Flight Station Three Three Seven

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Preita'rrou Kiimiti Taassaurra loved her job.

Most days, at least. Being on the comms staff of Jovan Station meant that she was tasked with something different almost every day. Some days it might be combing the adjacent sectors for aberrant spectra or intercepted SIGINT. Some days she might help broach introductions or translate for a particularly prickly or exotic visitor species. Still others more involved helping to direct inbound and outbound flights from the station. To just about anyone else, this was torment and drudgery, but to Kiimi, this was an acceptable level of social interaction. If only all interactions could be made by text, voice, or in special cases - screen or hologram. That would make everything so much easier. Much easier than the face-to-face sort of things. Her mother had always said she was chronically shy, but that wasn't really it. She liked people just fine - from a distance. Nothing like the cold hard vacuum of space in between people to help keep things cool. Over comm lines, you didn't have to worry if your hands were sweating or how to avoid eye contact without appearing to avoid eye contact. With a degree of separation, Kiimi felt at ease. Even when - and this happened more often than not - she dealt with a male star pilot. Not that there was anything wrong with that! A man could fly a ship just as well as any woman, probably. It was just a particularly exotic part of her job that she was, well, getting used to.

A chime caught the Preita'rrou's attention, diverting her from her cup of over-sweetened caffeine rocket fuel. Blue eyes flicked up to the spacelane grid to catch sight of an approaching contact. Kiimi moved through the protocol, actively scanning the object in motion for identification transponders, vector, speed, and any outlier indicators such as energy spikes or - Saanjarra forbid it - weapon charges or locks.

"Thjiss jiss Jovan fljight sstatjion th-thrree thrree sseven. We have jy-jyou on sscopess, jinbound fljight. jIdentjifjy jyourrsself."

While she awaited a reply, Kiimiti multitasked. She scanned the board for escort support elements on duty. There were always at least four fighters assigned to the task at any given time, spending a few hours a turn making lazy loops around until someone needed escorting or a good looking-over. Identifying the nearest X-wing on the board, Kiimiti quickly typed a stream of text to the pilot.

Flight Station 337 - Observe contact at grid two-nine on inbound vector. Intercept and prepare escort.

[Gunner Rodes]

"Flight Station Three Three Seven, this is Wraith Seven One, requesting permission to dock. Over."

The comm switch gave a click, a sharp sound that pierced the languorous burble of computer systems, all around. Gunner was poised on the edge of his seat, with one large padded digit hovering over the button, waiting. It had a warm amber glow to it, like the setting sun at the end of a long day, which was appropriate, because it had been a very long day. Officially, pilot fatigue clocked in at 10 hours, which meant that, as a rule, no mission was designed to exceed that limit. Deviation from this rule placed the mission in jeopardy, along with the very safety of the pilots, themselves. But Lieutenant Tahmores and Flight Officer Rodes had not been away on mission, that day. No, they had been running a training exercise designed to help them 'appreciate the extent of their limits,' and, after 12 hours in the black, Gunner had indeed discovered a unique appreciation for not only his limits, but for durasteel constitution of his bladder, too.

Every second of silence stretched out like a lifetime. He was ready to receive clearance to dock, and more-than-ready for a good sonic, a decent meal, and at least 6 hours of quality rack time. Inside his space suit, he was swimming in his own sweat - it was the price to be paid for 14 layers of insulation, and there was only so much water-cooling could do after half a day cooped up inside a stuffy cockpit. Not that it was the cockpit's fault or anything. Quite the contrary. In fact, the cockpit of Wraith Seven One was fast becoming one of Gunner's favourite places in the galaxy. It was spacious, long, and sleek; a place where the only light was the multicoloured blinking of buttons, and where the only sound came from murmuring computers and the soft hum of the engines. That was unless Tristan had something to say.

Flying with Tristan was easy. He was, first and foremost, a professional: efficient in his work, effective communication skills, and his piloting was a thing of beauty. There was not a shred of the crass egotism that Gunner had come to associate with hotshot fighter pilots, but then, Rogue Squadron had built its reputation through action, and not from years of drunken posturing. Conversation, when it came, was a welcome reprieve from the tedium of running checks and providing aimless reports; that there was scarcely any eye-contact helped, owing to the unusual cockpit layout of the HWK-290, and it never felt forced, but always patient, always natural. And, when conversation ran dry, there always a job to be done. Inside the cockpit of a ship, he knew all of the rules, and it put his mind at considerable ease.

What did not put his mind at ease, however, was time-wasting. Once more, he stabbed a stubby digit at the comm:

"Flight Station Three Three Seven, this is Wraith Seven One. Do you copy?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Gunner may have been tired, but Tristan's mind was being held aloft by the gentle caress of nostalgia. The bulky layers of pressure suit designed to keep them safe and alive for the long periods it might take for rescue to reach a long range recon craft had become a full body sleeping bag, the stuffy humidity within reminding him of summer nights camping with friends and family back on Naboo, buried deep within the layers of insulation to hide from the insidious biting insects of the swamps and grasslands. The tug of tiredness that itched across the back of his eyeballs reminded him of the classic days of the Rebellion, where extended trips like this were just part and parcel of the pilot experience, moving from secret base to secret base the long way round to make life that little bit more difficult for Imperial Intelligence. This was better than those days, even: ten hours in a cockpit was nothing, when the cockpit was big enough to stand up and walk around - the Blackbird even had a modest galley, for Force's sake. The son of an Imperial Officer, Tristan had learned at a young age that no amount of sitting and travelling was intolerable if you had reliable access to snacks.

It wasn't quite the same though. While the pressure suit implanted the notion of taking a cosy nap into his mind, the cockpit wasn't the same cradling, womb-like environment that an X-Wing in hyperspace could be. He wasn't alone with nothing but the universe and his thoughts: he was exposed, and accompanied. Tristan remembered how strange it was the first time he'd flown a two-seater starfighter: back then, the voice of his navigator had been a grating intrusion into what had almost become peaceful meditation for him. Gunner wasn't even remotely the same source of irritation that Rodian had provided; he certainly didn't have the same non-stop talking affliction, that was for sure. Even so, there was something about having him here that sat strangely with Tristan. Maybe it was just Gunner's general quirkiness. Maybe it was that tugging obligation to spark conversation and fill the silences, even though Tristan knew Gunner was likely as content as he was to enjoy the peace and quiet. Maybe it was just the simple fact that he wasn't alone, the way that left him feeling exposed to and responsible for another person in an uncomfortable new way.

He'd assumed that the bond between pilots and copilots would be like that between a pilot and their wingman; it was and it wasn't. Both pairings were relying on each other's competence, both put their faith in the other; but as a solo pilot, if you screwed up there was a chance your wingman could redeem it, saving you or at the very least saving themselves. Here, if Tristan screwed up, that was likely it for both of them. The likelihood of some minor blunder spelling their doom and destruction was vastly reduced on reconnaissance missions versus the dogfights that Tristan was used to, but it added a twist of pressure that hadn't been there before. Worse: in an A-Wing or X-Wing, your wingman and squadmates only paid you passing attention, only noticing where you were, if you were in the right place, and if you needed assistance. Here, Tristan's every action, every manoeuvre and control input, was on display for Gunner to witness in scrutinising detail. That sense of being watched, whether real or imagined, nagged at the back of Tristan's thoughts. He could ignore it, but thus far he'd not managed to dislodge it.

Tristan glanced in Gunner's direction - another oddity of the Blackbird: the copilot sat forward of the pilot, nestled into the HWK's nose cone while the pilot peered out from where Tristan supposed the stylised raptor head's eye was supposed to be - and wondered if he felt the same kind of uncomfortable attention. It was something he should ask, probably; something he knew that a pilot hypothetically could ask their copilot; but they weren't there yet, not quite. A few more missions, a few more shared experiences; maybe even a little downtime, so they could get a proper fix on each other without the cockpit getting in the way. As a copilot, Tristan could not ask for a more competent and professional counterpart; but the unerring trust of pilot camaraderie would take a little longer to earn.

The pilot frowned as he heard Gunner repeat his transmission to Jovan Station. Part of that consummate professionalism meant that Tristan had never witnessed Gunner needing to do anything twice. "Everything okay up there, Tick-Tock?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Kiimiti was already well-within the procedure, confirming and marking Wraith Seven One IFF as green, which instantly resolved on the escorting X-wing's HUD. Her finger was a scant inch from the transmit button to give vocal confirmation of receipt when her earbuds chirped up again. Same voice, but noticeably more pointed. The Preita'rrou's ears laid back a little in defensive posture. Of all the nerve! She wasn't some kind of laggard, so who was trying to rush her?

A frown on her face, Kiimi jammed her finger on the tightbeam transmission button with a little petulant force.

"Wrrajith Ss-sseven One, Fljight Sstatjion Thrree Three Sseven c-copjiess. Rreduce sspeed bjy p-pojint fjive and follow the trraffjic vectorr g-g-gjiven. Overr."

She raised her finger from the toggle, cutting her mic just in time to sigh noisily. Who was this Pri'maai arr'moa trying to rush her? She already had Wraith Seven One's information on screen. A curious browse was in order.

HWK-290 class utility vessel - reconaissance configuration. Designation Blackbird.
Crew (2)
Tristan Tahmores (Lieutenant) Pilot
Gunner Rodes (Flight Officer) Sensor Technician

A few image thumbnails came with the names. Humans both, of course. Tristan looking handsome with chiseled features, a slight pout to his lips, and kind eyes. Gunner with a square jaw, square head, and...ears. Very emotive ears, for a human at least. What kind of name was Gunner? Was he like one of the pilots who wore a nickname so much he insisted everyone call him that? Or was that his birth name?

Another note on the flight dossier caught Kiimiti's eye. They'd been in the black for over twelve hours, well past the usual recommendation. Of course, it was an Intelligence ship on a reconnaissance patrol, so they tended to bend things, but still. She imagined the pair were basting in their own juices and their back teeth were floating. At least that thought helped to lend sympathy to any sass that had been aimed at her. It also threw a little cold water on her idly swooning a pair of attractive head shots.

Back to work, Kiimi. Shaking herself free from innocent ogling, the Preita'rrou began to line up a docking clearance for the Blackbird. It was a pretty busy patch of space today, and there were more than a few ships coming and going. More to the point - landing bay traffic for small ships, such as Blackbird was in short supply. A few bays were full up with fighters, shuttles, and facility support craft. Civilian bays were off limits, given the nature of Blackbird's mission.

That left Bay Six B.

"Wrrajith Sseven One, thjiss jiss F-fljight Sstatjion Thrree Th-Thrree Sseven. Adj-jusst courrsse to jinc-comjing vectorr and sstand bjy forr c-clearrance. Overr."

[Gunner Rodes]

"Everything okay up there, Tick-Tock?"

"We are expected to respond in a timely fashion, but they can't be arsed to do the same. It's so inconsiderate."

In his frustration, Gunner crashed back into his seat with all the force of a marshmallow hitting a cloud. Space suits were not designed for dramatic flair. After 3 seconds of stewed silence, his arms came unfurled, and raised in a gesture of surrender. Now, he turned to regard his pilot, nestled away at the back of the cockpit.

"This is the military, right?" he said, with a mirthless snort, "Where's the efficiency? Unless-"

The light of an idea - a terrible incomprehensible idea - blossomed in eyes, turning his disbelief into something stoic and cold. The comms were down. That was it. The comms were down, and, somehow, his checks hadn't picked up on it. No. That's not possible. Gunner was halfway to his feet, when the voice of the LSO sounded for a second time, cutting through his muddled thoughts like a vibroblade through butter. She sounded... different from before, like someone had tightened the strings on her quintolium. In an instant, his quest to repair the comm systems was abandoned, and he fell back into his seat.

"Copy that, Flight Tower Three Three Seven. Course adjusted. Speed: Four Zero. Standing by."

The comm clicked like an impatient tongue. Gunner cast a glance back to Tristan, who was already doing his thing. His shrug was swallowed up inside the bulky suit.

"Some people, eh?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Aye aye. Course laid in. Speed: Four Zero.

That's what Tristan would have said if this were a starship. Everything was complex and intricate there. A bridge full of people, but there was only one voice - the conning officer - who was allowed to tell the helmsman what to do; everything else was just background noise. It made sense when you were dealing with a ship of that extreme scale, when a fraction of a degree could make the difference between clearing spacedock safely and an explosive end for all involved. But it was more than just that. There was a formality, and a propriety. There was a difference between aye, and aye aye. There was a pattern of language, a specific construction to the kind of orders and instructions that were given to ensure they were understood. The Starfighter Corps and the officers connected with it had their own phrases and customs, but even after thousands of years of starfighters, it seemed to lack the tradition and formality of the navy. Perhaps that was because, while the Republic army and starfighter corps had come and gone over the countless centuries, the navy was something that endured. No matter what happened in Republic politics, those customs were preserved by Rendili, by Anaxes, by Kuat, and dozens more.

Tristan had always found it fascinating. For a time in his youth, he'd seriously considered the Imperial Navy as a career path, out of genuine interest rather than the paternal rebellion that had driven him to the Pilot Corps. His grandfather on his mother's side had come from a long line of service in the Judicial Fleet and preceding planetary starfleets. Tristan could still remember staring as a child at the service medal from the Stark Hyperspace War that had adorned his grandfather's mantle, and how enraptured he had been with every story, every custom, every process that his grandfather had intoned into his mind. His father had hated it; but his father was an Army man, and the rivalry between marine and infantry was as old as the stars. On some level, Tristan had wondered or hoped if this new assignment might be a step towards that aborted childhood dream; the same part of him that envied Jaden Luka and Oisin Ocasta for their grudging acceptance of duties his younger self would have eagerly taken on.

Even as that thought formed though, he felt the resistance between his gloves of the flight control, the sheer satisfaction of the Blackbird responding effortlessly to his movements, and the thought crumbled away. He wasn't the same as many of his peers: starfighters had not become the foundation upon which he built his entire personality. Never the less, even within this still unfamiliar ship, the cockpit felt like home more than anywhere else had in a long time. This was where he belonged, for now, and here he was content to stay.

"You catch that accent?" Tristan replied, waiting until the controls in front of him confirmed their new trajectory lock before allowing his attention to be split. "There were some definite Cizerack reshes and vowels in there. Someone's probably waving a laser pointer around in there; got the cat-folks all in a tizzy."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

And that was that.

Kiimi let her eyes dawdle a moment more on the handsome humans, but then she was off to the next distraction on the board. And it wasn't long in coming. A larger green blip began to flash as it's trajectory suddenly changed.

"Fljight Sstatjion Th-thrree Thrree Sseven to C-RrOC c-crrujisserr Amborra, jyou'rre devjiatjing frrom jyourr exjit v-vectorr."

The returning comms came in with a lot of static, and Kiimi's ears perked to try and catch the callback.

"...having a problem. Power distribution to nacelles offset. Correcting to...wait. Wait!"

The Ambora's representation on the flight board then took a sharper deviation, one that would put it dangerously close to impacting the station. Kiimi's eyes widened and she slapped a red button on the console with her palm. In an instant, the flight station was filled with a warning klaxon.

"jImpact d-d-dangerr! Ssectjion ssjix! Emerrgencjy prrotocol!"

An invisible tether of tractor beam suddenly snared Ambora, feathering down it's speed until it was zero. That didn't mean that everything was fine. Kiimi monitored the readings from the cruiser, noting that there was definitely a problem with the nacelles. Two of the engines were getting next to zero power, but the portside engines were about to redline. The Preita'rrou bolted from her seat, ran to the other side of the room to get line of sight on the cruiser. As she did, the overheating engines flashed, then blew themselves apart, shearing away from the C-ROC's hull in a release of fire and debris.

With her eyes on the carnage, Kiimi pressed an earbud firmly in place. The six other crewers at flight station suddenly had their hands full. One dispatched an emergency ship to assess the damage and deal with any critical threats to the afflicted cruiser. Another sealed the blast doors over the atmospheric fields of all nearby landing bays. In the event of further trouble, this would keep debris from exploding into an unprotected hangar and causing all sorts of hell.

But in the meantime, Kiimi knew that she'd have at least one ship that wasn't going anywhere for the time being.

Returning to her seat, Kiimi returned Blackbird to her tightbeam protocol.

"Wrrajith Ss-sseven One, th-thjiss jiss Fljight Ss-sstatjion Thrree Thrree Sseven. Powerr d-down jyourr engjiness and aw-w-wajit furrtherr jinsstrructjionss. Overr."

[Gunner Rodes]

The flash from the explosion chased away the cockpit gloom, painting its slender interior in warm orange hues. Gunner looked up, and spotted the last of the flames before they were snuffed out; the portside engines were drifting away from the rest of the cruiser, almost wholly intact.

"Oh, my stars!" he muttered, stupefied, "Are you seeing this?"

Beside him, the computer terminal came alive, bleating and chirruping, as it started to regurgitate sensor readings from the incident. The conflict of which he wanted to see more, the terrible spectacle or the fresh information, lasted all of a heartbeat. He twisted in his seat, and stooped low, to lap up the data.

"Oh, that's interesting. The readings seem to indicate there was energy feedback all the way through the retrostablisers into the primary heat converters," he sucked air through his teeth, as if he himself had been singed by explosion, and continued, "I suppose that's the risk you take when your best acceleration solution is to simply add extra turbines. More engines, more problems."

His train of thought was derailed by a faint pop from the comm. There was that voice, again. Huh. Tristan was right: she was a Cizerack. Married to their unfortunate new instructions, the imagery he had conjured, of flighty foolish kittens, came to life in bold and vibrant colours in Gunner's mind. Behind tight lips, his teeth clenched in frustration. Damn cats couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery.

"Flight Station, this is Wraith Seven One. Requesting new clearance for docking. Preferably somewhere functioning."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan was still getting to know his new copilot, and there were times when he found the man decidedly odd. It was only force of will and a desire for civility that kept his tongue in check: they'd been getting along fine thus far, but they weren't quite there yet, and Tristan didn't want to undermine any quality pilot bonding with an ill-advised application of sarcasm. The words still tumbled through his mind, though.

Am I seeing what? The giant kriffing explosion?

I'm sure that's fascinating, Rodes, and knowing you wasted time figuring that out will be a great comfort to anyone scared and injured on that ship that you've not offered to help yet.

Force sakes, Gunner. Maybe offer to help before you try and find us a new place to park?

Tristan's jaw muscles ached from the effort of clamping his mouth shut, the action fuelled by his sheer focus on the effort of keeping the Blackbird in position with their reaction thrusters, and monitoring the navigational sensors for any potential incoming debris. The impulse in the back of his head clawed at him though, the restless Rogue mentality that wanted to leap into action and do something, not content to simply sit on the sidelines and watch the professionals do their job. It was a wrestling match that, ultimately, Tristan's baser impulses won. A hand reached out, dialling his own comm equipment into the same frequency as Gunner and the station.

"Flight Station, this is Wraith Seven One's better half. Sorry to interrupt, but we have two able bodied Alliance officers suited up for EVA over here. Can we be of any assistance?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

The Preita'rrou was juggling her attention between traffic, comms, and the hairball of a mess the C-ROC was causing. Wraith Seven One squawked in again, a bit chippier than before.

"N-n-negative, Wrrajith Sseven-One. Bajy ss-ssjix bee jiss the onljy ssecurrjitjy c-clearrance bajy wjith vacancjy."

Before she got a response, the second crewer on the HWK chimed in. She wondered which face went with which voice. Would it be weird if she switched to a viewscreen feed? Probably weird. Don't be weird, Kiimi, she rebuked herself, unconsciously swiping imagined perspiration on her palms against her jodhpurs.

"N-negatjive clearrance on sspace walk, b-b-better half," she slipped a silly grin, "Ssjituatjion aboarrd the Ssee-Rroc ap-ppearrss non crrjitjical."

She glanced over her shoulder at the pair of controllers handling that mess. They nodded to confirm.

"B-b-bessjidess, therre'ss a bjit of debrrjiss and ejecta arround the sscene. jI know jyou b-both prrobabljy need to ssprrjing a leak b-but jI don't want jyourr ss-ssujitss to ssprrjing one."

[Gunner Rodes]

When his request was denied, Gunner's face screwed up tight inside his helmet; teeth bared, clamped tight, biting back on an avalanche of expletives. The waiting was agony, like... Zygerrian water torture, with every trickling second inching him closer to madness. With the mounting pressure, it was difficult to even think straight. And, before any civilised thoughts could bubble to the surface, they were dispersed by the sound of Tristan's voice, and his unfathomable remarks. Gunner gaped in disbelief. It was a monstrous betrayal.

"An unscheduled walk? That is... a complete deviation from protocol!" It sounded better in his head. Mercifully, the glorified traffic warden from Tower 337 uttered the first sensible thing she'd said all day, and he found himself nodding along furiously, echoing her words, "The situation is non-critical, Tristan."

Of course, she couldn't just leave it there, could she? No. She had to start talking about springing leaks, at a time like this. On cue, Gunner squirmed in his seat, and gave a feeble whine. There was a thunk, as his helmet came to to rest upon his station. What he needed was something to take his mind off things. And, if he was going to suffer, he wasn't going to suffer in silence. A sideways glance, and a lazy stretch activated the comm once more:

"Flight Station, this is Wraith Seven One, again. The... other one," he clarified, with a beat of uncertainty. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a man resigned to his doomed fate, he muttered, "Since we're stuck here. Can you clear something up for me? Is it 'Ja irra korra'rrou,' or 'Ja irra korra'nai?'"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Rapport building. De-escalation. These were tools that a comms officer used in moments of crisis. Not that this was a matter of life and death (since it looked like nobody was hurt except the C-ROC itself), but sometimes protocol permitted, well, steering left of protocol. Typically the tightbeam lines were strictly for giving conditions and orders to inbound and outbound ships, but in such a crisis situation, an officer on comms was permitted to do what it took to keep a pilot or crew in a state of calm or compliance.

Even without that handy out, Kiimi probably couldn't resist a kuya fish dangled in front of her like this.

"jIt'ss korra'nai, b-but that'ss verrjy good p-p-prronouncjiatjion! jYourr t-tonal sstrressess arre perrfect, and mosst humanss d-don't even b-b-botherr trrjyjing to tonalljy jinflect. Thejy g-get hung up on rrolljing an rr sso much that thejy ssound ljike thejy'rre c-c-clearrjing a bone frrom thejirr thrroat."

She made a face.

"Orr thejy ssp-pjit on jyou."

She'd ask if he'd formally trained in the Cluster or in an exchange program, but if he had, he certainly wouldn't have made a beginner's error in switching a third person singular feminine for a third person neutral pronoun. That hinted that he'd picked all that nuance out of the air, and learned by ear.

There were few more beautiful things to a polyglot. Still, since Wraith Seven One had stumbled on some common ground, Kiimi went to work fortifying it.

"Ja jirra korra'rrou, w-would technjicalljy be c-corrrect ssjince jyou addrresssjing a rrou-ssee, but jit'ss overr-forrmal and arrc-c-chajic. Ja irra korra'nai jiss unjiverrsssal, b-but morre cassualljy jyou would ssajy to a frrjiend Ja irra."

As she talked, Kiimi leaned forward a bit at her terminal, propping her chin with a white gloved hand.

"Sso then jI'd alsso wjissh jyou g-good forrtune!"

Was this a suitable time to switch from audio to vis feed? She hovered her other hand over the switch, but chickened out.

[Gunner Rodes]

The discussion had taken an unexpected turn for the informative. And Gunner, who, until that point, had been drowning in an ocean of despondency, surfaced long enough to breath the refreshing air. The compliments ironed the glum creases from his face, too. His eyebrows climbed and he even accomplished a flicker of a smile - it was not everyday he was praised for his perfect grasp of tonality. What a change it made to speak to someone who appreciated correct tonal inflection. Of course, for all of her illuminating talk, their faceless Cizerack traffic controller had to go and make things weird. Now, was she implying she would wish him good fortune, or was she actually wishing him good fortune? And, if so, why? Was it a trick? Who did that?

Brow knotted in confusion, Gunner hovered tentatively over the comm, and leaned closer, and closer, and a bit closer, still. He cleared his throat, and mustered a quiet: "...Thank you."

Say something. Say something. Say something.

The silence was especially cutting. In a moment of desperation, he turned to Tristan, articulating his struggle with an open-handed shrug.

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan was only partially paying attention to the exchange between his copilot and the communications officer. Partly that was because his mind was focused elsewhere, trying to filter through sensor telemetry and cycling through various comm feeds he could eavesdrop on time glean a little more information about whatever the heck had exploded.

It grated with him to be sat here idle, doing nothing. Whether the situation was under control or not, he was not wired for sitting on his ass. Tristan was the sort of guy who simply walked up and helped, regardless of whether it was wanted or needed. He was the sort to stick around after a long sortie to help the ground crew with the post-flights, even though it was their job and not his. He'd needed to learn to avoid cargo bays, because of how frequently he autopiloted his way into assistance mode, and wound up lugging boxes around for an hour. Being asked to sit here and wait patiently in a queue when there was a proximate and enticing crisis to be responded to was like some cruel form of torture conceived entirely for his personal frustration.

The main reason for Tristan's lack of attention however was a simple lack of understanding about most of what was being said. At the best of times, a conversation about linguistics would have bored him to tears, but when the bulk of that conversation happened in a different language, Tristan's mind bugged out faster than a cat at a Bothan barbeque. So, when Gunner turned towards him with a confused and pleading look on his face, it took Tristan a moment to play back the half listened to conversation in his head, and figure out what was being asked of him.

He responded with a shrug. "I dunno, man. Tell her that the chance to have this conversation means that good fortune is already here?"

[Gunner Rodes]

"Oh!" Tristan's words landed like a slap to the face, not the violent sort, but a come-to-your-senses sort of slap. His suggestion was much friendlier than anything Gunner had in mind. Really friendly. Like... flirty friendly. Which meant that, during the conversation, his savvy partner had tuned into frequencies to which he had been deaf. That changed the game entirely. And, with grave and newfound appreciation, he said, "Oh, you are smooth!"

A clumsy thumbs-up was held aloft, as he wheeled around in his seat to punch the waiting comm. He leaned into it, in a smug and self-satisfied kind of way that bled through into his voice:

"Although, I'd say the fact that we're having this conversation means that good fortune is already mine."

He sighed, leaning back to bask in his success, as if it were the summer sun. His moment of glory came to a premature end, however, when a sudden and chilling thought occurred to him.

"Oh, no. What if she's a total ugger?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan dismissed the notion with a snort. "An unattractive Cizerack? Are you high?"

For a moment, a pang of guilt stabbed in Tristan's stomach for that statement. It was easy to get swept up in that kind of banter when you were among fellow pilots, but for the most part Tristan tried not to live up to the objectifying horndog stereotype. That said, the glib statement wasn't exactly wide of the mark. Maybe it was because of their matriarchal society, or a side effect of the way their felinoid physiology made them move, or maybe there was just some underlying xeno fetish that Tristan had never noticed before; but Tristan hadn't met a single Cizerack that wasn't in some way captivating or distracting. Even the male ones had a lot going for them in that department, though not enough for Tristan to ever give serious thought to indulging.

Tristan remained quiet and thoughtful for a few moments longer before we spoke again.

"We are in range of the station's data network, though. Did she give us a name already? Shouldn't be too hard to pull up her personnel file and take a look-see."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Starved for a good flirt, Kiimi's eartips immediately glowed. She gulped down the beginnings of a purr, triple-checking that the tightbeam mic wasn't live.

For a moment, she'd worried if the strangled-sounding thanks she'd gotten a moment earlier meant that she'd crossed some sort of do-not-cross line. She knew that human males generally took the initiative - which was fine by her because she was generally so shit at the charade. But had she been too forward? Should she have acted demure? All this was moot because let's be honest, this was still a professional encounter.

Kiimi self-consciously gathered her tail into her lap, coaxing the tuft of fine hair at the tip back into a sleek curl instead of a billowing pom pom.

But then he'd replied and the sun came out and blew the clouds away. The Preita'rrou's ears raised up, and she carefully looked back to the rest of her team to make sure they were occupied. So Gunner had the initiative roll, and his first attack was super effective! And...and...


...and this would be so much easier if this was a session of Earthen Realms. Who was best for the task? Level 47 High Elven wizard Gaion Wylthree, casting a +7 sphere of seduction, orrrr Preita'rrou Kiimiti Taassaurra, who had to explain why a grown woman needed a Limited Edition (and numbered) Eye of Elvendish crystal ball any time she changed roommates.

Kiimi closed her eyes, miming a meditative state with forefingers and thumbs touching in upturned hands.

"Charrjissma....charrjissma....charrjissma..."

With a deep breath, she hit the transmit button.

"Well, jyou could alwajyss d-d-d...d-d...double! jYourr p-p-p...p-p..."

Oh no! Now! In the heat of flirtatious exchange she'd had a hard reset, logjamming any hop of a prosaic victory. Come on Kiimi, see the letter on your tongue on your lips in your throat and move as one.

"...pleass...PAjYOUT!"

Good fortune! Metaphors! Payout! Goddess, her brain was full of treacle at the worst times! Eyes in the flight station all turned as one to look at the source of the outburst. Kiimi faked playing cool, still brushing down her tail.

[Gunner Rodes]

"We are in range of the station's data network, though. Did she give us a name already? Shouldn't be too hard to pull up her personnel file and take a look-see."

"Oh, I'll get us a name."

Gunner gave his partner a wink, and rotated lazily back into position. He was now so full of confidence, he was practically bursting at the seams. Tristan's words marinated in his thoughts. He was so right. Was there even such a thing as an unattractive Cizerack? Gunner could picture it, now: large clear eyes, a mischievous smile, pert breasts, a petite waistline and a firm swishy bum. They were the best walkers in the galaxy.

Leaning forward, he draped himself over the console, and regarded the comm like a pretty face across a candle-lit dinner table. He was enjoying this game. It was flirting without the eye-contact, without the foreign body language, or the uncertain gestures. And, best of all, he had his partner to back him up, and feed him lines, when he didn't know what to say. It was perfect.

And there she was, again. This time, she was making him wait, drawing out her words, teasing. Double his what? Pleasure? Was she about to say 'pleasure'? His eyebrows embarked on an expedition to the top of his head. And then...

"AH!" he shrieked, jolting back into his seat. For a moment, he stared in shock at the offensive buzzing comm terminal, as he attempted to make sense of what had just happened. At a loss, he stood and wheeled around to consult his pilot, and newly-appointed love doctor:

"What was that for!?" His voice had discovered a whole new octave, "Why why why why why is she shouting at me!?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan's focus didn't deviate from his console, but that was as much a concerted effort to maintain a straight face than it was anything else. His voice played along, not harshly disinterested, but with enough of that tone to sound like a parent more interested in the contents of the Sunday morning news flimsi than whatever their child was currently trying to smush into the carpet fibres.

"I'm sure that's normal," he offered, submitting a data request to Jovan Station's ambient network, and beginning to download the technical specs for a C-ROC transport, just out of idle curiosity and to help pass the time stuck in a holding pattern. "I'm responsible for women making loud noises like that all the time."

His efforts to keep the encroaching smirk at bay ultimately failed; fortunately Gunner was too busy staring at the communications screen in startled panic to notice. Part of him wondered if it was cruel, to bait his copilot with deliberate ambiguities like this. Gunner seemed to struggle with deciphering them at times, never quite knowing whether a statement was uttered in deliberate innuendo or in oblivious accident. It had become a game between them though, a reliable technique to fall back on if Tristan ever found himself needing to coax Gunner out of a problematic thought spiral. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do. Maybe it was assholeish to toy with Gunner's mind in such a way; or perhaps just amoral to derive any sort of amusement from it. But damn it, he was a fighter pilot: dubious and unhealthy antics were part of the job description.

"Sounds like she's got a bit of a stutter though," he appended sagely, managing to quell the smile, and glancing his eyes briefly towards Gunner. "I had one as a kid, and it was frustrating as hell. Sometimes you get to the end of a sentence and your tongue is tripping over so much that you just have to blast a word through just to be sure it gets said."

A small smile was allowed to creep onto his lips and into his voice; one of warmth though, not mirth.

"We're recon pilots, Tick-Tock. Focus on the telemetry we've got, and leave the paranoid speculation to the analysts."

[Gunner Rodes]

Gunner nodded. He liked that. It was the sort of analogy that put him strangely at ease; something he could relate to, a tool to navigate the impenetrable barriers of the female mind. Slowly, he lowered himself back into his seat.

"She has a stutter?" he said, deflated, "I thought she was being sexy."

Time to relaunch this floundering operation, then. The outburst about payouts was to go completely ignored - honestly, Gunner didn't quite know what to make of the whole thing, but the less said about it, the better. And, if it was indeed the by-product of a nasty stutter, there was nothing to be gained from drawing attention to it. After all, when it came to random acts of social suicide, he was something of an authority on the matter. Knowing that the disembodied voice on the other end of the channel was similarly burdened, somehow, it made it easier for him to cast off the paranoia and speculation.

"So," he said, into the comm, "Does Flight Station Three Three Seven have a name, or are you going to make us guess?"

A thought that had been slowly taking shape within the dark recesses of his mind, suddenly bubbled to the surface. Once again, his attention was on his pilot. "You had a stutter?"

His eyes narrowed in disbelief. It was almost impossible to imagine Tristan struggling to speak; he always knew what to say. The confession had been yielded without fuss or ceremony - an unimportant thing, perhaps, made small by the passage of time. Time healed, of course, but there was nothing it could do about the scars. To Gunner, it was a truth that shimmered in his hands like a precious gem; a sunrise on the landscape of Tristan Tahmores.

"How did you beat it?"