Owner	Pose
Black Bolt	The Milano is for once planetside, or as close as anyone gets orbiting a celestial's severed head. Busy mining pods zip back and forth in a hive of narrow tunnels and gruesome ports. Machinery thrums under floodlit white and orange lights attempting to reveal invaluable tissues and nerve endings for a hungry market for such parts. It's the spectacle that erases any sense Knowhere was once a living, breathing being with its desires and ambitions. Now it harbours various races like sea-lice upon a whale, dwarfed in scope and size. The sight halts the dark-haired man sitting on a crate, looking out at it all. The captain and co-pilot's seats are completely empty. Some kind of knobbled fruit remains in hand, but Blackagar -- the Midnight King, Black Bolt, he of many titles and few words -- hasn't bothered to do more than peel the thick rind back. He seems to have forgotten its presence. Instead, he's watching the collision of two of the mining pods. Sparks fly and the silent chaos around them draws all sorts of smaller craft up like a stream of fireworks. One's thruster rolls around and around. It might be hard to guess if it's deliberate or not, but the show is fine from his particular spot.
Phyla-Vell	"Idiots." Scoffs the voice of a woman from behind Blackgar as she steps onto the 'bridge' of the Milano, and can't help but think this place is getting more and more crowded. Wearing her bracers still, and with her sword in her cabin still, Phyla looks over at Blackgar and smirks her naked lips. "Who're you?" She asks, not having met the man before. Her voice is rough, unrefined, and yet forward and blunt.
Black Bolt	The man looks up at the declaration. Blue eyes widen a little. A nod to her statement, not about to disagree. Blackagar squeezes the fruit lightly and it emits a rather faint scent that stains the air with a light musk. He touches a metal band around his wrist, and it projects a few letters midair. 'Blackagar of Earth. Monk.' The neat script projects in three languages just in case. He draws a few thin arcs along the front of the band, obviously building a response. 'You?'
Phyla-Vell	Phyla squints and leans forwards towards the words in the middle of the air and blinks... "Uh... great. I can't read." She says somewhat sheepishly before kicking the back of his chair with her foot. "If you don't want to talk, then don't. Don't rub it in my face that you're so smart and shit!" Phyla grumbles and starts to turn around with a frown and starts to storm off.
Black Bolt	The Inhuman thinly smiles. Off in the distance, another surge of pods and ships close around the two tumbling, battling mining pods. Streaks of light beam through the Milano and strike on metal in a weirdly submarine glow. He presses two fingers roughly to the pulse points, and a neutral voice speaks: "I am Blackagar of Earth. A monk. And you are? Pardon me, but I cannot speak." It corrects for his terseness well enough. He has to make a few quick adjustments, but reaction times aren't a problem there.
Phyla-Vell	Phyla stops and turns around still in a tizzy since her pride was jabbed at, even accidentally. "I'm Phyla. Quasar." The woman says, moving closer towards the co-pilot set and slips down into it, her feet lifting and resting on top of the console as she watches the pods outside collide and scrape. "I'm a fighter. One of Peter's many muscles on board." She says softly.
Black Bolt	The tizzy makes not a ripple on his face. Blackagar watches the woman curiously, more than anything, but the statement of being a monk probably applies to how calm he takes things. When she sits, he slides over the box to its rounded corner, allowing for a better view of her and the spectacle outside. He reads her expressions as much as Phyla's words. The voice replaces the holograph writing, though he still idly adjusts the interface. "Which would you like me to call you?" it replies on his behalf. "What sort of fighting style do you use?"
Phyla-Vell	Phyla watches the onset outside with a mild detachment across her pale face and then her eyes flick over to Blackagar's with a curious glance. "Call me whatever you prefer." The woman says with a shrug. "I mainly use swords." Then with a turn of her head and a shift of her arm, her cheek rests on top of her fist with her elbow braced against the armrest. "What about you, monk, what do you do besides sit here or meditate in your room?"
Black Bolt	Blackagar makes sure the fruit isn't about to roll off the end of the case. He arrests its drop by palming the rolling weight, tucking it back against his side. Attentive for all his silence, he gives Phyla an emphatic nod. The voice says, "Swords are a versatile weapon. Highly precise and effective in a fight. I will try to stay out of your way." There is an ironic shift of a smile there and gone in the time it takes to imagine. His expression settles back into neutral lines. How to respond to her question? Some careful adjustments are made before the interface comes up with his answer. "Learn about other races. Provide tactical knowledge about certain major spacefaring cultures. Find excellent company."
Phyla-Vell	"Good luck on that last one. We're a bunch of a-holes and d-bags!" Phyla says with a smirk as she nods to Blackagar. "The rest of your goals are well within reach." She says, pushing up out of the chair she pats his shoulder as she walks past and moves towards the exit of the bridge. "See ya 'round monk. If you need anything, hollar." She winks.
Black Bolt	"Best of company," the voice repeats in its very much automated tone, whereas Blackagar grins at that. He nods to her, probably affirming the same sensibility back at Phyla.