[Messing - ]
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The Messing area is fairly large, obviously once used to house a large number of troops on their way to battle. Now, however, the hall has a much more homely feel. Upon entrance, one is faced with three immediate sections. To the left is the kitchen, a long, oak-wooden bench stretching around in a corner junction, several pantries positioned on top of the shorter end, a fridge positioned underneath. The dining table is positioned in the middle of the area, long enough to support ten people, four on the sides, and one at each end. The table is also of a wooden dark oak, though a lime green tablecloth has been thrown haphazardly over the top. The chairs maintain a similar wooden color, their bases rounded, the backs curved and comfortable. The right area appears to be a living area of sorts. Two leafy green sofas can be seen, facing each other with a small coffee table bolted down between them. Slightly further to the right is a round table with stools surrounding its circumference, looking like a gaming table of some sort.
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Ishmael steps into the Crew's Mess, his left hand closed around something small enough that it can't /quite/ be hidden in his big, scarred fist, but is almost small enough for that. He moves with the air of a man with a purpose in mind, his gaze sweeping across the room.
His eyes fall on Cole, and he changes his course for the table, where Cole is seated. "Evenin'. We need to talk." The words aren't /quite/ brusque... just spoken in a hurry. Something's on the big ex-soldier's mind.

Cole looks up, a sad smile reaching his face. "Good, I was hoping we could talk too," he admits. "I've got..." He sighs, hesitating a moment. "I've got something I need to tell you."

Ishmael takes a seat across from Cole, passing one of two small objects into his own right hand. As he does this, it becomes apparent that one is the photo-pendant he's carried since he found it. The other is Cole's holocube, taken from his backpack. He works the controls on both with his thumbs, then turns the screens toward Cole. "Does it have anything to do with her?" he asks simply.
On the screens are two images, identical: a pretty young woman with red hair wearing a rather frilly dress. Ishmael's expression remains completely neutral through the entire process.

Cole nods, letting out a heavier sigh. "Shoulda figured you'd have noticed that. Didn't even think to look for my pack in the infirmary." He rubs his eye with his bad hand, using the pinky to scratch his cheek before it's again placed on the table. "You gotta understand, until this week I didn't know what it was like, havin' a spot memory. I figured once you..." He stops himself, shaking his head. "I know better now. I know you like me and that nothin' you figure out from your past is gonna change that... right?" The way the last word is added, he's apparently not /totally/ sure.

Ishmael nods. "Amnesia's an unpredictable thing. It might last hours. Or days. Or years. Or it might be permanent. Trouble is, you never know which. So I just keep waitin', hopin' somethin'll trigger a memory now and then."
At Cole's question, he reaches out and takes the boy's good hand in his own, in a man-to-man clasp. "Kid, I owe you. Those photos on this thing," he tips the photo-pendant in his right hand slightly, its broken chain rattling against the table softly, "gave me a new avenue to look down. Not that I've really gotten the chance to, but I'm hopin' to one of these days. Plus, I'd like to consider you a friend. And one or two other things I still can't figure out tell me you're a good person to know. So you're right. Nothin's gonna change that. Or at least not much." He gives the hand a firm squeeze at that.

Cole nods solemnly, squeezing back in kind. "Well, here goes, then," he says, giving the man a nervous smile before delving into it. "The woman in the photograph... is my mother. It was taken on Beaumonde, about a month before my dad proposed to her."

Ishmael's expression turns thoughtful. "So your mother and I were acquainted... it must've been some time ago. I've got two other pictures, and I don't see you in either of them. They were probably from before you were born... she looked to be about the same age in all of them."
Taking the photo pendant in his left hand and setting the cube down, he cycles through the pictures to the first, an image of a much younger version of himself and a /very/ slightly older version of the young lady from the holocube image, seated on a rather spartan park bench. Judging by their expressions, it's not coincidence that they're on the same bench, and sitting close together. "I'd guess we were on friendly terms," he adds.

Cole shakes his head sadly. "I don't think you were," he tells the man. "That photo went pretty wide." He smiles at the memory, talking as much to himself as to Ishmael. "It was her favorite picture, she used to send it over the 'tex to people with a Christmas dressing 'round it.. kept it in the living room of our house on Londinum." He leans back in the chair, clearing his throat. "I think you were a friend of my dad's. He's Alliance, a Lieutenant these days, I think. At the time he was a shuttle pilot, workin' on R&D for 'em. Mom, she'd get him to talk about work an' then pipeline that stuff to the Independents when he wasn't lookin'. Sometimes she'd use me as the go-between, but mostly I was just the excuse. 'Gotta take Cole to Yoga', she'd tell him, or 'he needs computer lessons'." He wipes at his face. "Long story short, about a year after the Independents lost, one of their leader types took a plea deal, reduced sentence in exchange for the names of some of his informants. He spilled on my mom and she took me and ran, ran far and as fast as she could. We spent the next few years livin' out of a shuttle, her doxyin' an' me singin' most of the time for our meals, though occasionally t'were the other way around. Not too often, though, just when times got real hard. As my dad went up ranks, he started seein' us as a loose end, a bad reminder that he'd been duped in the past. He sent out a lot of soldiers to kill us." These last words are said with a direct gaze into Ishmael's eyes, leaving the implication obvious, but unspoken.

Ishmael's eyes widen a little at Cole's story. "That's one hell of a way to grow up..." he says softly, though his eyes are sympathetic. It's an existence he could imagine... but he'd mostly be wrong, he's sure. The mention of his father's hunt for his wife and son sees his hand on Cole's tighten a bit, as if offering support, and sees his free hand tightening into a white-knuckled fist. A tiny hint of that insane flame in his eyes bursts to life. His gaze never wavering, he says only, "Sounds like your father was a real son of a bitch..."

"/Is/, from my understandin'," Cole says with a shrug. "There'd be more justice in the 'verse if'n he'd been shuffled off of it by now." He sighs. "You get my meanin', though. Findin' you near the Che, that close after I'd joined 'em... I'm figurin' you probably tracked me there.,"

"Maybe... it'd be awful elaborate, though, gettin' an escape pod /right where the Che would find it/, just for the sake of one boy. Why not send a warship, make it a sure thing? Take 'em all captive an' tear the ship apart 'til we found ya? The Alliance has made more bold moves than that... and more garish. Why all the cloak-and-dagger?" He shakes his head. "No... I'm sure I was legit. The injuries were real enough. Given enough time, I'd o' probably died... ain't somethin' I like to think about."

Cole shakes his head vehemently. "Oh no, I ain't suggestin' you went into the pod as a ruse or nothin'. I'm thinkin' more something went wrong while you were in the area. But... I figure that's probably /why/ you were in the area. 'S why I didn't say nothin'."

Cole adds, as an afterthought, "We /were/ in Reaver country at the time. I know if I ran into Reaver's on a hunting mission /I'd/ sure block it out."

"Yeah... that's a little more likely. Doesn't sound familiar, but a lot o' stuff doesn't. Could be we were in the area for a different reason... like maybe /huntin'/ Reavers. Judgin' by that picture with the hull plate from that pirate ship, I worked in Anti-Piracy operations for a while. Maybe I was still there. Nothin' really rings a bell, either way."
At Cole's comment on blocking things out, Ishmael rubs his chin. "There's a lot o' possible causes for amnesia besides psychological trauma. Physical trauma's another big one, and somebody'd just about parted my hair with a bullet." He unconsciously traces the scar on his temple with one finger.

Cole considers that a moment, eyes glancing downward at the table and then back up. "Well, that damn near rules Reavers out then, don't it... I heard scary tale after tale 'bout 'em, ain't never heard of one usin' a gun."

Ishmael nods. "And raises a /lot/ of questions. If it wasn't Reavers shootin' at me, who was it? Pirates? Independent renegades? I could rattle off a list long as your arm... there's just not much to go on."
"But we were talkin' about your mother. Maybe we'd better get back to that. At least then one of us knows where we're goin'. I'm guessin' that your father eventually found you... or someone else did."

Cole nods. "Did it personally. Shot us down in atmo over Persephone, 'bout eighty miles out from the docks."

Ishmael nods. "Hmm. What happened after that? Come to think of it, did he come alone?" That fire is flickering in his eyes again... not the inferno that only one person alive has seen, but a hint of it. He glances at the picture of the two on the park bench, on the photo-pendant resting on the table. "I have this odd feeling... like I would've stopped him, if I'd been there. I remember this feeling that she was important to me... when we first looked at these pictures."

"Important ain't always a good thing," Cole points out, taking a nibble on his long forgotten protein cube. "But I guess the feelin's a positive one, so maybe. Anyway, nah, he wern't alone. He sent cronies first... had 'em hold us at gunpoint and blood scan us, t'make sure we wasn't carryin' bio-bombs in our systems to get him as much as to see we were the right ones and not decoys. After bein' duped by mom for so long, he became kinda paranoid about those sorts of things." He sighs, closing his eyes briefly. "Plugged her right in the head, right in front of me. Then he pointed the gun at me and paused there, thought for sure he'd do me too. Looked like he really wanted to."

Ishmael nods at Cole's assessment of important. "Though I'll point out that people who are the other kind of important to me tend to get that way in a hurry, and they also don't tend to last long after that. I'd tell you to ask those thugs back on Sky Plex, but I don't know where the survivor is."
That flame builds in intensity just slightly as Cole continues the story. The thoughtful look on the man's face gains an almost frightening intensity. "I'm guessing he didn't, though. Or you didn't give him the chance."

[Abrupt Ending]