The blearing light of the Cortez sun became naught but a halo as the superstructure of the Susquehanna seemingly slowly rose up to meet the AP-18100. From the red lit cockpit of the Coyote II, the pilot reached up and started throwing switches, toggling her various systems into landing mode. Garbled comms back and forth between the traffic control officer and the local freighters filled her ears as she waited in the docking queue, until finally the traffic control called her up. With landing mode fully engaged, she authorized the traffic control's handshake sequence and let the Susquehanna crew guide her ship into the yawning docking bay. Flashing yellow beacon lights lined the way in, cautiously guiding traffic to their pads amidst all of the machinery, cranes, loading vehicles, and other ships in their berths. Traffic control led the Coyote II down to pad 8, where it gently came to a rest on its paragravity cushion amidst the bustling yard.

With a sigh, Bishop cycled down the power systems until the ship was resting at a cold stop. The humming white noise of the engines and reactor faded away and let in the distant faint din of the yard that seemed to creep up as she lowered the ladder from it's hatch not far behind the cockpit. Though, as that musty air crept into her ship, she turned her head back to the cargo bay door on the far side of her cabin. She stood there, thinking for a moment, before she figured she may as well make sure her guest was still breathing. The inside of the Coyote II was small, the ship was a fighter, so there was little inside her other than the cockpit, a small cabin with amenities, and the cargo bay. With 'guest seating'. She punched her security code into the keypad, prompting the cargo airlock to open. A brief step inside and a glance to her left revealed her Molly friend, still as pleased as ever looking in the holding cell.


With that she turned, locked the door, and left.

The din of the dock yard grew louder as she left the bottom of the boarding ladder. Loading robots and large crates of copper could be seen on the adjacent pad as they loaded up an old Camara, a sight that briefly distracted her before the approaching deck hand drew her eye. Yelling to be heard over the din, she pointed up and her ship and handed him a few credit chips as she told him that the Coyote II needed a refuel, a degaussing, and a fresh refill of water and oxygen. And when she brought up the mention of the bar, the deckhand pointed towards a distant door, giving her directions out past the flight lounge.

The DSE boys she'd worked with kept bringing this place up. While the station was pretty new, they somehow managed to break her in in record time. The amount of workers, knuckledraggers, curmudgeonly old captains, and assorted robots running around was impressive. They must really be making bank off of this place she figured. She just hoped the food and drink was worth a damn... it wasn't exactly Curacao, but it beat the landing fees. And after what felt like minutes of nearly aimless meandering around the halls, she stumbled across Rickett's. It was modestly busy, an assortment of techs and crewmen made idle chatter amidst the smells of the kitchen out back and old music piping in through the speakers above. Bessie Bishop sized the room and it's occupants up real quick, figuring as long as at least half the people here didn't get black out drunk there wasn't much risk of a bar fight. The towering guild woman made her way over to the bar and grabbed a seat, tossing her poncho back over her shoulder and adjusted her armor a bit before she leaned on in on the bar, snatching up a lamented menu that someone had left behind earlier.