Pre-Flight / Zero Hour / Nine AM

[Ryota Navarro]

It felt good to stretch his thrusters again.

Life aboard the Challenger was complicated. Colonel Ryota Navarro had followed the lead of Vansen Tyree since the beginning: since the vacuum in the wake of Endor had drawn them both into the Rebellion's crusade. He'd been there, starfighter bolted to the side of the first Nebulon-B that Alliance Command gave him. He'd been there with the Valiant, leading the charge during the Liberation of Bothawui. He'd subjected himself to the cockpit of one those claptrap B-Wings to lead Dagger Squadron in the defense of the Jedi refugees aboard the Wheel. Now it was the Alliance Cruiser Challenger that he called home, Vansen Tyree's watchful one-eyed scowl continuing to guide his future.

But things had changed with peace. The warriors of Tyree's command had seen their weapons bent into plough shears. The Challenger, once filled with the elite likes of Rogue Squadron and the Daggers, had become a bastardised shadow: part flight academy, part glorified stardock. Her cavernous bays were littered with fighters from worlds across the Alliance of Free Planets: soldiers sent for the ceremony and symbolism of helping defend the Alliance capital, but without the kind of cost, effort, or sacrifice that the races of the real Alliance had made. What did Bravo Squadron of Naboo, or the Utapau Skyforce know about defending their homes from Imperial tyranny?

Since the Treaty, the Challenger had found itself anchored in orbit of Moonus Mandel. The Alliance had borders to patrol, smugglers to interdict, pirates to quell; but the flagship of the Fourth Fleet waited on it's laurels, prepared to spring into action in response to an Imperial assault upon the capital that would surely never come. The Empire was not stupid; and both galactic powers had Starkiller missiles aimed squarely at the other's head. If an attack against Bothawui was coming, it would not be with a fleet of ships - not unless the attackers were suicidal, and wanted their homeworld to go the way of Alderaan. And yet, such was the decree of Alliance Command. Valuable military assets wasted on providing the illusion of safety and security to the talking heads of Alliance politics.

Ryota had been passing the time as an instructor, working under Colonel Vorega's command. He had taken something of a shine to the Yellow Aces - every squadron on the Challenger and Moonus Mandel carried some sort of legacy name from the annals of Alliance history - hardly the most advanced of the available training units, but he had found a certain satisfaction in helping reinforce the foundations of the Alliance Starfighter Corps. Strengthening the Alliance from the ground up. Whether they were new pilots advancing from trainers to real fighters, or veterans of the Empire or local militias converting their skills to Alliance designs, many of the Corps' newer pilots had found themselves beneath Navarro's grizzled glare at one point or another.

Perhaps that was why Admiral Tyree had chosen - no, volunteered - him for this assignment. An inspection from the Admiral was one thing; an inspection from Teacher was another. Perhaps it was something more benevolently manipulative: an opportunity for Navarro to enjoy some alone time in the cockpit; to get the chance to glimpse stars that weren't part of the same gorram sector.

Or perhaps the Admiral simply preferred not to Jovan Station these days, if he could avoid it. That was something Navarro could find some rare empathy for.

The squelch of comm chatter brought an end to his introversion. "This is Ironhide," he responded, adjusting the controls of his Y-Wing to follow the flight path that Jovan Station had transmitted for him. None of this A-Wing, X-Wing, B-Wing nonsense: he'd take something old, slow, sturdy, and reliable over frivolous technology any day. Anyone could do some damage when the ship did half the work for you; a fighter that took effort to fly was where the true pilots proved themselves. "Vector received, Control. Beginning final approach."

The gaping maw of one of Jovan Station's landing bays yawned wider as he approached, ship vibrating slightly as the hull pierced the atmosphere shield. Shuttles aside, the Y-Wing dwarfed near everything else in the bay; or at least, that was the reality Ryota found himself resting comfortably in, until his obsidian orbs settled upon the K-Wing looming ominously in the distance. Immediately, his expression settled itself into a familiar, comfortable scowl.

Landing skids barely even on the ground, Colonel Navarro watched as techs and loadmasters began to swarm like roaches from all directions. His helmet was wrenched from his head, cockpit canopy flung open as he watched a cluster of Cizerack begin to swarm towards his fighter's starboard engine. An angry tirade of Sullustan exploded forth, Navarro leaping from the fuselage to the deck in a single bound, shooing the feline mechanics away with a flail and a hiss. With so many mishmashed cultures squeezed onto Moonus Mandel and the Challenger, he'd learned the hard way not to let anyone without the right protocols and training tinker with his ship.

He turned his attention to the nearest technician with a Free Planets uniform. "Alliance techs only," he warned.

[Gradoona Pod-Floewander]

The trio of orange-jumpsuited Cizerack mechanics responded to the coarse handling by conversing among themselves in Cizeri while maintaining a proper stink-eye on the Sullustan. Only the heavy thudding footfalls of an approaching Herglic caught their attention.

"Weelll yaknoo teeechnically they're Alliance techs too."

Knowing full well that she wasn't going to overcome a pilot's prejudices on the first landing, Gradoona whistle-clacked, canting her head in the direction of the felinoids.

"I gaat this one, gals. Why dooncha goo caalibrate the turret synchrometer aan that K-Wing?"

"Ya ve, Ljieutenant."

Which, Gradoona had figured early, was the Cizeri version of loud and clear. That left the Sullustan with three fewer well-meaning folks to abuse. Gradoona wiped a sheen of old oil caked on her hands with a shop rag.

"Soooo, guess we gaat another primadonna, eh? Ookay, soo, naat t' bust youur baalls, buuuut there's oonly bad caf and noo green-colored zooms in the pilot lounge."

Gradoona wrang the filthy rag around a particularly stubborn digit, waiting for a response from Ryota.

"Thaats...yaknoo...a lil' jooke there."

Her small eyes shifted to the Y-wing, along with a generous canting of her head.

"Sooo, what can I doo foor youur big ugly here?"

[Ryota Navarro]

Ryota stared at the Herglic, unblinking. Primadonna. That solicited a faint snort of the mildest of mild amusement, more at the Herglic's apparent oblivion to the situation than at her poor attempt at humour. Green-coloured zooms, indeed.

Reaching into the folds of his flight suit, Ryota pulled out a small black rectangle. With a flourish, the cover flicked open, revealing a data device carefully designed by SoroSuub engineers to comfortably fit into the palm of Sullustan hands. A stylus followed, and only then did Navarro's gaze deviate from the gargantuan mechanic. The stylus flicked up the screen in tiny flourishes, scrolling through a list of names and descriptors that flashed by on the screen. Ah. There. Herglic. Gradoona Pod-Floewander. Lieutenant.

The Sullustan's eyes returned to the mechanic, hand and stylus scrawling away additional notes. Protective of her fellow mechanics; that was a plus. Immediately informal and disrespectful of pilots, without any effort taken to determine rank and standing; that was a negative. Hardly surprising for an Alliance knuckle dragger, but worthy of note none the less. Such things were arguably beyond the scope of what Admiral Tyree had intended when he'd sent Ryota here; but there was a proper and thorough way of doing things, and nothing that failed the litmus test of Ryota Navarro's annoyance threshold would go unreported.

"That big ugly as you call her -"

Ryota flipped the databook closed with a flourish, it and the stylus disappearing back into the pockets of his jock smock. His arms didn't stray far, folding themselves comfortably across his chest, shoulders squaring off as if the towering Herglic didn't intimidate him in the slightest. Despite the singsong warbling of the Colonel's Sullustan accent, each word was carefully and crisply formed, each one delivering a payload of indignant ire towards their target.

"- is a precision-tuned flying machine, maintained by the deck crew aboard the Fourth Fleet flagship. If there is anything beyond a simple refuel and post-flight inspection that forces me to rely upon the services of a provincial border outpost, rather than waiting until I am back aboard the Challenger, we will be in, as the humans say, dire straights."

The Sullustan took a step forward, but his arms didn't unfurl; no hand was extended in greeting. His words left no room for protest, error, or challenge.

"I am Colonel Ryota Navarro, here at the behest of Admiral Vansen Tyree. You are Lieutenant Gradoona Pod-Floewander, and you will assist me with my inspection tour of Jovan Station's starfighter facilities."

[Gradoona Pod-Floewander]

Geepers. Gradoona audibly gulped, followed promptly by a surprised blast from her blowhole. She leaned in, getting late visual confirmation of the colonel's checkers seated over his flight bib. She'd never been one to pull or get pulled by rank, and it annoyed her how the designation was so irritatingly minimalist.

"Yaas sir...sir." the Herglic stiffened, touching hand edge to beak. Little guy, BIG penguin. Geeez, she hadn't even started the work day!

[Ryota Navarro]

That was certainly an improvement. Ryota almost had the urge to note it down, but stopped himself. Lieutenant Floewander, or however one appropriately constructed a form of address from the jumble of names ascribed to the Herglic, would have to earn any positive mentions in his report, and the absence of further negatives didn't quite qualify.

It did earn her a minor concession, however; a brief flutter of context to clarify his earlier statements, and perhaps undermine the Lieutenant's corresponding assumptions as well. Another step closer was taken, arms unfolding, hands clasping themselves at the small of his back instead.

"As for my -" He faltered a little over the choice of word. "- aversion to your Cizerack colleagues. While yes, they are citizens of the Alliance of Free Planets, they fall within an adjacent military hierarchy, and are not directly part of the Alliance Defense Forces. I do not know the Cizerack Trade Fleet. I do not know its standards, its training prerequisites, its protocols or procedures. No doubt you have fostered a perfectly serviceable atmosphere of cooperation and shared standards here on Jovan, but I am not native to this command. I do not know, nor have cause to trust those mechanics. It may seem strange, or even prejudiced amid the binary arrangement you have here; but the Challenger is crewed by representatives from dozens of militaries and militias, many of whom are not accustomed to considering the needs and requirements of a race other than their own."

Ryota paused, letting the tirade of information slowly sink in to the Herglic's mind. His tone had softened, slightly: less a verbal attack, and more the captivating flow of a lecturer introducing their course to a new class of students. He let his mouth hang open, a sign that Sullustans and those familiar with them knew to interpret as the equivalent of a human smile. Not friendly; but perhaps a little less threatening.

"I trust the Alliance's mechanics, but I do not trust blindly. When one miscalibration or mistranslated unit of measurement is all that stands between me and explosive or decompressive death in the void of space, I cannot afford to be. No wise-minded pilot can."

[Gradoona Pod-Floewander]

As Gradoona stood transfixed with her arm paralyzed in that upward protocol-demanded position, she registered her sarcastic discontent in a hypersonic grumble that would escape His Esteemed Anal-Retentiveness the High Colonel Ryota Navarro's terrestrial ears. Pilots, oh bother! Her primadonna shot wasn't off the mark. Years of dealing with this preening self importance ensured that her sarcasm had a refreshing target lock. All the sex and glamor and important words about risk and stakes and danger zones. Kissing up to the stars above and kicking down to the dirty-faced Joes and Janes who ate sandwiches out of a tin and who made most of the magic happen in the thankless background.

Hopefully Colonel Golden Wings here would fall a little less in love with the sound of his own voice and allow her to fall out. She wasn't in the habit of holding a salute, and if he was going to transition into the Master Bastila Day speech from The Revanchist, then her arm sure was gonna get tired, boy howdy.

[Ryota Navarro]

Ryota's ears twitched. He couldn't hear anything, per se, but there had been a moment of something unsettling and different amid the ambient buzz and clanging of the flight deck. It was similar to the wretched high-pitched whine whenever someone operated a powered wrench, and yet it was somehow silent, as if the sound was not there at all. Ryota narrowed his eyes towards the Herglic. Was it her, perhaps? Some hypersonic expulsion of nervousness? Some covert remark not meant for his ears?

"At ease," Ryota muttered, peering away long enough to add a new note onto his flip pad.

He fought to keep a sigh of frustration inside. When Admiral Tyree had ordered him here, he had warned that Jovan Station lacked the sense of professionalism that Ryota Navarro was accustomed to. That Admiral Tyree considered the shambled state of the Challenger flight deck to be in any way "professional" was mildly amusing in it's own way, but apparently the Admiral's warning had undersold the situation. Perhaps a Rebellion combat pilot might have dismissed the chaos that surrounded them as simply being how things were during peacetime, accounting the differences to a state of starfighter operations that they had not personally experienced. This was not the case with Ryota Navarro. He was a veteran of the SoroSuub merchant marines and the Sullustan Home Guard. He had seen how true professionals handled themselves; and while he saw to it that his own commands met with those exacting standards - something that Admiral Tyree had always seemed appreciative of - apparently the rest of the Alliance was not quite so ambitious.

He steeled himself for the frustration that was clearly to come.

"Perhaps we should begin with the fighters themselves. How much of your Alliance compliment is currently flight-operable?"

[Gradoona Pod-Floewander]

She lowered her arm, mindful not to sigh in relief in doing so. Glad to at least get back to what she knew, Gradoona gladly answered the question

"Lessee, we've gaat hmmmm...ouut aaf three squadrons and one bomber flight, two X-wings currently down foor engine ooverhauul, and this big bird behind me here gettin' a gunnery alignment. Thaats thirty-three ouutta thirty-six, if we're still naat countin' the Cizeri ships, yaknoo."