Rebel Dawn [Dorn Force]

[John Glayde]

Glayde traced his fingers along the walls of the corridor. The unit hadn't been at their new staging post for long - hell, the unit hadn't existed for long, either - so he hadn't yet grown accustomed to the new surroundings. He was loathed to admit it, but he found himself missing the oppressive whiteness of the Mon Calamari vessel that had been his home for the last several years. This facility, constructed by the wide-eyed Sullustans, was at the complete opposite end of the scale; hence his fingertips providing a slight navigational and balance aid.

His mind wandered over the strangeness of the current circumstance: being summoned to his own office. The fact that he had an office at all took some getting used to - back on the Valiant, he'd had to share workspace with the adjutant and the other SpecForce officers aboard. Sure, the broom cupboard they'd put him in here was barely big enough to fit his desk... but it did have his name stencilled in aurebesh on the door; that was something.

Reaching the stretch of corridor that the writing he peered at in the dimness informed him was the correct one, he paced over to the appropriate door, and hesitated at the controls. This was his office, but the call had come from an Alliance Intel operative; who knew what they could be doing in there. Should he wander in blindly, and unannounced? Deciding that anything he witnessed couldn't possibly be as bad as the time he'd misidentified the - not very clearly labelled - doorway into the men's locker room, and had been forced to retreat under a volley of thrown items from Lieutenant Tur'enne, he jammed a finger into the appropriate button, and stepped inside.

* * *

Atton peered up from the datapad in front of him - in fact a rather amusing satirical parody of the early days of Palpatine's New Order, though no one would be able to differentiate it from one of the plethora of other documents littered about the desk without close scrutiny - and fixed his eyes on Major Glayde, probing the man's reactions and responses. First as an Intelligence Officer for the Republic, then as a journalist, an information broker, and now an employee of the Empire, Atton had picked up a trick or two about rapidly assessing the personality of an individual based on those initial few seconds of contact. The technique he employed on this occasion was situating himself in the Major's seat, behind his desk; a clear visual contest of his superiority within wat was essentially the Major's domain.

To the Commando's credit, he barely flinched, though did go to the lengths of remaining standing rather than accepting a defferential place in one of the seats opposite, adopting a confident stance; looking down on Atton. He fought back a smile. The Major had conceeded the comfy chair, but was making it very clear to the Intel Operative that such a concession was not the same as a surrender.

Such an individual would likely appreciate a succinct approach; as such, Atton dispensed with the formalities, and addressed the main subject of their conversation immediately. "I have an assignment for y', Major," he announced, swapping from one datapad to another, briefly scanning the first few lines to confirm the contents before passing it across.

Glayde didn't accept the device straight away. "If you're looking to engage the services of my team," he countered, hesitating only momentarily at the realisation that he knew no name for the man sitting before him, "I suggest you follow the proper protocol, and speak to Colonel Dalgas."

Atton's arm retreated, brow furrowing slightly as he nodded at that statement. "The Colonel is aware of th' situation," he revealed; "However, these orders are not for y' team." He offered the datapad again. "I have an assignment for you, Major."

Frowning himself, John accepted the electronic device, and studied the data displayed with intregue. Atton waited patiently, gauging from his reactions the progress he was making. Glayde's eyes widened in response to a particular set of details; Atton made a guess at what the context likely was, and offered his own input. "Given th' nature of this assignment, a low key operation is called for; Colonel Dalgas has approved th' deployment o' yourself and Lieutenant Tur'enne, but no other assets from this command." He engaged Glayde's eyes with a knowing look. "I'm sure y' can appreciate that in this instance, maintaining secrecy is of th' utmost importance. Y' can inform no one of any information that they do not need t' know. Is that understood, Major?"

Conflict warred with John's features, but he managed to assert enough control to arrange an expression of determined compliance. "Understood," he responded, with a curt nod. He glanced down at the still active datapad. "Anything else?"

Atton shook his head. "No; everything is on there." He hesitated for the briefest of moments. "Good luck, Major."

* * *

Glayde waited for the door of his office to drop closed with a clunk, before slumping back against it. Committed to his duties and responsibilities, Glayde wasn't the kind of officer to turn down or even question an assignment, but there were a few things about this mission in particular that made him uncomfortable. He glanced down at the datapad yet again; drank in the details; the destination; the target. He sighed.

Delving into the pocket of his fatigues, he pulled out his comlink, and thumbed it to life. "Glayde to Tur'enne," he called, "Meet me in the mess hall on level -" He peered at the dim-lit wall opposite, searching out the stencilled writing. "- six. Soon as you can."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Thu-thunk....smack.
Thu-thunk....smack.
Thu-thunk....smack.
Thu-thunk....smack.
Hit ball to the ground, watch it hit the the perpendicular wall...
Thu-thunk....
Altered trajectory, wait for it...wait for it...
smack.
Hit it again. Rinse. Repeat.

She'd been so social with her last squad. Shared drinks, jokes, stories, curses, sorrows, joys...why was this one any different?
Thu-thunk....smack.
Charlotte knew there was more to it than this just...well...not being the guys she'd joined up with when her days on Corellia ended and her days running with the Rebel Alliance began. Maybe it was because one of them had already seen her at her worst and none had seen them at her best.
Thu-thunk....smack.
It felt horrible to have to feel like you had to prove yourself all over again.
Thu-thunk..."Glayde to Tur'enne"...THUNK-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk...

"Kriffing son of a..."
She watched the ball roll into view from under the cot after it had soared over her head, hit the wall behind her and fallen down under the bedding. Charlotte managed to bite her tongue to hear what Glayde had to say. Well, at least the Captain...(No, Major now. She'd have to remember that.) hadn't asked her to meet him in his fancy shmancy office. She snatched the comlink off the bed-side table and let out a breath.
"Got it."

The ball was kicked back under the cot as she left her quarters.

[John Glayde]

There was some unspoken rule in the Rebellion; an integral element of the Rebel mentality. It was a byproduct of their desire to restore the Galactic Republic, no doubt: some quantification of their collective ideal, and their ambitions to return civilization to the galaxy. It wasn't about politics; wasn't about law; yet it was a fundemental ideal that the men and women who waged war against the Empire on a daily basis clung to very tight:

No matter where you are in the galaxy, every sentient being should have access to boy caffeine and alcohol.

This unremarkable rock was no exception to that rule. An interesting statistic that Glayde had overheard during his first few days here: split between the various mess halls, crew lounges, and recreational cantinas, there were more bar stools on the base than there were starfighters; enough chairs and tables to seat an entire SpecForce battalion; and more gallons of alcohol were consumed in a week by the staff here than gallons of fuel consumed by the Air Group in a month. A little scrutiny shone doubt on the validity of some of those figures and statistics, but as a package they got the point across. The Sullustans, though they might have overlooked the slightly lesser visual abilities of many of the Alliance's personnel, hadn't neglected the requirement for appropriate venues to become inebriated to the brink of unconsciousness and - given that the ground crews brewed a lot of the alcohol themselves in one of the disused maintenance bays - often paralysis.

It was in one of these venues, consuming a beverage - a 'Corellian' Caf - that complied with both of Glayde's rights of consumption under Rebel policy, that the Major waited for his unit's resident Infiltrator to arrive. The datapad had long since been stowed inside his jacket, all the pertainant information committed to memory. Currently, he was busy mulling over the logic behind this plan; trying to unravel the thought processes that had brought Alliance Intelligence to the conclusion that he and Tur'enne were the right people for the job. They were both Corellian, granted, and skilled Infiltrators: Tur'enne had been trained as such by SpecForce, while Glayde had experience as a Storm Commando to fall back on. The Lieutenant had a vested interest in this mission; Glayde was unsure whether that would be an advantage or not. Ultimately though, his mind conflicted over a particular question: Are we really the best people for this job that the Alliance could find?

He supposed their current assignment was somewhat unorthadox - their crude mix of specialists from different backgrounds went against the standard SpecForce structure, and no doubt made the members of the unit somewhat more noticed by the Alliance community at large; certainly amongst the command staff. Perhaps then, this was an instance not of selecting the best suited personnel for the task, but rather of selecting the first candidates that sprung to mind.

He sighed, pouring another mouthful of the caf down his throat, relying on the somewhat generous measure of Corellian whiskey to generate the warmth in his extremities that the beverage itself had long since lost. His eyes caught sight of his officer over the rim of the mug. Setting it down on the table with a dull thud, he threw an attention-grabbing gesture in her direction. "Lieutenant," he added, voice just loud enough to cut above the ambiance of the moderately crowded room.

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

It didn't take the Major's call to get her attention, she'd spotted him the moment she walked in. Though it was the quick glance, and the lack of any of the other members of Dorn that caused everything to become a bit off-balanced. This wasn't normal, and honestly she'd started to grow comfortable with routine. Maybe that's why this suited her so well, some part of her genuinely enjoyed routine. Up early, get something quick to eat, head to the gym, have enough bouts with the punching bag until you felt like you were going to lose what you had to eat earlier, shower, go get some real breakfast (complete with a cup of stimcaf, or two...or three), kill time, kill some more time, go over some old missions to figure out where problem areas were, avoid the others (especially frakkin Archy), kill more time, try stay out of trouble, try oh so hard to not get in a fight of some sort when having dinner and drinks, go to bed. Terribly boring. But it made anything out of the usual all the more interesting, all the more exciting. Everything else was painful, comforting routing.

At least she hadn't ended up in the ship's brig...yet.

Today had been especially dull. Which is probably why she found herself in a rather foul mood. The whole thing with the ball had been to try and relieve some stress and not go back down to the gym. The bag there she favored had taken enough of a beating for one day. So it was probably that reason that instead of inquiring about what mission could possibly await she let this bit fly as she unceremoniously let herself drop onto the bench across from Glayde...

"Don't tell me this is going to be a 'Getting to know your squad' exercise. Spare me that skrag, please. You already have my file and anything you need to know is in there..."

She had to almost force the last bit out.

"...sir."

[John Glayde]

John's mouth stretched into a thin line. Tur'enne was correct - everything he needed to know was in her file, along with various mentions of insubordination, disorderly conduct, and violence visited against fellow and superior officers. Were this the Empire, she'd have been kicked out on her ass years ago. Unfortunately, given that the ranks of on-ass ex soldiers were a primary pool of recruitment for the Rebel Alliance, the officers of the Rebellion had been forced to relax their standards somewhat. These were desperate times; as such, a caustic attitude could be ignored, if suitably offset with other skills.

Unfortunately, while her towering stack of reprimands could be ignored, doing the same to Tur'enne herself was a somewhat more challenging task. For a moment, Glayde wondered if his recent promotion would allow him to get away with delegating this assignment to one of the other members of his team; preferably one of the ones who infuriated the Lieutenant as much as she infuriated everyone else. He knew already that the odds were against him on that one.

"For once in the pile of vos you call a life, Tur'enne, shut up and show some fedding respect." The edge of venom was unusual in Glayde's voice, supplanting the sarcasm that he usually employed in the face of attitude from his subordinates. With any luck, the verbal kick in the face would be enough to stay the Lieutenant's tongue, at least for long enough to brief her on what was about to happen.

His eyes narrowed as he continued. "If you wanna keep bitching like a whore, let me know - there are pleanty of rocket jocks out there with credits to burn; I'll happily pimp you out for a little extra in the unit budget. Alternatively, you can shut that fracking mouth of yours, and let me tell you about the real job I have lined up for you." He cocked his head to one side. "What's it to be, Lieutenant?"

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Charles, quite literally, was forced to bite her tongue. There was a genuine want to hit the Major then, just reach over and clock him upside the jaw. If she'd had gotten to a pint or two of Corellian ale that day, it may just have happened. As it was her hand was already balling into a fist, fingernails digging into her palm. But a sober mind allowed herself to keep in check. So rather than the stream of biting comments that wanted to come pouring out from her at that moment...an eyebrow was quirked, the pain being applied to her tongue was slowly released and a deep breath was taken.

"Like any of these piles of slag around here could afford me."

An amused smirk was allowed for a brief moment before her eyes moved away from the Major and her right hand raised enough to allow the third knuckle of her index finger to brush against her lips, stop for a moment, tap a few times there, and then lower again. Her eyes flicked back to Glayde. As much as she could cork that inner seething from becoming verbal, Charles knew damn well there was no containing the spark of loathing still remaining in that look she gave him. It was a girl thing.

"Real job it is, then."

[John Glayde]

Surprise, relief, and disappointment swam through Glayde's mind. He hadn't yet had the fortune of finding himself on the recieving end of one of Tur'enne's 'striking a superior officer' charges, and half hoped he'd have the opportunity to literally knock some sense into the woman. Part of him wondered if she'd actually need that: some physical, alpha male assertion of his seniority. On the other hand, that could just have been his subconscious desire to beat the crap out of her on occasion making up excuses that sounded semi-plausable. Maybe he'd arrange something to let that happen when they got back; assuming he didn't wind up killing her while they were trapped together in Hyperspace, of course. For the first time, he realised how lucky he was having other members of his team who could bear the brunt of Tur'enne's attention on those long voyages, while he hid away in the cockpit.

Brushing his mug aside with the back of his knuckles, he interlaced his fingers mostly together, thumb, index and little fingers pressed together, tip to tip. The manual fusion drummed an irregular pattern on the table's surface as he scrutinised Tur'enne's features, trying to read whatever thoughts were swarming about in her mind. Giving up, he leant forward, elbows propped on the table as his fingers laced further into a childish hand-pistol, tapping lightly against his nose.

"Alliance Intelligence wants us to go to Corellia," he said simply, watching for the Lieutenant's reaction. "We're on defection duty. Some scientist or other has been feeling around for Rebel contacts; we're there to grab him and, if he seems genuine, bring him to a secure location for further evaluation by the big-wigs."

Held an inch or so away from his face, the tips of his index fingers tapped together a few times. "With me so far, or would you prefer I used smaller words?"

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

A quick succession of four taps accompanied her fingernails on the table, one by one. Glayde was trying to push buttons, trying to provoke her, and damned if he wasn't doing a good job at it. Not even the mention of getting to go home managed to lighten her mood any. Usually just a thought of Corellia was enough to bring a smile instantly to her, but at that moment she was still bordering on giving on either storming off, screaming at her superior, or...fighting it all in another way entirely. It was the third option that ended up winning out. There was just no way in hell she was going to give Glayde the satisfaction of letting him know just how under her skin he was getting.

"No sir, all understood."

It was said with an overly professional, albeit curt tone. It was hard to not let the small phrase have an edge of sarcasm to it, but it was amazing what Charles was capable of when she put her mind to it.

"Judging by the fact it's just you and I sitting here, I'm guessing it's safe to assume that the 'we' in all that is in reference to those of the team currently present? Or have you had this delightful little meeting with the others already?"

Well...almost capable of. She was Corellian after all. But the question was valid. Retrieval jobs similar to what she had heard so far could go any number of ways depend on the importance, or lack thereof, of the person in question.

[John Glayde]

Glayde paused for a moment, wondering if it would ever be possible to disguise Sergeant O'Hurn in such a way that he didn't look like some kind of soldier, mercenary, or thug. And trying to make Onashi seem like a normal, functioning member of society; there were some things that physics just didn't allow.

He decided to meet her sarcasm with a forced smile that radiated his own. "In their infinate wisdom," he revealed, "Alliance Intelligence seems to think that our Corellian status, our familiarity with the terrain, and the fact that we don't look like cliché characatures of our profession gives us better odds of completing this mission successfully."

He stared off vaguely in the middle distance, taking the opportunity while his brain dredged up the specifics of their cover story from memory to observe one of the Ground Crew having a little trouble with landing his backside onto a chair. Several attempts had ended in an abort when his alignment had been off; apparently the most recent had ended in a catastrophic undercarriage failure, that had deposited him unceremoniously on the floor. He rolled his eyes in disapproval, the motion efficiently aiming his gaze back towards Tur'enne again.

"Our cover is pretty straight-forward. We're posing as representatives of a small haullage firm, there to collect a shipment on behalf of a third party business; Intel has arranged the specifics with an insider we've got in their organisation." He jabbed a finger at a grain of salt that had managed to escape the attention of the table cleaning droid, fiddling with the crystal for a moment before sending it skipping down the mostly vacant table with a flick. "We're booked in on the public tour of their Research and Development facilities. We take the tour, find our bearings, and then return later that night to break in and snag ourselves a defector." He shrugged. "Piece of ryshcate."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

While the phrase was cliché, the rather cheeky use of her typical codename wasn't appreciated and the glare he was given verged on matching the iciness of Ilum. It was short lived, however. Even if Charles wanted to let it linger until the universe in all its twisted ways actually managed to make the Major drop dead from the look. Those drenned Force Users could probably do it. But as soon as that strange thought entered her head it was instantly shoved away, rather violently so. Enough that it even warranted a subtle shake of her head that probably came off more as her brushing off continued annoyance at the man across from her.

The whole mission in and of itself sounded straight forward, simple, dull as all hell. But at least it'd get her off of the damn ship for a while and (now the smirk came) it'd be nice to see how the home planet was holding up.

"Fair enough. There any other special tidbits I should know about? Or you done with me until we move out?"

[John Glayde]

That you should know about? Sure. That I'm going to tell you about -?

Glayde sighed, and shook his head. Orders were orders, whether he agreed with them or not; for now, that was all she needed to know. No doubt she'd give him hell when she actually found out or worked out the rest; it was imperative then that he cling on to this blissful level of her irritation at him for as long as possible, while it was still more or less within tolerable levels.

He was about to dismiss her, when a brief spark of memory flashed in his mind. He snapped his fingers together, and dove into his jacket, retrieving the spare datapad that he'd transferred a few select files from the briefing document that Intel had provided. Sliding it across the table, the details of her half of their cover story displayed on the screen, he offered her a brief flash of a smile. He wasn't remotely happy about the identities that the Rebellion had concieved, but for now he had forced that reservation in his mind, and was preparing himself to relish every ounce of discomfort that Tur'enne endured.

"Congratulations," he added; "Looks as if we're engaged to be married."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

"Oh goodie." Always wanted to marry a kriffing hard-nosed son of a kath-hound.

She managed to keep the majority from being spoken as she scooped up the datapad and offered a rather sickly-sweet smile that betrayed all the frustration she was feeling. Internally she was screaming, some part of her throwing a tantrum like some spoiled kid. Charles loathed that part of her mind just a hair greater than the hatred she was starting to feel towards this whole mission. It'd ease up eventually and she'd cool down to that silent calm that came with actually focusing on a task at hand.

For the moment though, if time allowed for it, that damned punching bag in the gym was going to get another visit after all.

"So when do we leave?"

[John Glayde]

"As soon as your gear is stowed," Glayde answered simply, feeling a little disappointment that Tur'enne's reaction was so minimal. He'd have to work hard to frustrate her on the trip Coreward, if he was going to get the satisfaction and gratification that he was looking for.

He rolled his shoulders, a tention knot between the blades causing his spine to pop momentarily. "We're taking the Queen," he added, as if there was some doubt about whether or not they'd be using the YT-2000 that the unit had borrowed for one of its earlier missions, and neglected to give back to its owner. It seemed the perfect, ironic choice, anyhow: a Corellian ship, carrying Corellian agents on a mission to Corellia.

"Report when you're ready, Lieu-" He stopped himself, part way through her rank. A slight smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. "Sweetheart."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

"Yeah yeah, we'll see if you are still calling me that when this is all said and done."

There was all manner of nicknames wanting to be said in retort to that 'Sweetheart' bit. Most of them involving Glayde's newer rank coupled with references to one's backside. But that revelation that he was getting some sort of enjoyment out of seeing how far he could push her stayed them once more.

A necessary, albeit slightly mocking, salute was given before she headed back to her quarters to begin gathering what equipment she would need. The small ball even managed to find its way into her bag. It was going to be a long trip in hyperspace alone with the Major, after all.

[John Glayde]

Days Later - Corellia

It was good to be home, supposedly. Glayde didn't feel it. He'd left Corellia - run off to the Imperial Academy - for a reason. That reason unfortunately shared roughly half of his genome, as well as his surname, and his former rank; at least, according to John's latest intel on "Captain Glayde: CorSec's Finest". His father had been a Detective while he was a kid; that had been great when you wanted to brag about your father's occupation at school; less good when he turned his attention to your misendeavours, and decided that capital punishment was an appropriate parenting technique. Sure, it had been rough since their mother died; but it had been rough on both of them.

Such a cliché, he mused, eyes and limbs focussed on powering down the Astral Queen while he allowed his mind to wander. Simplify it down far enough, and Glayde was just the little boy with daddy issues, who ran off to the Empire, became disillusioned, and then threw in with the Rebellion. But, well, there was a reason why his nose kinked slightly to the left; why the knuckles of one hand didn't line up quite right; why the fracture scars in his bones ached whenever he found himself on a planet that was a little too cold.

He sighed, reaching above him to cycle the switches that would power down the ship's main engines. His head angled to read a particular display, his gaze captured Lieutenant Tur'enne in his periferal vision. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet for the bulk of the voyage; less than an hour into hyperspace, the banter had died away, and the two had fallen into an almost total silence. Neither of them was looking forward to this mission; an educated guess suggested that it was more than just reservations about their cover story that led to the Lieutenant's silence too. He probably should ask; find out if the specifics were likely to compromise the mission. But sometimes, it was best not to.

Instead, he decided to slip into his default mode of mixed cynicism, wit, and sarcasm. "You alright back there, precious?" he asked, fighting down the quirk of a smile that was trying to kindle on his lips, and bracing himself for whatever retort she conjured.

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Charles replied only in a mixture of a scoff and a half-laugh. Making it rather obvious she was just fine and dandy and she didn't quite appreciate the question.

It was a strange sensation that she was experiencing. A full expectancy of homesickness and joy and excitement and anything else that came with the idea of being able to step foot on Corellia again was a false. Instead there was that nagging reminder of just how she had left, what had lead up to that, the terms of her joining the Rebellion. Where Charlotte had expected happy memories...only the rather grim persisted. It had quieted her down at least...which was probably a good thing for her own sake.

All in all it wasn't quite the homecoming she was expecting on her end which both annoyed and suited her just fine. Less stupid giddiness meant more time to focus on everything ahead of them and already that horrible knotting in her stomach was dissolving into that dreadful resolve that always seemed to get the job done.

[John Glayde]

With the ship secured, Glayde and Tur'enne were forced to place the success of their mission, and indeed their lives, in the hands of the Coronet Public Transportation Network. If there was one thing that Glayde regarded with more loathing than anything else, it was the CPTN. Public transport was hardly something that filled many with joy, but on Corellia - where the cities were still far enough apart for you to actually see broad swathes of space between them - the transit network was particularly bad.

Perhaps Glayde was biased; the CPTN had been the central focus of many of his undesirable childhood memories. Sure, the Empire had comitted its share of atrocities, but those had been to other people: impersonal by comparison. The Empire hadn't been responsible for the accident that had claimed the life of his first pet; nor had it cost him an evening with Eris Naidley - the girl from High School who was guarenteed to go all the way - because the kriffing sky train broke down and stranded him on the wrong side of Coronet. There were more instances, too - more traumatic experiences that had occurred either as a result of the CPTN, or with one of its services as an integral component or venue.

He scratched at his eyebrow, and frowned. Maybe it was all because of those god-awful commercials that had rotted his brain as a child. Guess what? After hundreds of years of distinguished service, CPTN is being promoted to Major! That's right: choose the NUMBER #1 transport network on Corellia today, for all your transit needs!

A shudder ran through him; one which he deftly disguised with a yawn. Moderating his pace slightly, he forced Tur'enne to stop wavering half a step behind as they filed out of the cramped transit carriage with the rest of the swarm of disembarking passengers. "I guess we should get into character," he muttered, extending a hand in her direction, and offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

If anything the trip into the city helped to calm her. There was something strangely soothing about the subtle sounds of the engines of the sky train and the fact she'd snagged a window seat that allowed the strange apprehension towards it all to melt away. There had even been a time when she'd glanced over at Glayde and let a small laugh leave her... amused at the fact that once again, even after all that time, she wasn't being allowed to ride the damn thing by herself.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was remembering the first time she'd ever gotten to take the CPTN. She had to be on her knees to really get a good view out of the window...she'd been on her way to visit her grandmother in the city and the entire trip had been spent with her hands up against the transparisteel and her eyes practically glued on the passing scenery. She'd been on her way to visit her grandmother that time, her parents hadn't come along and so instead she'd gotten to go with the one person who had always looked out for her...

And just like that Charles was forced to push it all aside once more as the sky train came to a halt. There was no sense in trying to remember anything good about the planet anymore, it always just came back to the less enjoyable. That suited her just fine, they weren't here on leave anyway. Which is probably the only reason she managed to force a smile and place her hand in that of the Major's. She even went so far as to force a few steps to be taken to put herself closer to him.

It was all about the mission now, and despite whatever kind of frak-up she could be during the down time, Charles managed to take her assignments seriously. If that meant she had to be supposedly love-struck by her superior, it would be done. She could find whoever came up with the idea and file a complaint with them later.

[John Glayde]

No matter how much confidence and bravado Glayde threw into his conviction of playing the part, he couldn't help but feel a little awkward weaving his way through the crowd, hand-in-hand with Tur'enne. It wasn't the specifics of the part he was playing; while Charlotte was hardly the most agreeable of women that John had ever encountered, she was attractive enough he supposed, and being forced to wander around pretending that they were an item was filling him with a glimmering of smug pride at the attention it drew from fellow pedestrians, rather than nerves.

His reservations stemmed more from having to mask his true identity for the entire duration of their stay here. Granted, he'd done his fair share of pretending - hiding his sympathies for the Alliance for starters - but that wasn't nearly the same as this. The last time he'd taken on a full alternate persona he had been seven, appearing in a school production; things had hardly gone well during one particular performance and, of course, that happened to be the same one where his father was sat in the audience with a holovid camera. Far too often since, the movie of his blunder and forgotten lines had been displayed whenever his father felt the need to embarass him; his stage fright then, was understandable to a certain extent.

But right now, he couldn't let that get to him: this mission was important, and his own reservations and personal issues couldn't be allowed to get in the way. Besides, Tur'enne would never forgive him if they screwed up - not when she found out the full picture - and the last thing he needed was extra fuel for the inferno that was Charlotte's scathing attitude.

Keeping his voice low, Glayde gestured subtly in the direction of an important-looking person dressed in a suit and wielding a clipboard. "Here we go," he muttered, leading them carefully in the right direction. As their approach caught the attention of the businesswoman in front of them, he flashed her a smile. "Clark Anders," he introduced, keeping his face as pleasant as he could without provoking cramps and aches from the muscles. "And this gorgeous thing -" He released Charlotte's hand, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, applying a gentle squeeze. "- is my fiancée, Kara Foster." He gestured towards the clipboard in her fingers. "We're here on behalf of Pegasus Transit; booked in for the 1100 tour?"

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Every muscle in her body begged to be allowed to tense, to cringe, to yank herself out of the hold the Major had forced. All sorts of thoughts wanted to come to the forefront of her mind, the majority including imaginings of tugging the clipboard out of the woman's hands and using it to bludgeon the man at her side.

Instead, somehow beyond all reason, yet perfectly in sync with her cover, a gentle embarrassed blush rose to her cheeks at the introduction. With that just about to be married stupidity her arms wrapped around Glayde's waist and she tugged herself closer to him for an instant before giving him a soft playful shove.

"You mean you didn't put me down on the list with your last name? I'm shocked! I can't remember the last time you didn't refer to me as 'The Future Mrs. Anders.'"

That dumb giddy smile that always seemed to possess brides-to-be showed up, right on cue, as she put a hand to 'Clark''s chest and leaned in towards him again before speaking to the lady with the clipboard in a fake hushed tone.

"He's such a dork, it's completely adorable. Still won't tell me where our honeymoon will be, the meanie!"

The representative with the clipboard looked like she was torn between finding the whole situation endearing, or being sickened by it, either worked as far as the Lieutenant was concerned. The lack of a suspicious gaze meant the stupid little play was working off perfectly. After a small shake of her head in amusement she waved the two off in the direction of the tour's start point. Already there were three others waiting, all from the same company as far as 'Kara' could tell as they were already engaged in some seemingly important conversation. Good, it meant they wouldn't have to interrupt them with more silly introductions. The last thing she wanted to resort to was flashing about the stupid ring on her finger like it was a badge of honor.