring it to perfect working order. You want a project-piece that will be a masterpiece when it's done. If I'm right, I've got a goat you might be interested in--and I haven't forgotten its story.

The proprietor's brow begin to protest her allegation about his sword, but neither confirms nor denies the rest. He just indicates that, with his silence and eye contact, he is listening.

*Her own lips quirk up for just a moment in a confident smirk. He can play cool all he likes, the hunter knows her prey.*

During the Chaltu/Kusanxi war, Chal'phan Tep was blockaded and bombarded, but had enough deep shelter for most of the population to survive. Kusan forces could only hope to take the planet in a ground campaign, which the Chal fought every step of the way--as one does. Unfortunately, the Chal ran up against shortages--while most of their population survived the initial bombardment, they'd lost a great deal of industry. They couldn't manufacture new plasma cells for their energy weapons, or pellets for their rail weapons.

*She gives a slight shake of her head. The defiant remains of a resistant people, fighting to the last but running out of ammo.*

What they did have was an abundance of mining and smelting equipment. Some of the survivors set to modifying the infantry railguns, replacing the ammo feed with a miniaturized mag-smelter. Cram any chunk of ferrous metal into its grip, and it shaves off pieces to fire as flechettes.

"Interesting," he replies somewhat reservedly, as perhaps Spock might. "And I suppose you have one such device you wish to trade?"

*She shrugs airily. If he's going to play coy, she can as well.*

I have one I could offer. A shade over two thousand ever made it off of Chal'phan Tep, only three hundred twenty-six ever came onto the market. That's a very small number, in a very big galaxy. Each one hand-tooled, irreplaceable. Of course, it needs a little work, but for someone like you that's part of the charm.

The flatfooted CEO looks away to quickly but rather systematically re-examine his shop's inventory, with wheels spinning behind his eyes (probably water wheels). He looks back to his tall customer once satisfied, as kind-faced as ever.

"Well, ma'am, you know where to find me if it burns a hole in your pocket. I guess there must be something you have your eye on in the wide world of weapons, though." The quaint old cash register goes unremarked upon.

Well, I thought I was making a clear offer for the sword, but it doesn't sound like you're interested.

*Her tone is a wry drawl.*

I wouldn't want to force it on you, after all.

"Will you walk into my parlor?"

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Sorry for the delayed reply.

welcome back

Re: welcome back

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