A Porter For What Ails You

[Sam Porter]

A stop at Dac usually meant that the crew of the Novgorod were given a few day's time to soak up (haha) the local flavor. Some had meetings to attend, while others spent their time relaxing. Away from the ship that they called home for the time being. For Sam Porter though it was a bit trickier.

Being that she was a part of the Novgorod's crew due to a worker's rehabilitation program, the waspish blonde had a bit more of a shorter leash than the other crewers.

Escorts. So not fair.

But, that was one of the many conditions placed on her, and she had to abide by them unless she wanted to go right back to a jail cell for however long a stay illegal explosives 'accidents' got you.

It was also what brought her to the familiar door of Regan Altink.

She bypassed the normal door chime, instead rapping a fist against the door's surface.

Three quick hits. Nothing. Another three.

"Come on, Reegs," she called out, "Open up!"

[Arvel Felcher]

"Distance to main power generator?"

"One seven decimal two eight."

The tip of the Imperial armored spear was nearing Echo Base's power generator. But was General Rieekan was unflappable, by God! Perhaps it had something to do with his newly-pressed dress whites, complete with epaulets and tassels. Maybe it was the pipe, smartly clenched in his teeth. Sans tabac, but no matter! It had a gentlemanly curvature. A stately patina of stained walnut? Or was it cherry?

General Rieekan surveyed the hand-painted tabletop battlefield before him, removing the pipe from his clenched teeth only momentarily as he sipped from a teacup.

"Well boys," he aggrandized, staring off into the distance as his voice took on a heroic baritone "the ram has touched the wall. The chips are down. Here we separate the wheat from the chaff, and find which of you have the right stuff. Stiff upper lip lads, and tally ho!"

Sure, conventional wisdom would call for using the airspeeders to harass and ensnare the AT-ATs, but why bother risking such limited and expensive hardware, when they could effectively harry the stormtroopers at the rear guard. Instead, General Rieekan ordered his peons, er, infantry out of the trenches, sliding two dozen hand-painted figurines out of the trench in a human wave charge toward the leading AT-AT. Sure, some, er, most would perish, but the intrepid lads could be tasked to climb the spindly armored legs, breach the belly, and take the fight to the drivers in person.

Just as the cunning General moved his pieces on the board and tapped the button on the adjacent dejarik clock to signal the change in turn, a coarse knocking sounded from the door of his suddenly-cramped quarters aboard a dingy Alliance torpedo corvette. Blast, his immersion!

"Oh bother! What is it?" came the suddenly whinging, nasally snap of Ensign Felcher as he was suddenly snatched away from the velvet embrace of fantastic delusion.

[Sam Porter]

She was moving past the point of impatience. Arms crossing over her chest, Sam made a face to the still-closed door. Regan was more'n likely asleep or something. Course, that didn't matter. She wanted to go out.

There was a whiny little voice that barely registered from the other side of the door, and it made her frown.

A huffed breath, and she reached out once more, this time slapping the metal with the palm of her hand.

"Dammit Reeg, you wake up right now!"

[Regan Altink]

Bliss.

Sheer, utter, unrivalled bliss.

Utter darkness, the reassuring pressure of an elasticated Republic Rangers eye mask draped across his eyes.

The soft blanket of white noise, beamed into his ears through noise-cancelling earbuds, the gentle rumble of ocean waves superimposed across the surface.

A faint aroma of lavender, washing down over him from a tiny battery-operated emitter attached by magnets to the ceiling plate above his head.

Paradise. Tranquility. Peace. Quiet.

A distant hammering.

Huh?

With a groggy reluctance, Tink tugged at the corner of the mask, and peered out upon a vision of insanity. In animated silence, Felcher stood there adorned like some decorated war General on his way to meet with the Supreme Chancellor, standing over what looked like a battlefield for ants: tiny miniatures of, what were they, snowtroopers? SpecForce Rangers in cold ops regalia? Shield generators? Turbolaser turrets? Wh-

All of the calm that had managed to descend on the chief engineer evaporated, and in his awestruck dumbstruck confusion, the odd display drew his eyes closer and closer like some speeder crash tractor beam; close enough to dislodge the Lieutenant Commander completely and send him toppling from the edge of his bunk.

[Arvel Felcher]

If Arvel's momentary escape from his temporary drudgery had been jeopardized by a screeching harpy across the threshold, it was completely undone by the violence of Regan Altink spilling to the floor like some rare Dagobah drunken ginger marmot.

"Ah, good morrow Leftenant Commander. I believe the gangly amalgamation of nobby knees and elbows outside has been asking for you."

[Sam Porter]

There was always more than one way to skin a gundark, just like there was always more ways to get the attention of someone on the other side of a closed door.

For instance... like barging in.

Sam had gotten the code to Regan's door a while back, but hadn't really felt the need to use it until now. Spidery fingers punched the number series into the entry keypad, briefly wondering if that idiot Felcher had gone and changed it.

Thankfully he hadn't. Course as the door opened in a sudden unexpected movement, Sam was pretty certain that he'd go and switch it up soon enough.

She stood in the doorway, crossing her arms once more. Moments later she stepped inside. The blonde stopped only at Felcher's table, eyes going down to look at the miniatures, and she blinked, making a distinctly unimpressed face. One hand came down then, and she tipped over one of the little AT-ST's with a single finger.

"Nice toys," came the impatient, snapped words as she looked back up to stare at the Ensign with a funny expression.

He looked ridiculous.

[Regan Altink]

Sam?

With more lightning-fast speed than he realised he could muster, Tink ripped the eye mask from his face, and jammed it into a pocket. The fury nudged his hat askew but there was no time to correct that now; no time to do anything else before Sam noticed him unceremoniously deposited on the floor.

A wave of confusion washed across his face as he continued to take in the details of the scene, Sam admiring - well, "admiring" - Felcher's little play things, mouthing silently for some strange reason. "THESE ARE NAE MINE!" he contributed loudly as he clambered to his feet as gracefully as he could - which was not very - speaking over the damnable roar of noise that was frankly really kriffing distracting.

Suddenly, he realised that the noise was entirely in his own head, and managed to awkwardly fumble one of the buds out of his ear. A sheepish smile tugged at his face, his posture shrinking down as much as his hunched shoulders would allow.

"Are nae mine," he reiterated quietly, before his brain managed to get it's crap in order and restore the usual grumpy expression, which he eagerly turned towards his bunkmate.

[Arvel Felcher]

"My simulation!" Arvel croaked, bolting up from his seat in outrage as he snatched the pipe from his mouth. Glowering at his sullied battlefield, he considered the unlikely demise of Blizzard Six, felled by what could only be considered as an act of a terrible god. As Felcher's face grew a shade of carmine flummox, he quickly moved between the lanky menace and the remnants of his stratagems.

"They're not toys," came Arvel's well-chewed retort to Sam's flippancy "they're collectibles."

[Sam Porter]

She was engaged now, and Sam's attentions weren't so easily dissuaded. She did however, flash a sweet smile to Regan along with a wink. His denial was kinda cute, to be honest. Not to mention the flustered state he appeared to be in.

But of course, the stuffy piece of bantha snot had to have his say, and she shifted her gaze from Regan to Felcher. She rolled her eyes.

"Uh huh. Whatever, Felcher."

She pursed her lips,and lifted up a hand to flick one of the silly little medals that adorned the tunic of his dress whites.

"They look like toys to me."

[Arvel Felcher]

"And a hospitality basket of decorative soap looks like candy, but that doesn't mean you should eat any." Felcher sniffed in retort, suddenly not certain whether she'd take that as hyperbole or as a hereto-undiscovered life lesson.

"And it's not Felcher" his lips pressed taut as he shifted his stance in discomfort. "it's Felshay."

Stiffening, the Ensign made a motion of dusting perceived fluff off an epaulet with the pass of his hand. "It's Chandrilan."

[Sam Porter]

"And I'm the Empress."

Honestly, why had Regan even been paired with this buffoon? At least for herself, she'd been spared the rigors of having to share her already small quarters. Of course, it helped when most of the room in her bunk was taken up with explosives ordnance. The very things that'd landed her on this ship went a long way to keeping her in privacy. Of course, she supposed that the one downside was the constant visits from MARCUS. But, at least it wasn't like what Regan had to put up with Felcher.

Her finger shifted so that it jabbed into his chest in an attempt to prod him into moving out of her way.

"Move it, you idiot."

[Arvel Felcher]

"Empress of the Bird Women? I'm afraid I shan't acknowledge your authority here."

Felcher's eyes disdainfully traveled to the bony appendage pointing at his sternum.

[Sam Porter]

She blinked, not exactly expecting that one.

And then her features darkened into an angry scowl. Toe to toe with Felcher, she made sure her few inches of height advantage was more than obvious.

"I've got a thermal detonator with your name on it, Little Man.

[Arvel Felcher]

Suddenly remembering his manners in the face of atomic immolation, Arvel's disposition brightened like a light switch, lubricated by the changeable nature of his cowardice.

"Oh you wanted inside? I seem to have misunderstood! Well then, where are my manners?"

With all due haste, he stepped out of Porter's way, grinding his teeth together the moment he was out of her sight.

[Sam Porter]

Crinkling her nose, Sam gave a grunt as she stepped past him. Of course on her way by, she couldn't help herself, and tipped over one of the molded-together groups of snowtroopers.

"The hand of the Empress," she baitingly growled.

But her attentions focused on Regan immediately, and she stepped in close, her features uplifting in a sweet smile that was the kind she usually wore when she wanted something. Like a drink. Or a 'shopping' spree.

"Reegs," a hand came up, fingers grabbing one of the earbuds to play with.

"I need a favor... "

[Arvel Felcher]

Arvel simmered in the background like a stoppered tea kettle, his face becoming more and more red with each transgression. He gripped the stem of his pipe in both hands behind his back, knuckles tightening around the lacquered reed murderously.

[Regan Altink]

Well that was just damned inconsiderate. How the hell was someone supposed to live up to the expectations of their grumpy disposition when you went and got close enough that they couldn't so much as fold their arms across their chest without your breasts being in the way? Obstacle in position, Regan frankly didn't have the damnedest idea of what to do with his hands, and so force of habit dug them into his pockets, a far less defensive and grumpily confrontational stance than he'd been hoping to strike.

His attention tried to focus on the ear bud that Sam was toying with, but that led his sight line on all kinds of wrong trajectories, and he didn't want anyone getting the wrong idea about anything. He tried looking her in the eyes instead, but nope, they were all close and staring and pretty and looming and all sorts of other things that just made looking at them seem a really really bad idea. He tried a few other options - a shoulder, hair, a weird smudge that he couldn't quite identify on the wall opposite - but nothing really seemed like a good thing to focus on, and his optical scouting had distracted him so much that he'd forgotten to respond.

"I uh -"

Wait, no. Frelling hells, he was the Lieutenant Commander. He should not be the one all back-footed and defensive in this situation. Determination formed his brow into a frown, and with a slight lean to make sure he didn't accidentally punch or grab anything he shouldn't be getting his hands on, he managed to manoeuvre his arms into a defensive barrier between the two of them.

"An' what exactly does this favour involve, lassie?"

[Sam Porter]

She smiled, enjoying the initial nervousness and finally somewhat assertive stance he'd taken, and letting go of the earbud, she moved her hands to her hips, then slid them down into the back pockets of her grey trousers.

"Well, everyone else gets to go out and do what they want off the ship, but I'm stuck here unless someone else goes with me... "

It was a request that was hinted at, and one that was unmistakable.

Still though, she opted to sweeten the pot.

"I went and looked around in a few directories, and found a few parts shops that you might want to visit."

Sam bit at her lower lip, giving a crooked half-smile as her eyebrows rose.

"And I found a cantina that has some local Stewjon brews... "

[Arvel Felcher]

"Parts shops?!" Arvel blurted out contemptuously, feeling that his empire was once-more being encroached upon.

"There's a reason the loadmaster handles the inventory, and that's to prevent a too-clever engineer buying a gross of square pegs for all the round holes because there's a chance it will work. This is a path to anarchy, and we'll be reduced to a team of baboons with rubber mallets if the proper channels aren't respected!"

Felcher returned the pipe to his mouth to chew on the end bit, but promptly snatched it free once more because he wasn't finished.

"If the Lady Skeletrix of Grenadia wants to feed the Leftenant Commander enough drams to pickle every last ginger hair on his head, far be it from me to say otherwise, but there is a line..."

He stamped his foot.

"...and it resides here."

[Regan Altink]

That was it. That was the final straw.

In a single violent motion, Tink ripped the hat from his head, gripping it in the hand that he brandished threatening towards Felcher as he advanced towards the pathetic excuse for a human being that didn't deserve to be wearing his Alliance-print boxer shorts, let alone the arrogant and ostentatious ensemble that he had wrapped himself in. The slights against Tink as a person, the brainless criticisms of his approach to engineering, the constant needling, the casual racism about his home and his heritage - Tink had developed a callous against most of it, more of a dull ache than a painful annoyance... but this? Now? Here? With Sam in the mix? This was too far.

"I have had -!" he bellowed, his eyes flaring as he brought himself as close to Felcher as he dared. A snarl drew itself in through his nose as he fought to quieten down his volume. "- quite enough of you, Mister Felcher."

His jaw clenched, the muscles quivering beneath his skin.

"I have put up wi' a lot a' shit comin' outta your mouth over these past months, but there's a lady in our room, an' I will not stand -"

His hand clenched around his hat.

"- for bein' called ginger." The way his eyes stared into Felcher made it seem like the Ensign was about to burst into flames. "It's brown, shyte fer eyes."