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."

[Arvel Felcher]

Felcher redoubled the inspection of the object of his ridicule, noting that perhaps the lighting aboard ship was unflatteringly warm. Perhaps not ginger ginger. A species of rust?

"And a lovely shade of it, Leftenant Commander!" he reluctantly chewed his reply into a smile.

[Sam Porter]

Folding her arms over her chest, Sam gave a more than unimpressed look to Felcher. She rolled her eyes at his backpedaling.

"You should knock 'is ass to the deck," she offered.

Of course, her own reasons for that was for the simple fact of the matter that Regan's horrible bunkmate was prolonging her trip out.

[Regan Altink]

"Donnae tempt me," Regan growled under his breath, continuing to scowl and glower in Felcher's direction. "An impetuous wee bastard like this, though?"

Tink shook his head, his eyes sweeping up and down his absurdly dressed bunkmate before he turned them towards something undeniably more pleasant to look at.

"It'd be a waste a' photons tae type up the incident report, an' I donnae want a reprimand in ma file for strikin' a superior asshole."

Any bashfulness or confusion that Tink might have been feeling earlier at Sam's unexpected appearance had disappeared completely, crushed beneath the utter wrath that Felcher had instilled in him. His fight or flight response had well and truly kicked in, flooding his muscles with the urge to do something. The fact that his eyes were currently aimed at Sam filled his head with all kinds of ideas. Not again, he instructed himself firmly. Not now, anyway. Still, between the residual anger and the frustration, the look he gave her was reminiscent of a primitive, planning to sling her over his shoulder and carry her back to his cave.

"Did y' no' have some sortae plan involvin' us no' bein' in the same room as Admiral Gobshyte?"

[Sam Porter]

There was a strange sort of anxious puzzlement that descended over her features, as Sam did her best to think of the best and most efficient way of ditching the walking piece of human pocket lint that was Regan's bunkmate. She'd not really expected him to be around, and having to come up with a solution on the fly for this problem was a lot harder than having to do the same with explosives. At least with a detonator it was a one and done deal. You screwed up, and that was that. With Felcher, he lingered. Like a basket of week old socks soaked in Ronto vomit, you just couldn't get the stench of him out. You couldn't unhear his whinging, nasally voice. You could close your eyes, but those flaring nostrils and curled upper lip would haunt your dreams.

She let out a long sigh, hazel eyes tracking from Felcher back to Regan.

The only solution she could come up with spilled out in a lazy flow of words on the back of her exhaled breath.

"Set 'im on fire?"

[Regan Altink]

A thoughtful breath was sucked between Regan's teeth.

"Couldnae in here," he mused aloud, his nose wrinkling as he peered up at the ceiling. "Fire suppressors'd snuff him out before his eyebrows even got more than a wee bit singed."

His fingertips scritched at the scruff on his chin, the expression on his face a varied blend of frustration, contemplation, and dismay.

"A'course, if we were tae overload the CO2 sensors an' trick the ship in tae floodin' the compartment with more oxygen, we might be able tae cook ourselves a crispy wee Felcher quickly enough."

He snorted out a small sigh.

"I donnae think he's worth the effort though, lassie. Probably best tae just seal the doors an' purge the atmosphere from the room. Worst case, at least without air we would nae be able to hear the prattlin' bastard."

[Arvel Felcher]

Arvel stood in the tempest of what he could only surmise was an impromptu roast in his honor. He stood rail-straight as they connived his demise in open and exhaustive detail, looking utterly smug and and amused as his jackboots rocked him ever so slightly from toes to heels.

"Very good" he piped, the glib expression he wore bringing a hint of color to his cheeks as he held his pipe to one side. "Very good indeed. No doubt Captain Quez would be less amused in this conspiracy to deprive the good ship Novgorod of her invaluable loadmaster. I shall enjoy your courts martial as a poltergeist."

Once again, he tucked his pipe behind his back.

"Now, what was this about a parts excursion again?"

[Sam Porter]

Her eyes went to Felcher, and Sam made an exasperated face.

"It's nothing to concern yourself with, Felcher."

One arm hooked into the crook of Regan's elbow, and she pushed forward, dragging him with her.

"It's just a rummage-about, with a few stops for the local flavor."

She gave him a once-over, making sure that he knew she thought his choice of clothing was beyond idiotic. And as an afterthought, the blonde shuffled her feet just so, the sole of her own boots scuffing over the top of the pinhead's polished jackboots.

And just because, her off-hand reached out to deliver a none-too-gentle pat to his cheek.

"Nothing you'd be interested in. We'll probably make a stop off at one of the motels and have a test of the bedsheets anyway, so you might as well stay here."

[Regan Altink]

A visit to a motel: that was a wonderfully enticing idea. An opportunity to rest his head and close his eyes without the constant chattering presence of his bunkmate, the interruptions of an engineering team that - wisely, granted - were reluctant to execute any major recalibrations or repairs without the Chief Engineer's express permission, the nagging burdens placed upon him by the command staff who insisted that as the third highest ranking officer aboard the ship it was his responsibility to command the bridge during certain situations -

It took that long for the comprehension part of his brain to catch up with the busily fantasising part, and give it a gentle nudge to point out what it was that Porter had actually meant. Instantly, heat began to flood to Regan's ears; swiftly, relying on the fact that Porter's attention was for the moment focused on Arvel, Tink wrenched his hat back onto his head, dragging it down to cover his ears entirely, hoping that his usual grumpy aura would explain away any ponderances over why he was putting a hat on so aggressively.

He stared at the bulkhead in front of him for a moment, collecting himself before he tried to speak, making sure his voice was going to tumble out at the correct volume and frequency.

"We shouldnae dawdle then, eh?" he suggested, with a gentle tug against Sam's arm, eager to leave the room and this embarrassing situation entirely behind him.

[Arvel Felcher]

The only thing keeping Felcher from crumpling into an obsessive compulsive relapse to re-polish his boots - like a Hapan stage villainess attempting to scour a bloody spot off her hands - was the chance to harangue and prosecute his fellow shipmates over the slightest of infractions.

"Fra-ter-ni-za-tion..." He sounded each syllable deliberately, relishing his moment of j'accuse with a creeping malevolent grin that would continue curling the corners of his mouth were it not for mere anatomical limitation. Before the hero and heroine of the story could exit scene, Grand Admiral Felcher had positioned himself ominously in the threshold to block their passage. "...is a serious infraction."

He continued to build his case, looking more and more pleased with himself as he went.

"Loose hips sink ships..." The Ensign cast his snarky insinuations to Porter. "...even if the accused hips have the softness and curvature of a cheese board."

Felcher held aloft his pipe with an unsaid alas. "I feel that...in the interest of maintaining the fitness of men and materiale aboard ship...I must insist myself upon your shore party to act as chaperone."

[Sam Porter]

Regan's pull was transformed into a push from Sam herself, as she used the momentum from Novgorod's chief engineer, turning it back around on him.

Determined to ignore Felcher, the blonde used Regan as a battering ram in a bid to leave the small confines of the bunkroom. She pushed her body against his, hoping that the added weight would be enough to send all three out into the corridor.

Of course, in such close quarters Sam couldn't help the reach-around bum-squeeze on Regan's backside.

[Regan Altink]

Resignation.

There were psychological evaluations that the Alliance did, to probe into the sanity of it's officers and enlistees. Word associations. Ink blots. Hypothetical scenarios involving inverted turtles. There was one in particular that Regan found especially infuriating: describe how you are feeling in one word. For starters, Regan found it pretty intensely difficult to describe anything without at least one curse word, and unfortunately that kind of language didn't quite work so well as a stand-alone descriptor in that sort of context - something he'd learned from experience, when the psych officer had spent the next twenty minutes trying to probe into why the Lieutenant Commander felt like female genitalia. Right now though, Regan found it intensely easy to sum up his mindset in one word: and that was resignation.

Ordinarily, the hand on his backside would have solicited some sort of flinch reaction, and it was still in there, to some extent. It was more about reflex though, than the kind of reluctant avoidance that usually came into play; not because he was starting to like these kind of affectionate displays from Miss Porter, but more because he had simply given up on trying to discourage her from them, and had resigned himself to the fact that his body now constituted a bio-responsive squishy stress toy for the woman.

A typically quiet aspect of Tink's subconscious crept up stealthily behind him, offering the subtle suggestion that perhaps this kind of activity was an invitation for Regan to reciprocate. That thought lingered in his mind for a little too long, and Regan's ears turned a little redder beneath the concealment of his hat.

Well, the more rational part of his mind sombrely offered, At least it is nae the med bay this time.

[Arvel Felcher]

"Excuse me."

Felcher stumbled against the scrum. When civility did not win the day, he raised his voice.

"I said excuse me!"

The uncaring horde pushed forth all at once, spilling Felcher out into the corridor upon his derriere.

"That's assault! I'm making a note of this!"

The Loadmaster hoisted himself to his feet, tugging the bottom hemline of his jacket with a sharp, indignant motion. He glowered at Sam and Regan while drawing a pad and stylus dramatically from his breast pocket. He scribbled as he walked with the pair, his face a mask of furious intent.

"Sam Porter...knowingly struck a superior officer...has engaged the Leftenant Commander Altink upon a course of treachery!"

The sounds of stylus jabbing and swiping along the glossy screen were disconcertingly audible as Felcher followed apace.