[Berthing Nexus - ]
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A quaint kitchen and pantry sit local to this room, allowing you to pass through it on either side. A small wooden table sits just behind it towards the catwalk access where a series of matched chairs afford seating arrangements for the crew.
On either side of the kitchen are two doorways, each leading to a seperate berthing compartment.
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[Estragon]
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A tall, well-built man, standing some 6'4" in heignt. he has a mostly dark complexion, features and skin tone mostly of moorish descent, with a hint of norse. His face is adorned with a good day's stubble, running from just above his ears to the base of his chin, leaving most of his cheeks and lip untouched. His hair is getting a bit long now, but is generally fairly short, and ash brown, and generally contained beneath his worn, brown panama hat.
He's dressed casually; a worn, brown leather jacket is stretched across his broad shoulders, and hangs open in the middle to reveal a plain, white button-up shirt. The shirt is tucked loosely into a pair of khaki cargo pants, which in turn hang over a pair of heavy, black engineers' boots. A holster hangs from his belt, secured to the lower portion of his thigh by a strap above his knee.

Often seen following him around is a largish dog; about normal german-shepard sized, with a reddish-brown coat and white splotches typical of a border collie. He has a big, poofy fan-tail and ears that perk up sometimes and flop sometimes, depending on his mood; most frequently in his travels, one is up and one is down.
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Estragon wanders up from aft, dog a couple paces behind. He's unkempt and tired-looking. He opens the fridge, and starts rummagin.

Cole sits at the table, a hollow shell, staring at an untouched protein cube on the table. Underneath the table the other stowaway, Coye, sleeps curled up in a ball.

The dog does a lap around the table, sniffing at Cole tentatively as he paces.

Estragon emerges from the fridge a couple moments later with an unmarked brown glass bottle. He swings the door shut, whacking the cap on the counter top to open it, sending the cap flying. He takes a swig, and then notices you sitting at the table. He walks up to it, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He sets the beer on the table and says, "So, you must be Cole."

Cole's eyes flicker from the protein cube to the gory, bandaged remains of his left hand, now two fingers short. "Was," he mutters.

The dog turns from Cole now, crawling under the table and curling up next to Coye.

"Was?" Estragon says. "What, your soul was in one uh them there fingers?" He picks up his beer and takes a quaff.

Cole doesn't answer, returning his gaze to the protein cube a moment before finally picking it up in his good hand and taking a nibble from it.