Killian walked through the streets, following the signs and billboards. He passed the street vendors and the open air shops alike. People often gave him mean looks, but most simply watched him walk on by. A few took pictures or pointed Killian out to their friends, but that was as inhospitable as it got for the Dog Boy.

The building was a large square structure erected in old neighbor hood of old fashioned houses. It was made of blocks, big, thick ones and painted battleship gray. It had a very efficient look about it. More function than form.

The parking lot was large and half full. People, mostly what looked like hunters, soldiers, or business reps came and went. Everyone who saw had one of two reactions; they gave him the go to hell stare or the damn this is interesting smirk. The front doors were a glass enclosure like one would find at a big city department store. Only these were made of transparent armaplex about three inches thick.

When he entered a tall man in a coveralls smiled at him with a flinch and said, "Morning soldier, what can we do for you today? if you don't need anything specific you can help yourself. Recharging services are on the right, munitions are on the left."

 The second thing Killian does (the first is getting a shower) before heading out on the town is change out of his BDU's into his dress uniform... Not because he's feeling particularly CS-y today, but because he owns precisely two sets of clothes and the BDU's have been a bit... lived in... as it were. He's removed all the assorted badges and brass, but it's still a damn' smart outfit in a retro-fascist sort of fashion and the tall wolf wears it well as he heads for Huntsville Munitions with just a sidearm and sword (you don't carry an assault weapon around town unless you're looking for trouble from the authorities).

 The eyes-on? Those he doesn't let trouble him too much... Ignoring human responses that trigger his instincts was an early part of his training (along with not challenging a human, which took him a while to grow out of) but he remains aware of it as he ducks into the massive square structure, grimacing slightly at the Coalition-State-Chic practicality of it and then nodding politely to the coverall-wearing fellow inside "Good morning. And right now, I'm just pricing up. We had a run-in with some slavers in the swamp and I burned through two and a half L-clips and an E-clip. Between that and the return fire, I also need to get a fair bit of equipment repaired so I'm finding out what the cost's like."

"Say would you be interested in the services for services program?" The man replies suddenly. "It isn't offered to just anyone, but seeing as to how you are a real live DOg Boy you must be quite the tracker. And you made it through the war and the swamps, so you know how to handle yourself."

The man handed Killian a flyer. On the back was an application. It asked about pertinent job experiences as a soldier, a hunter, a tracker, with weapons or explosives, and even asked about campaigns the applicant had fought in.

"The program pays out three ways; a stipend for use here in listed establishments in Huntsville, credit in the Huntsville Munitions and its companion companies, and a direct wage to put a little money in the ole' bank account." The man continued on.

 "Since the alternative is taking up pole-dancing, I could be persuaded." Killian answers with dust-dry humour, taking the flyer and then looking at it for a minute before wryly fishing a small translator out of his pocket which he points at the writing, getting it to read each line out loud, one by one.

 Dog Boys, after all can't read. And it wouldn't do to suggest otherwise.

 "Huh. I'm a soldier, a decent tracker by scent at least. Never done any hunting or demo... I could do worse than show this to my team. Could be we'll make use of it, thank you." and then wryly adding, with a glance to the right "But that said. Cost of charging services?"

"Why the lowest in town. Or the region." The man says with a smile.

(OOC: the prices to recharge e clips here is 10% less than the book price.)

 "Which, while reassuring doesn't actually tell me how much I need to pony up... Hang on." Killian answers dryly, turning to heft he little computer gidget in his hand and play the beam from it over the sign, which is where he gets actual numbers from*. He grunts softly, shaking his head and grumbling "We have got to get one of those nuclear vehicles. Or start fighting people who use damn' E-clips."

 ---

 * Hard numbers aren't really a thing, but E-clips cost between 1,200 and 1,500Cr to recharge and L-clips cost between 2,000 and 2,500Cr to recharge.
 I'll assume that his reply means 'pick the lower one' in this context.

"I am sorry, ah, sir," the man said. "but, I'm afraid those things are out of my line of work."

 "No, no that's fine. Like I said, I'm just pricing up at this stage. Working out where to spend what to get myself back in fighting condition." Killian answers with a small wave of his hand, after which he offers another 'thankyou' and heads for Huntsville Armaments on the next leg of his mission to work out what it'll cost to get his armour repaired.

 As he goes, he keeps the translator in-hand to address any questions... and reads over the pamphlet.

It wasn't a long walk, two blocks and a left past several fenced in parking areas and employee entrances to several innocent looking buildings that were obviously factories for the Huntsville companies. The Huntsville Armaments building was a refurbished and fortified old style manor. The front porch was wide and deep with slow turning ceiling fans, little tables with a pair of chairs and stacks of brochures, and double armaplas doors. Several people sat on the porch sipping the advertised specialty of 'country lemonade and white lightning'.

As Killian approached carrying his gear laden pack and in Coalition dress uniform he received the stink-eye once, two looks of curiosity, one man immediately made a call on hand communicator, and three hunters just shrugged and went back to their drinks and brochures. At the door he entered only to find himself confronted by a robot that scanned him unceremoniously. Once that was done the robot merely waved him through without a word.

Once inside he was amazed at what he saw. It was all so old world, so capitalist paradise. The front lobby was a comfy sofa laden lounge with tri-vid screens playing the latest arms show outtakes from various arms manufacturers and how Huntsville utilized their technology in a unique and more effective manner. Professional sale people in black coats and neck ties worked the many clients and window shoppers (a.k.a. perspective clients) like pimps on Fairfax Avenue in the Burbs.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant K1-ALL-1AN." A bright eyed sale woman said. He black skirt was long enough to be modest but short enough to draw the eye to her leg. He immediately noticed the NAME, RANK, SERIAL NUMBER, BLOOD TYPE tattoo on her left cheek, however. She was former Coalition as well, from a Special Purpose Battalion. That meant Penal Troops with special training; suicide squads. "How may I be of particular assistance to you?"

 Once again, Killian weathers the stares... His uniform's a little less crisp than it once was, but it still represents an honour he won through his own efforts, and never mind the opinions of a bunch of random strangers he's never met and doesn't care for.

 The Munitions store brings him up sharp though, the lobby alone looking more like officer territory than anywhere he's ever been comfortable being and if that makes him uncomfortable it's nothing compared to how sharply he's drawn up by the woman in the short skirt with the Penal Battalion tattoo, because his uniform doesn't have badges or patches on it (any more) which means that if she's ID'ing him, she's reading his chip.

 And if she's reading his chip... She was at the very least some flavour of officer.

 He straightens pretty much by spinal reflex, although manages to avoid saluting as he instead rumbles "Just pricing up, Ma'am. This is one of the few places in town to do armour work and my team had a run-in with Slavers out in the swamp. Didn't go so well for the slavers, but it left me needing a refit. Once I know what it'll cost, I can head back to the others and work out a budget for it."

"Joe Bod Griggs." she blurted with a big smile. "Soldiers like us need the good stuff. The good stuff comes from the Coalition. The Coalition doesn't like soldiers like us. But Joe Bob Griggs does. He is originally from the Burbs. Can you believe it! His contacts back home smuggle out everything we used to use. He may even have a new set of armor for you. And for us, a discount."

Leaning in close she hands a card into Killian's free hand as she points to rack with her other hand and says just loud enough, "And on that rack, sir, is our bargain weapons. Though the quality does court the price, so the likes of you may find it difficult to acquire such merchandise. Do you have a patron per chance?"

She gave Killian the wink and nodded towards the door, "Sir, such sentiments towards the best prices in town is simply unacceptable. Please return with more funding and better manners."

People smirked, or laughed, or simply gawked at the audacious woman.

 "I... Yes Ma'am." Killian answers, rearing back a little from the performance as it proceeds, taking the card with the sort of smooth motion to be expected from someone used to palming reloads under fire before heading out with his tail between his legs and his ears down, not entirely understanding what the hell just happened but feeling the impending weight of politics about to come down on top of him like a ton of bricks.

 Clutching the card, he heads back to the others to see if there's any word on what their budget actually looks like yet.

Killian was headed back. The costs were about what he would have expected. If not a touch higher (10% over book suggested repair prices) than he would have liked. It was not all lost though. He made a contact, even if she was a deserter from a Penal Infantry Battalion. And the job with the munitions company didn't sound terrible. And then there was this Joe Bob Griggs character who sold black marketed Coalition kit. Maybe it wasn't all bad. Then he spotted Hawkins and Jennifer standing in the driveway of a local garage talking to man and woman in mechanic's coveralls. The Mountaineer was parked nearby.

(If you would like to talk to Hawkins/Jennifer please skip over to their thread. If not just post what you want to do next. Thanks for your patience.)