First Flight

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan's finger flipped across the cap on his fluid bottle, holding the cover aside to expose the worn and slightly teeth-dented thermostat spout. The contents sludged uncomfortably into the pilot's waiting mouth, some noxious smelling and worst-tasting green concoction that he might have mistaken for some sort of coolant fluid had it not been so compellingly marketed by one of the salesmen in Jovan Station's commercial district. It was supposed to cleanse and revitalise, substituting the harmful stimulants that made caf so damned effective, and replace them with natural alternatives, and organic goodness. Under normal circumstances, Tristan wasn't the sort to buy into those kind of medicine-adjacent remedies; but then who was he to judge? Bacta and kolto were about as natural as you could get, and there was no disputing how effective they were; and this whole Alliance of Free Planets thing was about cultures coming together, embracing what was different and incorporating it into a stronger whole. So if the doctors said his sleep was all bamjaxed because he was drinking too much caf, and if the crazy one-eyed scaly guy in the markets said this alien algae sludge stuff was the answer to all of his woes, it was pretty much his sworn duty as an Alliance officer to give it a shot with an open mind, and open gullet.

He grimaced as another viscous mouthful slid it's way across every single protesting taste bud he possessed. Hopefully next time, being adventurous and embracing new cultures wouldn't taste so Force-awful bad.

Tristan swayed a little on his feet as the turbolift came to a halt, the doors sliding open to expose a corridor on one of the administrative levels. He knew the route well: a left, a right, and three doors down would lead him to the office of Commander Inirial, the officer presiding over intelligence gathering operations for Jovan Station's stretch of the new - well, newish; it had been a while since the Treaty, but it was still hard to convince himself to think of the new normal as the new normal - Alliance-Imperial border. Some big-wig from naval intelligence might have given a pilot like him the willies, but it helped when they shared a surname with one of your former Rogue squadmates; Carré's big brother was usually more interested in getting embarrassing intel on his baby sister than in seeming intimidating to anyone. Making matters even less intimidating, Commander Inirial himself was off-station on mysterious business, which left his Number Two - twenty-seven years old, and that term still forced him to stifle an immature chuckle - watching over things; Oisin Ocasta, another former Rogue, and Carré's old wingman in fact.

A frown furrowed Tristan's brow as he realised just how incestuous the Alliance command hierarchy seemed to be these days. Then again, he supposed that was what happened when you'd served with the best of the best in Rogue Squadron, and then suddenly the war went away, leaving them to scramble in all directions looking for relevancy.

Tristan still felt a certain bitterness about that, if he was honest. With no active missions against the Empire, the politicians back on Bothawui had decided that Rogue Squadron's skills and reputation were better invested in education and showmanship. The premise had been for the Alliance's pilot elite to share their expertise with the next generation of new pilots, but that concept had been drempt up by an idiot who didn't realise how damned restless an instructor job would make a herd of X-Wing aces feel. A few of the old faces were still teaching the Advanced Starfighter Program out of the Challenger - the vintage warship unceremoniously anchored in orbit of Moonus Mandel most of the time - but the rest had abandoned ship, clambering into whatever escape pod of a new posting they could find. Jaden Lúka had gone Fleet, Oisin had gone Intel, Carré was flying a desk while her abdominal engineers worked on a little uterine construction project; Force knew where the rest had got to.

And here was Tristan, slumming it out here on Jovan Station, because no one had any interest in recruiting Rogue Squadron's boy-child protégé for anything interesting. Back when the Alliance was desperate, his age hadn't mattered. Now though, with the Alliance military transitioning into peacetime and struggling to find incentives to keep it's older veterans around, promoting some kid in his twenties to command raised all kind of eyebrows. Tristan remembered the conversation when he'd applied. You're good kid, but you're no Skywalker. Didn't matter that he was older than Skywalker had been when he'd gone and got himself blown up; didn't matter he'd served with the Alliance - hell, with the Rogues - for longer. It just mattered that he looked too young, sounded too young on paper, and the Alliance was more interested in satiating the people twice his age with promotions and reassignments, because the kid could just suck it up and wait his turn.

The pilot eyed his drinks container suspiciously, wondering if perhaps a few toxins and harmful free radicals were exactly what his youthful looks needed. It certainly couldn't turn out any worse than the few months he spent trying to grow a beard, and ended up looking as if some sort of fungal infection had started to encroach across his face.

Defiantly, Tristan clicked the spout closed and tucked the container under his arm, taking half a second to half-heartedly smooth out the front of his uniform before striding into the foyer of Commander Inirial's workspace. He nodded a greeting to the aide seated outside, too deeply engaged in some kind of comm call to offer any of the usual conversation, but who wordlessly ushered himself onwards none the less. Tristan drew in a breath, preparing to unleash the exact same teasing statement towards Oisin as he entered; The chair isn't going to bite you, Sheen. Inirial told you to use his office; that means the desk, not just the room. Before the words could release however, Tristan's mind sputtered to a halt. Oisin was occupying the chair behind Adonis' desk, and someone else entirely was making use of the seat that Oisin usually claimed as his own.

A few seconds passed as Tristan stood there, dumbfounded in the doorway. His eyebrows managed to adjust themselves into something quizzical. "Sir?"

[Oisin Ocasta]

Tristan wasn't talking. If it had been any of their other former Rogue Squadron compatriots, Oisin might have seen that as some sort of personal victory. Unfortunately, Tristan wasn't exactly the overly talkative type. He wasn't shy or anything - you couldn't survive in a unit like Rogue Squadron with that kind of personality defect - but he wasn't the kind of guy who overshared, either. Someone like Jaden Luka, you'd get him talking and you'd struggle to get him to stop. Tristan was always more of a listener, the sort of person who focused his contributions into worthwhile bursts, content to let the others talk and merely enjoy the atmosphere. Maybe it was an age thing, never quite feeling like you fit in at the grown-ups table. Maybe it was his background with the Empire. Maybe it was a matter of family; Oisin never pried, but he'd picked up scraps here and there about how much of an asshole Tristan's father had been - something Jaden could speak to personally, if memory served. Oisin knew a little about what it was like to have your entire family, your entire home, your entire past existence simply be gone; but while Oisin's home on Alderaan was vapour now, Tristan's still existed - he was simply in exile. Oisin wondered which was worse: your loved ones being gone, or your loved ones wanting you gone.

Now was not the time to dwell on psychology and shared woes though: it was too early in the morning for that, and Adonis had stashed all his alcohol in a drawer with a combination lock that he'd neglected to leave the code for. That meant there was no option but to get this meeting over with, so that Oisin could escape from this infernal chair. On some level, his aversion to sitting on this side of the desk was psychological, the same as it was sitting in the middle chair on the Destiny. But unlike the starship that Adonis had left him temporarily in command of, the chair behind his desk was genuinely uncomfortable. He couldn't figure out why, whether it was the height, or the angle, or the fabric; but it was one of the least pleasant chairs that Oisin had ever found himself occupying, and this was coming from a man who'd ejected out of a Y-Wing into the atmosphere of a gas giant. Seriously. Not a great chair.

Oisin waved Tristan into the room, and into one of the other waiting seats. It felt weird being so formal, especially around someone he knew so well; but there was a stranger present, and despite the privacy of the room Oisin felt strangely on display. He was a Lieutenant Commander now, and with this new guy opposite he had the opportunity to leave some sort of half-way professional impression. It was too late for Adonis, too late for Tristan, and too late for most of the Destiny crew; but there was a fleeting chance that this Gunner Rodes guy might be fooled into believing that Oisin knew what he was doing.

"Speak of the devil," Oisin chimed in, not entirely sure what was going on with the slightly more formal, Inirial style Alderaani accent that his voice was doing, but far too committed to the conversation to bail on it now. "Mister Rodes, allow me to introduce Lieutenant Tahmores. He'll be your pilot."

[Gunner Rodes]

Five minutes - that was how long he'd been sitting in that seat for. Five minutes. Did it show? Was he sweating? Did he look ill? Another moment alone with Lieutenant Commander Ocasta, and he would have surely keeled over in some sort of boredom-induced seizure, and started frothing all over the spartan office floor. Small talk was the ultimate torture - the real invisible killer - and it had been cruel of the Lieutenant Commander to unleash it on one of his subordinates in the innocuous safety of his office, of all places. Five minutes? Five years? Was there scarcely any difference when locked in a battle of verbal attrition with a veritable superpower? Gunner's stockpile of go-to utterances, phrases, and polite interested facial expressions was all but exhausted by the time Lieutenant Tahmores stepped inside.

And there he was. All six foot of Lieutenant Something Tahmores. The man who the Lieutenant Commander had spent the best part of five minutes talking about, and Gunner could not recall a single detail. He looked... male. And young. Probably handsome. His suit was not creased, so there was that. And he was five minutes - no, two minutes - late. The real villain of the story was the Lieutenant Commander, who saw fit to intercept him en route to his office, and commence the meeting three minutes early. It was the stuff of nightmares.

In the scant second of silence, following Ocasta's - the Lieutenant Commander's - introduction, Gunner stood. It felt like the polite thing to do. Against every railing instinct, he extended a hand, as boldly as he dared. Already he could feel the creeping cold, snaking in tendrils up his arm. He fashioned a warm, but brief, and not overly-generous smile out of his face.

"Lieutenant Tahmores. Gunner Rodes. It's-" nice/great/a pleasure "-good to meet you."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Some folks had an eye for people. Tristan had met officers who could take one look at you, and figure out whether or not your mommy used to hug you at night when you were three. There were all kinds of tells, and subtleties, and all that sort of stuff that apparently comprised an entire alternate language that some people were versed in. Tristan was not one of those people. I mean, sure, he watched people. He'd notice if someone's smile faltered when they thought no one was looking. He'd notice if someone was making eyes at someone else whenever they looked away. But there was observant, and then there was insightful, and Tristan was most definitely more the former than the latter.

Even so, it was hard not to pick up on the kind of vibes this Mister Rodes guy was pulsing out. He looked uncomfortable - which was the appropriate reaction to being in an office, as far as Tristan was concerned - but with more than just the surroundings. The way he held out his hand for that handshake, there was some reluctance to it. Tristan didn't get the sense that it was personal, necessarily; maybe just a discomfort with situations like this in general. That Tristan could understand, and respect. He gripped the officer's hand with just enough firmness to be appropriate, and got the whole ordeal over as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

"Good to meet you too, Rodes, though -"

He trailed off, his attention shifting from Rodes to Ocasta and then back.

"I'd probably be a lot more jizzed about if I knew who you were, and why I was meeting you."

[Gunner Rodes]

"You're my pilot."

It was said with an air of caution, as if Gunner, himself, was only just putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Although that had less to do with his own comprehension of the situation, and was more a product of the Lieutenant's prolonged state of confusion. It was spreading, like an infection. He could only hope it hadn't passed onto the Lieutenant Commander, who had only just confirmed as much, prior to their (mercifully short) handshake. Mirroring his new pilot, he cast a glance back to the Lieutenant Commander, before returning his attention to him. Was there something he was missing? Maybe it was a joke.

"It's not complicated," he said, with a whisper of smile, "I have been reassigned to Jovan Station as your co-pilot."

He looked at the Lieutenant Commander, this time wrestling a strange combination of amusement, confusion, and disbelief. It was shrugged off with a hiccup of a laugh: "Heh!"

And he took his seat.

[Tristan Tahmores]

The realisation dawned slowly, and then all at once. In Tristan's defense, his summons this morning had been neither descriptive, nor unusual. While Tristan had his duties with the air group assigned to the station, he had been earmarked to help assist with border reconnaissance. Thus far, that had consisted mostly of snubfighter missions, but there was only so much sensor equipment you could bolt onto the hull of a typical one-man starfighter, and only so long that you could expect a single pilot to endure the confines of a cockpit - something that Oisin, a former Recon X-Wing pilot himself, knew all too well. The plan had been to upgrade to something or somethings larger, but the glacial pace of bureaucracy had thus far been hampering their progress.

This though? This was a harbinger of change. There had been a bit of a stir down on the flight deck when berth space had been requisitioned for a newly arriving HWK-290, which only increased when the craft itself arrived: extensively modified, sensor-refractive hull materials, and a complete security exclusion preventing anyone from getting close enough to poke around. Tristan had of course quietly hoped that the craft had something to do with him, but who knew what classified business Alliance Intelligence was up to, and Commander Inirial hadn't exactly been around and available to ask. That word though, co-pilot; you didn't toss that word around unless there was something big enough for multiple occupants that needed flying.

Tristan lowered himself into his own seat, adjusting his pose into something that looked benign and casual. Oisin clearly didn't buy it for a second, and Tristan bristled ever so slightly under the barely concealed smile of the officer opposite.

"The Commander here isn't big on memos," Tristan cut in, with the very faintest hint of a defensive edge. His head turned, gaze still keeping an eye on the Commander, but his attention clearly focused towards Rodes. "You'll have to forgive my momentary lapse in understanding: I knew a copilot had been requested, but I wasn't aware anyone had been assigned yet. Have they filled you in on any of the specifics, or is the Commander's definition of need to know out of whack with you as well?"

[Gunner Rodes]

"...whack?"

It took all of a second for Gunner to realise what had happened. The haze of confusion lifted, and he promptly recovered, opting to bypass what had clearly been some sort of metaphor. He cleared his throat, because people did that when they were stalling for time to think.

"Well, I believe is it the Commander's prerogative to..." His words faltered when he noticed the expression on Lieutenant Commander Ocasta's face - it was different - he seemed to be in no rush to inform the Lieutenant of the details he required. A second scrutinising glance, and then:

"It's an HWK-290," he blurted, suddenly. The words poured forth like water from a fractured dam. He grinned, heady from a cocktail of relief and excitement, "Our ship. A heavily-modified, top-of-the-range HWK-290. I think we should call it Blackbird. You know, because... the design, it was based on the head of a large raptor, and it flies, and HWK is only one letter short of 'hawk,' of course, and... and it's black."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan blinked at the explosion of information, very little of it relevant in any way. His head shifted a little further in Rodes' direction, staring at him directly.

"Blackbird. Because it flies like a bird, and it's black."

He collapsed a little back into his seat, arms folding across his chest defensively as his eyes turned on Ocasta. Yes, the Alliance was stretched thin. He should consider himself lucky that they'd found him a copilot at all: his nightmare worst case scenarios had included everything from murderous ex-Imperials all the way to smug Bothans and those floaty mushroom people who pooted out little plumes of methane gas periodically. Of all the options, his nose seemed to have been spared some of the potential olfactory consequences: not the most enlightened and liberal of notions, but when you were going to be trapped in a tiny metal box with a limited air supply, those were the kind of unfortunate practical notions that drifted through your mind.

Being not the worst was not exactly a reassuring notion though, and this Rodes guy wasn't exactly making an exceptional first impression.

"That's exactly the kind of razor sharp deductive reasoning that any pilot longs to hear from their number two."

He let out a sigh, conscious that perhaps he was being a little overly harsh. He blamed it on the lack of caf, the withdrawal from which his green sludge did absolutely nothing to alleviate.

"Top of the range though, huh?" Tristan forced himself to inject a little more intrigue into his tone, a peace offering to someone he probably shouldn't go offending and alienating in their first five minutes as a team. "Just how heavily modified are we talking?"

[Gunner Rodes]

Gunner listened intently. If the Lieutenants voice was music, it would be... the blues. Yeah. He sounded not happy. Folded arms. Retreating into his seat. Those were all signs of someone being closed off, like he was putting a wall between himself and something unpleasant. Yeah. He remembered that from his therapy sessions. Then why was he complementing his deductive reasoning? Gunner winced, glaring holes into the floor.

"Sarcasm," he muttered, with a private nod. Then that meant... At once, the glow of excitement faded, colouring thoughts of his new assignment, his new ship, and his new pilot in shades of grey. Disappointment skewered him like a spear to the gut, but he wouldn't let it show. His expression remained resolutely neutral. So much of his concentration went into keeping him from wilting in his seat, that he almost missed the Lieutenant's question. A fresh surge of enthusiasm threatened to bubble to the surface, and come oozing out of him like warm treacle. He fought it. Kept his cool. And plucked the details from the air.

"It has new sublights, similar in design to the KonGar Defender, but cleaner burning. 85 megalights. Class 1 hyperdrive. Short, and long-range probes, chaffs, decoys. All the latest IKM toys. A whole new sensor suite and comm array, and a sensor-refractive hull. All in all, it's about 3 tons heavier and 20 inches longer than the original." He folded his arms, and frowned in consideration, "Not a bad trade-off, all considered."

[Tristan Tahmores]

20 inches longer than the original.

There was a time and a place for juvenile thoughts, and this was neither. That did nothing to lessen the immature smile that tried to clamber onto Tristan's face, only to be barely restrained from a full flourish. Even after his time in Jovan, he could hear the responses from the rest of the Rogues. You been talking to my exes again? Jaden would say. I have, and they didn't seem that impressed, Carré would interject. Oisin would swoop in to Jaden's defense; Shock will do that to a person. Iyar would ask if she'd seen how they walked, bebecause that would be the real indicator. Nyx would just grunt, and audibly roll her eyes at them all. And Tristan would just sit there and smile, saying nothing: not because he was the youngest, and that it would provoke some feigned playful shock at his language... but because he missed this, didn't want to upset the delicate and precious new family he had built around himself. He'd never said, never let on, but his brothers and sisters in Rogue Squadron were the siblings and relatives who wanted them, as opposed to the biological ones who didn't. Now they were separated, and thank the Force the bond was still there; but it was like growing up, and moving on. The Rogues had their own lives now, but Tristan was the baby brother whose siblings had left for college, and he wasn't ready; wasn't willing.

There was no choice, though. Even the drafted but unsent transfer requests in his quarters weren't a proper solution, not really. As every baby brother knew, you couldn't ride on the coattails of your siblings forever, and Jovan Station was where he'd chosen to disembark. Live your choices, Tristan. The harsh words had been a dismissal by his father, the last words ever spoken between them; but Tristan had turned it into a mantra. Live your choices. Rebellion. Alliance. Rogues. Jovan. He had chosen this. Now he had to live it.

"Sounds like you know your tech, Rodes." It was an olive branch, offered with just enough interest to seem sincere rather than sarcastic. "Or at least, your mouth is more comfortable uttering the terminology than mine is. What's your background? Been with the Alliance long?"

[Gunner Rodes]

"Chandrila, born and bred." The phrase was, in itself, a confession of his origins. Chandrilans liked to frame life experiences within the context of the humble farm, using metaphors in which they were often the hard labourers, sometimes, the livestock, and, once in a while, the vegetables. Gunner didn't care for being a vegetable, he had just adopted that kind of colloquialism by osmosis. His words didn't have the clipped reserve of an Imperial officer, or the brash colours of a Corellian, or even the... the mellow warmth of Something Tahmores, no: in his mouth, his vowels were round, and soft, earthy, and rich, and honest, and kind. He liked the way he sounded when he spoke - he talked to himself a lot, when he was alone - it made him feel home.

"Signed up four years ago. They-" Here, he stopped himself. Ask him to talk about the hull rating of K-Wing, or to compare the KTU's of X-Wings and TIE's, or to relate the number of simultaneous processes that could be carried out by the AA-1 VerboBrain, and he could, and he would, at length. But, this? This was story-telling. Did Something need to know how long and hard he fought to be considered for the piloting program? Maybe he should know. But Gunner didn't want to tell him. He cleared his throat, and resumed, "I was posted on Dac for a year. Blue Squadron. Then I was transferred to the Sixth, where I flew recon. They were testing the new systems now installed on the HWK-290." A small smile, "I could operate them in my sleep, now."

Reciprocate! Reciprocate!

"Oh," he sat upright, "So... what about you, Lieutenant?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Things slowly began to crystalise as Rodes spoke, and Tristan's perspective on his new callsign began to change. This wasn't someone they'd found at the bottom of a barrel; this was an expert, someone who knew his shit about the craft they'd be flying. Talk of the Sixth Fleet didn't necessarily drown Tristan in confidence: the Support Services were the non-combat arm of the Rebellion, transports and tenders and medical frigates, soft targets behind the scenes rather than the front lines; but wasn't Commander Ocasta's story much the same, plucked from obscurity and catapulted to greatness?

Tristan downplayed his own service as best he could; one of the unfortunate burdens of the starfighter elite though was that at times even just stating the facts came off as a brag.

"Imperial Pilot Corps originally. I was training over Alderaan when she blew; defected as soon after that as I could. Started out on A-Wings before I was reassigned to Rogue Squadron. Served with the Jedi convoy back before the Treaty, and stuck around on the Challenger for a few months before I wound up here."

He offered a shrug, but his hands belied the thought processes beneath, fidgetting idly with the spout of his drinks container. Something almost like a nervous laugh snuck out.

"They've had me bouncing around ship to ship since I got here. Part of the Rogues' job on the Challenger post-Treaty was to help hand hold all the ex Imperial and ex militia pilots through their retraining on Alliance starfighters. Meant I had to get familiar with flying everything from Cizerack to Verpine; so hear on Jovan, I've just been flying whatever needs flying. Plugging the gaps, that kind of thing."

A bitter breath escaped his nose, a tug of a mirthless smile creeping onto his lips. "It'll be nice to have a ship that's mine for a change. I miss having everything calibrated the way I like it, y'know?"

[Gunner Rodes]

Imperial Pilot Corps. A-Wings. Rogue Squadron. Jedi. The Challenger.

Each thought dug deep, burying itself inside his head, hooking onto the grey matter and pulling it in different directions. Gunner started rubbing his cupped hands together, rotating, pulling at his thumbs, squeezing at his fingers, as his new pilot was revealed to him in a whole new light. It was a nervous reaction, and, at the same time, a distraction. Yes, he was in the presence of an ex-Imperial pilot, a defector, a Rogue - a man who had protected Jedi, for heaven's sake - but, above all that, he had said one word that prompted in him an almost visceral reaction: Alderaan.

Years ago, the destruction of Alderaan had given him a family. And now, it was the destruction of Alderaan that had led to Something's defection to the Alliance, and, inexorably, here, to him. Gunner was not a superstitious man, but, surely, that had to mean something, right? He should say something. He could tell Something about their shared bond, forged out of tragedy. Or was that too much? Later, he told himself, with a flutter of excitement. And, as Gunner contemplated the best way to acknowledge such a substantial service record, the Lieutenant said something that spoke directly to his heart, and made light up, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Oh, I know. Right? Right?" In his amusement, he glanced at the Lieutenant Commander, to bring him onboard, "I think the last person to calibrate my aft-boresight was blind and drunk. I mean... does no-one know what a zero is, anymore?"

From officer to officer, he looked, inviting them to share in the comedy. Steadily, Gunner came down from his sudden high, and allowed his laughter to taper off into the silent void between them. He nodded to himself, in thought, and considered his new pilot with a curious sideways glance:

"So... you were a Rogue, huh? Like a Rogue Rogue. Heh. Wow. That's, uh- actually, that's really impressive."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan tossed out a shrug. "Yeah, but Commander Ocasta here was a Rogue too, so it can't be that impressive."

It was one of the few perks of knowing your superiors extensively, and since before they were your superiors: you knew exactly how much you could push, and how much you could get away with. Tristan wound never have undermined a squadmate like that in a situation where it mattered - pilots were supposed to have your back, after all - but as soon as the skids were on the ground, and the flight suits were peeled off, jovially tearing down the men who fought and died on your wing was just part and parcel. It was it's own kind of trust exercise in a way: your faults and failings could be discussed openly, without malice, robbing them of the power they might have over you outside that circle of trust. It was important to show that atmosphere to Rodes, just like anyone else burdened with being the new guy on a unit. Granted, this unit consisted of only three people, but still. Illustrate by example. Welcome to the squad.

Recalling the initial moments of their encounter, Tristan chose his actions carefully. He shifted in his chair, stretching his hand out towards Rodes once more; not to shake this time, but instead as a closed fist.

"Tristan Tahmores. But rocket jocks call me Longshot."

He mustered a faint and hopefully reassuring smile, jerking his head subtly towards his hand.

"Punch it, Rodes. Don't leave me hanging."

[Gunner Rodes]

For a disappointing instant, Gunner held out a clammy hand, and braced himself. Once Tristan's (Tristan, Tristan, Tristan, Tristan) words sank in, he took one look at his clenched fist, and followed his instruction. It was short and sweet - a fist bump - he loved fist bumps. The crease of concentration unfurled from his brow, and he smiled.

"Longshot. People call me Tick-Tock. Some people call me Gundark, too. But that's-" He stood suddenly, resolute, "You know, I think I'm ready to see what our bird can do."



####


A buzz of excitement swept through the hangar, the moment the security perimeter was breached. It was broken by two large, bulky, and very yellow figures, who moved slowly, and in unison, one clunking step at a time. From inside his helmet, where there was no sound but the sound of his own carefully regulated breathing, Gunner could sense the anticipation, and felt every pair of eyes on them as they trudged towards their destination. This was what it felt like to be a badass, and it took every ounce of self-control he had to stop himself from grinning like a goofy idiot.

Doors parted with an inaudible gasp, and, beyond, lights flickered to life, banishing all the gloom in the room, save for one lingering shadow. Even under the stark glare of the hangar, the HWK-290 appeared to consume all light. The stealth plating was smooth, like silk, accentuating the raptor's head, making it appear all the more... organic. It looked dangerous, like a hunter, like a real bird of prey.

"Oh, you sexy thing."

Gunner's admiration was cut short by a firm prod to the back. It seemed a member of the deck crew was as equally eager to see the view, and he, and his formidable suit, were blocking her way. Onwards, he marched, as deckhands started to swarm around the ship, commencing preliminary checks. A ladder was rolled into position beside the port-side door, the size of which didn't exactly fill Gunner with confidence, and, suddenly, he was glad of Tristan taking the lead. If the entrance was too narrow, at least it wasn't going to be him getting stuck, and making an ass out of himself.

"So, what do you reckon, Longshot?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan's expression was less a grin, and more one of concentration. He and Gunner had been on the same - unspoken - wavelength about the coolness of the environmental suits that had been provided for them, but while Gunner had embraced the ensemble completely, Tristan had opted for a more cinematic approach. Currently, his helmet was tucked under his arm, the bulky life support unit attached to him by a thick hose carried in the other hand like a briefcase. It was supposed to make him look like one of the ancient astronautical pioneers you saw in holomovies; in reality though, it was deeply awkward and precarious, Tristan's bulky arms and padded gloves struggling to feel the heft of the helmet, leaving the pilot in a constant state of wondering whether the damn thing was about to go flying out of his grip. So, he focused, all his effort expended on making sure that he maintained the appearance he was trying to construct, without any time spent actually enjoying it.

Gunner's voice behind him was taken as permission to stop. It was welcome, too: though Tristan had glimpsed and glanced at the ship before, that didn't quite compare to the sight of her up close. It was one thing to know that, mathematically, the twenty-nine metre HWK-290 - twenty-nine point five, he mentally amended, remembering what Gunner had mentioned about the craft's dimensions earlier - was more than twice the length of an X-Wing, but it was something else entirely to actually stand there in her light absorbing shadow and witness it for yourself. Tristan had flown ships that big before - a Y-Wing wasn't far off, and Tristan had slummed it behind the stick of a shuttle or transport more than a few times in his life - but the combination of heft and sleekness caught him off guard. The flat surfaces and sharp edges gave the appearance of something that had been carved or forged, beaten and ground into a vicious-looking spear point with engines grafted to the rear.

And then there was the hull itself, so black that it seemed to draw everything in. Tristan set down his life support case with a thunk against the deck, and stopped himself a microsecond before reaching out towards it, catching a glimpse of his gloved hand. Carefully he tugged the glove free of it's pressure seal, exposing a bare hand that looked oddly small beside the inflated bulk of his pressure suited wrist. He reached out, resting his palm against the impossibly black surface. It was rougher than he expected, a texture more like stone than metal. It made sense he supposed: something polished to the reflective sheen of a Nubian starship didn't seem like the stealthiest option for a craft designed to go unnoticed. It was colder than it should have been too, as if the very heat was being sapped away from his body. Perhaps it was: he was no scientist, but he knew heat was one of the stumbling blocks of starship stealth; you could employ all manner of tactics to cloak yourself from visible light, to minimise your energy emissions, and all that fancy stuff, but that would be worthless if you couldn't somehow combat the radiating warmth of your ship's generators, and the bodies of the crew within. That was part of the reason behind all these layers of insulation and pressurisation that Tristan and Gunner were now wrapped within: layers to keep the escape of body heat to a minimum, and external life support in case main power needed to go offline.

There was the added unspoken reason, too: You're going to be a long way from home. If your ship is destroyed, you're going to be in the black a long time before we can send anyone to come and get you.

Tristan turned back towards Gunner, letting his concentration relax enough for a smile to form on his features. "I take it back, Rodes, you were right." His attention turned back to the craft, hand stroking gently across her fuselage. "Hey there, Blackbird," he added softly, more to the craft than his audience. "It's nice to meet you."

[Gunner Rodes]

Vindicated, Gunner indulged in a satisfied grin, as he watched Tristan greet their new ship. Their Blackbird. He envied the physical contact, but refrained from copying him - it would only look weird, the pair of them doing it. Besides, it wasn't like he needed to touch the ship to be able to appreciate its design. This close, the illusion of smoothness disappeared, and was instead replaced by an intricate faceted texture, like a finely-cut Corusca gem, and a roughness from the iron ball paint. He bit his lower lip, and grinned. Every inch of the Wraith Seven One was a love story.

"I think its time we got inside her- it." He winced at his choice of words, "Got inside it."

The privilege of first entry was given to Tristan. In part, because it felt right - the ex-Rogue was the real star of the show, and his participation was instrumental in getting the operation off the ground, both literally and figuratively - but, mostly, to save face in the event of the blasted suit getting stuck in the door. All the while, Gunner got to come across as the polite and generous teammate. He liked that arrangement. Of course, when Tristan ascended the ladder into the ship without fuss, the pressure was doubled. And beneath 14 layers of pressurised space suit, that was a lot of pressure. Each step was taken with deliberate care to conquer each sturdy rung. The black mouth of the ship was opening up, before him. Eyes forward, he watched himself reach for the handle to pull himself inside. And, when he twisted to be handed his bulky life support unit, his stubby fingers lost purchase on the handle, and he felt himself starting to drift away, like a ship broken free of its mooring. Everything was in slow motion, like a real holofilm.

Then, with a soft clap, his fall was arrested. He looked up to see Tristan leaning through the doorway, arm outstretched, like a lifeline. Even through all those layers, his grip was firm. Gunner clasped his hand and allowed himself to be pulled inside, albeit with some intrusive pushing from the spectators, below. After a clumsy stumble, he righted himself, and shook off the encroaching horror with a sigh.

"Thanks. That was-" He paused, and fumbled a smile, "Good catch."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan responded with a grin.

"Careful Rodes," he warned, a gentle teasing tone creeping into his voice. "Don't go falling for me on our first date."

Longshot waited a moment, eyes studying his copilot as he came to terms with his embarrassing moment. It was hard to gauge what was going on inside that helmet, and how Gunner was reacting; but imagining himself in the same circumstances, Tristan knew that the crowd of technicians just beyond the the ingress hatch was likely not contributing to any sort of calm of comfort. With a dash or two of awkwardness, he reached his bulky suit past Gunner's, checking that his copilot was entirely clear of the hatch before triggering the controls to close and seal it. He hoped the symbolism would be understood without needing explanation: no need to worry about those guys; they're outside; they don't matter.

Another pause stretched out after Tristan retreated from Gunner's personal space, another futile contemplation of his copilot's mental state. He'd done what he could; now it was time to move past, and give them both something else to focus upon. He took a step back, retreating through the cockpit doorway and across to the rear station that the HWK's designers had designated for the pilot. Carefully placing his own life support unit on the deck beside him, Tristan engaged the magnetics that would lock it in place - the last thing anyone wanted was a hefty life support unit sliding around and smacking people in the head during high speed manoeuvres - and settled himself into his seat, wriggling and negotiated with his multilayer suit to fit comfortably into the seat's contours.

"You're up front, Tick-Tock," he added casually; Rodes knew full well where he was supposed to sit, but Tristan hoped the gentle reminder would help put their entrance behind him, both literally and figuratively. Remembering Gunner's flubbed choice of words a few moments before, another smile crept onto his face. "Lets make sure our lady is good and turned on, now she's got the both of us inside her."

[Gunner Rodes]

Gunner froze in shock, and, brow tied up in knots, regarded his pilot with grave uncertainty. His gaze trickled down, and studied the smile. Was that a creepy lecherous kind of smile, or a friendly one? The moment drew out, and he decided to give Tristan the benefit of the doubt. His expression softened, and he shook his head, with just the hint of a smile.

"You know what you're saying," he said, more for his own benefit than Tristan's.

No time was wasted in removing himself from the comedy gallows he had just erected between himself and his new partner. That part was always hard with new people. It took time to recognise the patterns that allowed him to distinguish when someone was making a joke, to understand what made them laugh, and to begin to appreciate the kind of person they were. It was the difference between someone being considered witty with words, or an outright pervert. And, as awkward as these faltering baby steps could be, he expected Tristan would appreciate the distinction, in the long run.

Once he had determined the most effective entry trajectory, Gunner inched his way into the space between his station and his seat, and eased himself down. The descent was precarious, with limited mobility, and maximum corpulence, he half expected himself to roll onto his side like a human-sized egg. Fortunately, the seat was large, and supportive, and... not very comfortable. For a pronounced spell of twisting, fidgeting, and butt-shuffling, Gunner kneaded himself, the suit, or the chair - he could no longer tell, anymore - into something tolerable. It didn't at all help that he was conscious, at all times, of the intrusive biting seams of his MAG, or Maximum Absorbency Garment - which was a fancy way of saying man-diaper. Ridiculous. As if he could ever bring himself to do... that.

"Initiating preliminary checks," he said, taking sudden refuge in his work. The computers blossomed with muted colour, and burbled the same familiar song from his previous, and considerably less-awesome, recon ship. His fingers danced over the controls with a natural fluency: pressing buttons, flipping switches, turning dials; it was all so delightfully tactile, or, at least, it would've been, were it not for his marshmallow hands. "Systems operational. Pinging sensors... all bands, check. Power levels, optimal. Temperatures within normal parameters."

He glanced back over his shoulder, "Optical alignment?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan reached for the bank of switches and dials above his head, silently thankful that whoever had retrofit the HWK-290 did so with due consideration for how tricky it was to look up with a bulky helmet impeding your field of view. A heavily gloved finger jammed into a push button, then again, and then a third time; the corresponding light flickered, but failed to remain illuminated the way it should. Tristan's hand drew back, and smacked into the side of the control housing. The light blinked, hesitated, and then settled into a lukewarm orange.

Attention returning to the console in front of him, Tristan's eyes sought out the information that Gunner requested. "Optical alignment is -" He stopped himself before saying good out of reflex, noting the slightly larger than expected decimal that displayed on his screen. "- within tolerances, though I wouldn't mind going at it with a wrench myself once this flight is over. Seems like my expectations are a little tighter than the ground crew's around here."

As the preflight diagnostics continued to run, more information and statistics began to flash up on his display. Tristan picked a handful of relevant ones, repeating them aloud for his copilot. "External pressure seals are secure. Fuel reserves are in the green. Commencing stir on the intermix tanks, and preparing for main engine ignition. Setting repulsorlift coils to idle, and beginning boot sequence for the nav computer."

He glanced up from his controls towards Gunner.

"What's the status on your undercarriage up there? Is your ass enjoying the lumpiest and least comfortable seats in all of recorded history?"

[Gunner Rodes]

"What's left of it," Gunner said, and paused to consider, "I've lost all feeling portside."

So their new environment was going to take some getting used to; every ship had its quirks. Change was never easy, but it was the new little things that made it bearable, like the darkness. Darkness and space went hand-in-hand, but inside the cockpit of the - Where they calling it Blackbird, now? He really hoped so! - inside the cockpit, the dark was almost a physical entity, like a warm thick blanket on a cold night. The light show from the surrounding consoles was delicate, by most modern starship standards, and the systems burbled like tuber stew. All of that was nice, and it helped, but not nearly as much as the display of competence from his pilot.

Gunner paused to listen. Tristan's voice was soft, he shaped his words with care, and spoke with a pleasant rhythm. It felt like bobbing on the surface of a tranquil lake, and gazing up at the stars. Most people talked like it was a battle, wrestling with the words in their mouths, launching sentences like projectiles across the room. Tristan treated the preliminary checks with the respect and care they deserved. Conditions were almost perfect for take-off. Almost.

"Optical alignment should read zero," he said, brow creased, "I'll have a look at it, with you, when we get back. Zero. Not zero-point-zero-five. Not zero-point-zero-six. We can fix it. When we get back. Yeah. Zero. I'll get the tools. It won't take long. We could carry out maintenance checks before we suit up. In the future. To make sure it's zero. This is why preliminary checks are so important. Optical alignment is important, too. It should read zero."

Beyond the transparisteel, he noticed one of the deck hands making signals. His train of thought jumped tracks.

"Oh. We're all clear. Take her out, Longshot."

[Tristan Tahmores]

For a moment, it was like a protocol droid with a glitch in their software, stuck on the same notion through repeated iterations due to a corrupted line of code somewhere in their operating system. That comparison could be uncomfortably apt, for all he knew: until recently - and honestly, barely even now - the Alliance had not been in a position to be as choosy with it's officer candidates as the Galactic Empire had been. If you made it through several years in the Alliance without encountering someone who seemed a little off every now and again, odds were that you were that person. But then, big deal, right? The Galactic Empire liked to pride itself on perfection, but all the Rebels Alliance had ever really cared about was heart. If you wanted to fight the good fight, then welcome aboard soldier. Besides, what might seem eccentric to Tristan would have seemed perfectly normal, rational, and perhaps even praiseworthy if he'd been Bith or Verpine: it only seemed odd because he was human, and humans had a wonky, self-obsessed way of viewing the cosmos.

More importantly though, Gunner had appended his momentary fixation with the words Tristan had been waiting to hear. With those tantalising instructions echoing seductively in his ears, nothing else really seemed to matter all that much.

"Well then."

Carefully, Tristan increased power to the repulsorlift coils in slow and steady increments, getting a feel for how quickly the systems responded, and how well they supported the Blackbird's mass. She was weightier than most of the craft that Tristan was accustomed to, and a lot of that weight was skewed towards the aft, particularly in the extensive engine arrays. She's got one hell of an ass, Jaden Luka would have said in a situation like this, and left you wondering whether he regarded that as a compliment or a criticism - Tristan had never figured it out, and frankly he'd known Jaden too long at this point to simply come out and ask if the Commander was an ass man or not.

Fortunately, the Blackbird's ascent was slow but stable; carefully, Tristan reduced power from the coils in the bow, dropping the nose down slightly and letting the asymmetric repulsor field coast the ship gently forward on a cushion of magnetism and anti-gravity. Subtle alterations were made to shift their trajectory, carefully advancing away from the maintenance zone of the hangar and along the taxi way towards the mag shield that prevented the internal atmosphere from racing out into the void of space. Tristan always felt a sense of tension at moments like this, particularly when taking off from the comparatively cramped confines of a station or starship. With a planetary launch, one could simply dial up the repulsorlifts and rise high above the landing platform before firing up the main drives, but space constructs - and particularly Alliance vessels - rarely had the height for such a manoeuvre, forcing pilots to be more mindful of when and where they fired their thrusters. From back in his Academy days, Tristan had the unfortunate first hand experience of seeing what happened to any ground crew caught in the ion exhaust of a TIE Fighter when a pilot forgot that crucial lesson, and it was a haunting cautionary tale that he would never forget.

With less style than he might have achieved in a starfighter - Tristan was a fan of drifting his X-Wing onto trajectory with a little bit of lateral tale slide, but lacked the confidence and familiarity with the Blackbird to try that just yet - he lined the nose up with the starfield and mag shield, and reached for one of the auxiliary panels beside him, cycling through the external video feeds to check the ship's surroundings. Satisfied that they were safely clear of anyone or anything that might burn, buckle, or explode, he cautiously began to increase power to the main drives.

"In the immortal words of General Mace Windu," he called forward to Gunner, as Wraith Seven One began to gradually accelerate along the launch corridor, "Hold on to your butts."

[Gunner Rodes]

In handling their new ship, Tristan was at a disadvantage, compared to his co-pilot, in that he'd never handled this type of ship before - at least, not to Gunner's knowledge. He, on the other hand, had enjoyed plenty of experience testing the new E-WAR suite, months in advance, albeit on a different ship. It was a hybrid system, originally designed for much larger ships, scaled down to accomodate the humble Blackbird. He couldn't wait to stretch its legs. And Tristan, it seemed, was having no difficulty stretching the Blackbird's legs: take-off was smooth, and controlled, and they were taxied into position, with just the right amount of caution. It felt sensible, but effortless. If he hadn't known better, Gunner would've assumed this was not Tristan's first time inside a HWK-290.

When the engine's powered up in earnest, the floor underfoot seemed to tense with anticipation, but that could've just as easily been Gunner. From behind, the whine became a bellow, low, but all encompassing, sending tremors through every layer of his environmental suit, electrifying the hairs on his arms and neck. The sudden force of acceleration was surprising - not at all what he had expected from a glorified light freighter - and he yielded to the embrace of his seat, with a smile on his face. He enjoyed the spectacle for as long as he dared, but even before they crossed into the threshold of space, he went to work.

Gunner was not the sort typically given to work-related anxiety, he saved his worries for every other aspect of his life; inside the cockpit of a ship, he had a job to do, and he was good at it. More to the point, he enjoyed it. Whether it was studying telemetry, calibrating sensors, calculating jumps, or even getting behind the stick to revel in that singular sense of power and liberation, these were the sort of things that offered him a kind of freedom from his own head space that he scarcely enjoyed anywhere else. But, now, that was changing. Tristan Tahmores was not just any pilot, he was a Rogue, and being partnered with an actual Rogue came with its own special brand of pressure.

In determined silence, Gunner ironed out his smile, and pushed aside all thoughts of Mace Windu, and the extensive catalogue of colourful phrases often attributed to him. He'd heard them all before: they were the battle cries of kids playing Imps and Rebels, they were the curses that skittered over the teeth of hot-headed engineers, the punchlines to the jokes of drunken gamblers, or the carefully-crafted chat-up lines of bold starfighter pilots. To hear his new partner utter such familiar words should've put him at ease, but all he could think about was not screwing up on their first day, and chasing him away.

So he poured his attention onto his instruments, and lapped up each of the readings that flashed up on the assortment of screens the moment they cleared the hangar. It was beautiful, in a way. The reams of data painted a vibrant picture of their own, of the vast space around them, of the massive station, and the hulking vessels that circled nearby, like hunting whaladons, to the veritable murmuration of smaller ships, twinkling on the HUD like a sea of stars. Gunner's gaze deliberately avoided the dormant E-WAR suite. Now was not the time.

"All systems in the green," he said, without looking up. He tested a switch, and punched a couple of buttons, "Response times are outstanding. Must be the Arcon circuitry. And the thrust output from both engines is identical within a thousandth of a KTU."

He let out a happy sigh, "I love new ships."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan wished Gunner hadn't gone and reminded him that the Blackbird was new. It wasn't that Tristan was opposed to new ships. New designs, new technology, that sort of thing was great. New to him was even better: there was something special about getting to know a craft for the first time, learning her reactions and responses, feeling out her capabilities; it was like dating, except Tristan was considerably less terrible at it.

The problem with new ships though was that in starfighter and mechanic parlance, new often translated as unproven. That wasn't quite the same as untested, mind you. Countless tests were run on the component parts and the finished product before they even rolled off the production line; but that didn't necessarily exorcise the craft of all it's quirks and gremlins. Tested craft may have been pushed to their acceptable limits; but those limits meant very little when your life depended on making a turn that was slightly beyond the manufacturer-promised stress limits. Tests didn't tell you if the fuel injectors were a little sluggish, meaning you needed to slightly realign your mental reaction times when you wanted the craft to do what you wanted it to do. They didn't tell you if the S-Foils on a 65A could flex and vibrate under certain atmospheric conditions, potentially squiffing with the control circuitry for your blasters and risking a short out on one of the guns if you tried to fire mid-turn. Pilots didn't care so much about what a craft was allegedly capable of; they dealt more in what you could get away with, and what they needed to be careful for. With a new ship, those were just the sorts of things that no one knew. It took the joy and playfulness of starfighter dating, and added the unease of a blind date with a potential axe murderer.

Those thoughts were shoved aside as the display on Tristan's console changed. Jovan Station had transmitted their exit vector, and Tristan adjusted their trajectory to match, gently teasing the Blackbird onto the right heading. She seemed to like that, the soft approach, controls quivering under Tristan's touch as he goosed the throttle a little more.

"Give me a tactical sweep of the station and defenses," Tristan called forward, watching as their range from the station tumbled upwards much faster than he would have recommended from a ship this size. It wasn't completely unheard of for more massive ships to achieve starfighter speeds - Marauder Corvettes like the Novgorod could potentially keep pace with an X-Wing, though Tristan had never seen one try - and the buxom Blackbird was packing some delightfully ample nacelles, but it still felt a little odd; especially when the bulky suit and the spacious cockpit detached and isolated you from experiencing it. Once they reached the coordinates for the proving grounds, he'd have to push her through some high-g manouvres, and get a sense of how it felt experiencing turns and acceleration in a cockpit that wasn't quite as womb-like as a starfighter's. "Lets start with a head count and threat analysis."

It was a good starting point for putting the Blackbird through her electronic paces. The disposition and arrangement of Jovan Station's defenses was information they already knew, making it easy to corroborate the ship's results; and Tristan would feel much more comfortable jumping to Hyperspace in an unproven ship knowing it's ability to intuitively calculate just how screwed they were was somewhere close to accurate.

[Gunner Rodes]

"Turbolaser batteries: one-sixty. Double heavies: one hundred. Tractor beam projectors: sixty."

Gunner wasted no time in acquiring the requested information. In two key strokes, his tactical display became populated with lines of glaring red data, and a projection of the eight-pronged station hovered in the air before him, slowly rotating, like a starfish adrift at sea. His gaze snapped from screen to holo, and back again. Inside his fishbowl helmet, his view was obscured, forcing him to adopt a rather unnatural animated approach to inspecting his instruments - that would take some getting used to. The information kept coming:

"Durasteel hull, with 80% duralloy plating. Ray and particle shield projectors on every docking arm. Hypermatter reactor core."

The computers continued to burble away, padding out the preliminary data with tactical analysis for each of Jovan's Stations components, armaments, and features. It took a measure of restraint to keep him from digging deeper, to assess the 20% of the hull that lacked armour plating, and to determine which spot could be considered the weakest. He recalled the story of Luke Skywalker and the Death Star, and considered, for a fleeting instant, the kind of damage a single proton torpedo could inflict upon his current home, when such weaknesses were fully exploited. It drew to mind an old holodocumentary he saw, as a child, about a beast that had thick chitinous armour that was resistant to both blasters and vibroblades. The males fought for the right to mate; a single battle could take hours, and ended only when one of the fighters was overturned, exposing his soft and vulnerably belly. His rival would then land a killing blow, with snapping pincers and gnashing teeth, and present the carcass, as a gift, to his would-be mate.

"Forty-eight major docking bays. One-twenty medium. Standard: two-hundred. Eight capital ship docking ports. Approximately, forty-eight thousand souls. Probability of successful escape: 0.02%"

The tactical sweep came to an end, painting his face a startling shade of red.

"Tactical analysis: we're fucked."

[Tristan Tahmores]

"It's been so long, I've almost forgotten what that feels like," Tristan muttered.

The words tumbled out as a reflexive entendre without much thought applied, but they easily worked both ways. Tristan was not reckless, not spoiling for a fight or desperate for the thrill of impending death or danger; but he was still a pilot, and boredom disagreed with him. Not that this test flight was boring per se, but still. Perhaps he had been spoiled by his time with Rogue Squadron. Had he remained a rank-and-file pilot, flying routine missions and defense patrols, perhaps the transition to peacetime would have been easier; but as a Rogue, even the routine missions came with an unconventional flourish. They didn't just defend bases, they were top secret military research facilities. They didn't just escort convoys, they escorted secret convoys full of Jedi refugees. Tristan had no doubts that somehow, Rogue Squadron would have made a routine test flight like this into some sort of thrilling adventure worthy of retelling in intimate detail over copious drinks.

But that wasn't his life now. Today was just a routine three-hour reconnaissance mission, to make sure that the Blackbird wouldn't fall apart and kill them both if they ever tried to do something more ambitious. Hardly the stuff of legend.

"Support ships?" Tristan said more clearly, closing down the datafile he'd used to cross-check the Blackbird's readings against the station's official specifications, and pinging a data query to Jovan's secure computer network for an active air space report.

[Gunner Rodes]

"Eight fighter patrols." Gunner responded immediately, having anticipated the next question. Another glance at the screen, "Sixteen fighters. Cizerack, mostly. Four X's."

Despite the new environment, the routine nature of the work was almost enough to initiate Gunner's auto-pilot. A keystroke, here, a flip of a switch, there, and, if he was lucky, a cheeky turn of a dial. Important, as it was, to ensure even the most rudimentary of tasks were put to the test, it was a struggle to not take it all for granted. There were no issues, whatsoever. The systems were responding beautifully, and all that was left for him to do was admire the show. But, instead of occupying himself with thoughts of ping times and packet losses, he found his thoughts drifting to more idle shores.

Tristan's earlier remark had not gone unnoticed, and Gunner had enough presence of mind to understand that, when another man confessed to their own sex life shortcomings, the appropriate response was not to blurt out "Hey, me too!" It was not a good thing. It was not a sharing thing. Still, common ground was common ground, and the discovery kindled within him a private excitement. If only he had his voice recorder, he would've left a reminder for himself to engage his partner in conversation about the women - or lack thereof - in his life. Unless Tristan was homosexual. There were no guidelines for making that distinction, though. Best to just ask:

"Tristan, are you-" Wait. Etiquette. Gunner cleared his throat, and started flicking switches, "-ready to make the jump to hyperspace? Deflectors are angled."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Eight patrols; that sounded about right. One for each of Jovan Station's primary docking pylons, two pilots strong in order to effectively escort in or away any unruly or dangerous ships that encroached on the station's airspace, or starspace, or whatever the appropriate terminology was.

There were some pilots out there who were a stickler for those sorts of things, but despite a decade of flying fighters at this point, Tristan had never really cared enough to get hung up on those specifics. The Empire and the Alliance hadn't exactly shared the same terminology - they couldn't even agree on how big and which way round Wings and Groups were meant to be - and as a Rebel pilot, most of your terminology came in the form of slang and shorthand anyway. Besides, there hadn't been a whole lot of airspaces and defensive patrols during Tristan's Rebel career - Rogues didn't exactly tangle with that sort of thing, and the Alliance hadn't really had the kinds of stations or static bases that went along with that sort of terminology. By the time Tristan had defected, Alliance Command had been operating out of a mobile convoy to avoid detection, and the scattered secret Rebel bases never seemed to last long enough for any sort of habit or terminology to really settle in and stick.

Tristan peeled away from those thoughts, focusing on his flight controls and the answer to Gunner's question. One of the frustrations with a shakedown mission such as this was that their objectives became complete based on when you are satisfied. That was the annoying kind of vague, that put Tristan soley in charge of making decisions for himself. He could make decisions for other people, no problem. Put him on a mission, and he could make the snap, momentary choices that were best for the Alliance, for the squadron, for his wingman, whatever they were escorting or protecting, to fulfill his objectives; any of that stuff. Ask him to decide what was for dinner though, or which of a set of options he was more comfortable with, and that decisiveness all fell apart. He just didn't think that way: he went along with whatever made the most sense, and his own comfort was not nearly objective enough to reach a rational assessment.

Yeah, sure, why not? was the ringing endorsement that his mind provided. They hadn't blown up yet, he supposed, and all of the telemetry scrolling across his screen was well within safe parameters. He wished they'd brought an engineer along with them, though: someone with the expertise to make the kind of are we going to explode? assessment that Tristan was reluctant making for himself.

He boxed all of that up, and shoved it aside.

"Bringing us on course for Test Site Zero One," Tristan replied, adjusting the Blackbird's trajectory to match the set of precalculated coordinates that had been provided along with their mission packet. "Double-check those calculations first. Standing by to jump on your mark."

[Gunner Rodes]

Gunner pushed a button beside one of his monitors, and with a sharp click, a whole new stretch of data populated the screen. At a glance, he could tell the calculations were fine. And Tristan, the seasoned veteran of Rogue Squadron, surely knew the same. Though it was protocol for a co-pilot to check jump calculations, it was a measure often neglected by his peers, much to his chagrin. It wasn't that Gunner hadn't trusted the others, it was just that... well, rules were rules. Besides, a pilot who makes a habit of overlooking protocol is not a pilot who inspires trust. Tristan was not like the others: not only had he given his co-pilot the opportunity to inspect his calculations, but he was waiting for his mark. It felt like a gesture.

"All checks out," he confirmed. The best way to show his appreciation was to be a professional, so no time was wasted, "Clear to jump."

Behind, he heard movement, and then, with a low sound, like wind whistling through a tunnel, the hyperdrive awoke. Star-streaked space flashed before his eyes, as they were catapulted into the cerulean hurricane of hyperspace. He didn't blink. After a moment, he snapped himself out of it, recalling at once a litany of biting reprimands from several flight instructors. Repetitive visual stimulation was tricky like that. And, with his mind back on task, he set to carrying out his next wave of system checks.

"You will be pleased to know that structural integrity is holding, and power levels are stable." He hesitated, then. Small talk was a crucial part of social bonding, and it was critical that a flight team have a certain understanding to facilitate efficient communication. Apparently. Gunner preferred silence, but who was he to argue with science? He took a breath, and said, "So... how does she handle?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan spent a few moments contemplating his answer. It wasn't the content that gave him pause, but rather the recipient. There was something about the way the question was phrased that made it seem more complicated than face value. From what he'd learned about Gunner thus far, this was a man who loved his protocols and procedures, and had a certain precision to the way that he lived his life. How did that inform the question he was asking, and the answer he hoped to solicit? Was this an informally phrased formal question, or a formally phrased informal one?

"I dunno," Tristan replied, guessing and hoping that he was dealing with the latter of the two. Now that the Blackbird was in hyperspace, his services were temporarily not required: he had a moment to sit back and contemplate, the feedback from the flying experience coming in the form of counters, timers, and waveforms, rather than the kind of actual physicality that pilots thrived on. Part of him wished their mission parameters had called for them to remain a little closer to the station for a little longer; given him the opportunity to put the Blackbird through her paces and get a real feel for her before he was forced to take his hands off the wheel. Unfortunately, such things were impractical: the spacelanes around Jovan Station were far too busy for that sort of thing, and their scheduled tests included the comms and sensor packages - a little hard to put a long range suite through it's paces without actually being at long range.

Tristan shifted a little, seeking a slightly more casual level of comfort that his seat was poorly designed to provide.

"It's impolite to speak ill of a lady, but to be honest she feels a little ass-heavy. There's a whole lot of engine back there, and we haven't had the chance to get that booty shaking yet. Right now, it just feels like it's in the way. That said, she was pretty responsive when we had her on repulsors. I've flown shuttles, and trying to get them to do anything graceful is like trying to poke a rock around a frozen lake with a damp stick. Kinda reminds me of some of what I flew for the Empire back in the day, actually. Started out wanting to fly the XG-1 Star Wing like my brother, before the Academy decided I'd be most useful in an Interceptor."

[Gunner Rodes]

As Tristan coloured his answer with metaphor, dread passed over Gunner like a boiling wave. All over, his skin started to prickle and burn beneath the thick layers of insulation, and panic closed around his throat like a heavy hand. He was talking about the ship, Gunner reminded himself. He was always talking about the ship. Of course, there were pieces he understood entirely, which helped with the translation: the engine's were heavy, but the controls were responsive. Big engines plus responsive controls equalled booty-shaking. But whose booty was he talking about? Gunner dismissed the thought as unimportant, and instead found himself pondering Tristan's very specific simile. He sounded like someone who had a lot of experience poking stones around frozen lakes. Maybe he had an affinity for the natural world, or perhaps there was just no Holonet, back home.

"The XG-1 is the gunboat, right? With the lateral folding wings, the warhead launchers, concussion missiles... It was one of the first starfighters in the Empire to be fitted with deflector shields and a hyperdrive. Sixteen concussion missiles, or, depending on your loadout, twelve proton torpedoes, eight heavy rockets..."

Gunner was stalling. It was a gargantuan effort on his part, to navigate the carefully-plotted course of banal facts, while simultaneously attempting to formulate a suitable response to his partner's story. Sharing is caring. That was what his mother used to say. The only reason Tristan elected to share information about his Imperial past because he wanted him to know; it was probably important to him. But, this time, even Gunner was able to appreciate it was a sensitive subject. This was an important time for them, as a new partnership, and he couldn't afford to make the usual mistake of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

He could ask about his brother. That was personal. People liked talking about their family, and asking showed you cared. They could always talk more about the way the Blackbird handles, but to do that would be to ignore the very obvious attempt to bond. Or he could ask him how the X-Wing compares to the Interceptor, from a pilot's perspective. That was the safer option. More professional. No. It had to be meaningful. Something to show he was interested in Tristan, and his past, and his feelings, even if he wasn't.

"Do you..." He sighed, and took a stab in the dark, "Ever miss piloting your Interceptor? I got a speeder bike for my 18th birthday. It was a Flash-SoroSuub 440. My dad was huge Camino Crossi fan. He called him the King of Speed and Finesse. I polished it every third day with Speedster's Bodyshine. I think he liked that. I never got to ride it, but I would sit on it while my dad worked on his old 760. He would tell me about the places we were going to visit, once I had my license. I miss that bike."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Fifteen seconds. That was all it took to transform Tristan's understanding of Gunner entirely. Fifteen seconds of trivia that cast Tristan's copilot in an entirely new context. It was subtle, not even an intentional revelation, but for Tristan it shone through loud and clear. A bike that had never been ridden, one that was missed; plans with a father that were never realised. Most of the Alliance had a similar story, loved ones lost or estranged; entire worlds even, entire ways of life erased from existance. Tragic as it was, it had become common ground for many, a shared kind of pain that bound them all together.

But that wasn't the information that Gunner had meant to reveal. It wasn't the question he'd asked, or the conversation he'd volunteered for. In time, they'd reach a point where such topics were viable, where such truths about each other could be openly discussed; but it wasn't now. Now was the time for small talk, for filling the empty intervals between their duties with enough noise to pass the time. It was something they would need to perfect, given how long they'd be spending enclosed together in this same small space. Tristan wound his insight backwards, and tried to craft an answer in a similar vein.

"My father had an Aratech 614-AvA, ex military. He used to command a Stormtrooper garrison back on Naboo, and when they phased out the 614 in favour of the 74-Z, he managed to buy one, or keep one, or something. Wouldn't let me anywhere near it, though. Had a whole collection of antique military gear that I guess he just didn't trust me to be around. My brothers were a different story, but I guess that's what I get for being the one who was born last."

The words came with a sombre note, not quite the lighthearted revelation that Gunner seemed to have intended to offer, but the content was the same - an equal amount of sharing, even if it had been accidental. Still, there was no use dragging the conversation down into such dour territory.

"As for whether I miss my Interceptor?" He drew in a breath, emphasising the thought that was involved in his answer. "I wouldn't say I miss it, but I definitely notice the difference from time to time. It's not the handling or the performance, it's the little things, the minor details. It's the different sitting posture, and the way that changes how the g-forces affect you. The different helmet, the different style of controls, the fact that you're seeing the fuselage out in front of you instead of having a clear view, or that you're not catching glimpses of your solar arrays out of the corner of your eye. And then there's the sound, that chilling shriek of a Starscream-9, that just keeps you constantly on edge - reminds you that you have no shields, no hyperspace, no escape plan if the engagement doesn't go your way -"

- and no real value to the Empire if you aren't good enough to keep yourself alive. He caught himself before his words carried on too long, and before those particular words escaped his lips. It wasn't enthusiasm that drove his words, it was something else, and he wanted to be sure not to create that misconception.

"I don't miss it," he reiterated for clarity. "Flying a TIE is terrifying and dangerous. I lost a lot of friends and squadmates who might have survived if we'd been in A-Wings or X-Wings instead. But it's also how I was trained, and where I come from, and that's a hard kind of thing to shake."