Flight Station Three Three Seven

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Preita'rrou Kiimiti Taassaurra loved her job.

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

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

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

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

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

[Gunner Rodes]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Tristan Tahmores]

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

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

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

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

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

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That left Bay Six B.

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

[Gunner Rodes]

"Everything okay up there, Tick-Tock?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Some people, eh?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

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

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

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

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

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

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

And that was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Gunner Rodes]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Tristan Tahmores]

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

Am I seeing what? The giant kriffing explosion?

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

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

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

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

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Gunner Rodes]

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

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

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

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

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

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

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

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

She made a face.

"Orr thejy ssp-pjit on jyou."

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Gunner Rodes]

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

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

Say something. Say something. Say something.

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

[Tristan Tahmores]

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

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

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

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

[Gunner Rodes]

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

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

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

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

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

[Tristan Tahmores]

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

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

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

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

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

With a deep breath, she hit the transmit button.

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

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

"...pleass...PAjYOUT!"

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

[Gunner Rodes]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Tristan Tahmores]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Gunner Rodes]

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did you beat it?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

Tristan faltered before answering, glad for the bulky flight suit that buried the subtle shifts in body language between several insulated layers.

Calling it a sore subject felt incorrect. He felt no shame about it - it was an obstacle from his past that he'd overcome, nothing more - and so had no qualms about volunteering the information in casual conversation. Even if it had been something he'd ordinarily prefer not to reveal, sharing it with his copilot would still have felt right: it was meant to be a safe space after all, and if Tristan's own past social difficulties could help build a little common ground between the two of them in Gunner's mind, all the better.

How he'd overcome that obstacle though? That was the subject that felt sore.

"Short answer? The finest vocal coaches Naboo had to offer, and a moderately wealthy father who wouldn't tolerate having a defective son."

It was a harsh way of phrasing it, but one accurate to how Tristan had felt in his youth. As much as therapists and support groups had encouraged him not to frame his impediment as a weakness or a fault, his father had firmly and decisively instilled that thought in his mind. It wasn't even deliberate, wasn't even stated outright; but it had been explicit. Tristan was broken, and no expense would be spared to have him fixed.

Tristan shuffled a little in his seat, wondering what his father would think of him now. He'd hardly been the first son to rebel against their father, both figuratively and literally. Even before he'd found his way to the Rebel Alliance, Tristan's entrance into the Imperial Flight Academy had been a calculated defiance against his soldier through-and-through father. But there was a certain satisfaction, a certain pleasant twist of the knife that came from imagining the scrutiny that Colonel Ethan Tahmores of the Imperial Security Bureau would have been placed under when it was learned his son had defected. He hoped it stung as much as his father's words had in his childhood; hoped that Ethan felt as much a failure as a father as Tristan had been made to feel as a son.

He grimaced as the emotions disturbed by that train of thought began to wrap themselves around his words, feeling the staccato rhythm begin to infect them even as they danced across the back of his tongue. He hesitated, a moment spent organising them carefully into order, care taken to rehearse each syllable in his mind before he dared to speak them. It was difficult to hear them in his own voice, and not his father's.

"No obstacle is insurmountable if you have the motivation to overcome."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

For agonizing seconds that felt like minutes, Kiimi waited for a response. She was already penning the narrative in her head. Disaster! Ruination! Well, better to get it over with now, rather than later, when there was actual investment and raising of hope. She sighed, pushing off from her console to rock back in her chair slightly. Of course human men were going to be impossible, because they had an entirely different set of rules and a whole different layer of mystique to them. It wasn't as if she was having any success with men of her own species, and all she had to do there was ask, and look like she had it all together. The last time that had worked was one year, three months, and five days ago. Yes, she kept track. No, that wasn't weird. She'd found a guy then who was a good combination of handsome-ish but also mildly desperate in the middle of his Kree-Arr rut to find companionship away from his mistress. And all it took was a little too much false bravado thanks to a half pint of Ka'rru'jaai rum for Kiimi to take her best limp-wristed shot. The sex was bad and quick, but if you haven't eaten steak in a year, you don't send it back because it's the wrong cut!

So maybe that was the moral of the story. Maybe she shouldn't spend her best years in the Pride Mother's service trying to valiantly tilt at moisture vaporators. Maybe she should be a little more realistic and hunt more desperate prey. Go after the ones who don't run so fast.



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

"Huh?!"

Kiimi said to no one, shocked from her self-pity with a blink of her limpid eyes. Did he just....did he just ask for her name? Okay there were a few possibilities. One - the most likely - he was going to report her for some kind of breach of protocol. That seemed like the universe sorting itself out the usual way. But...but! His voice did have a little bit of husky tone to it, didn't it? Ahh...definitely, okay probably some kind of inflection of the playful sort. Kiimiti considered the implications, chewing at the tapered edge of her left thumb claw as she did. If this was the former, he'd have asked for name, rank, and operating number wouldn't he? Yeeeaah....

Kiimi coughed into her hand, clearing her throat. Okay, a last minute reprieve. She opened the line.

"Sshe d-doess, Wrrajith Sseven-One. jI'm Kiimiti. Kiimiti Taassaurra."

She was tempted to insist on him calling her Kiimi, but that seemed waay too forward. They probably needed at least two more successful banters before that could happen. As Kiimi thought, she looked at the two portrait shots of the crew.

"And whjich half of Wrrajith Ss-sseven-One arre jyou? Arr T-Tahmorress, orr Arr Rrodess?"

[Gunner Rodes]

Tristan's answer left Gunner captivated. To think, he, too, had to go to therapy as a kid to get fixed. They didn't like that sort of terminology, the therapists, but when something wasn't working properly, you fixed it. That was just a fact. And that's what Tristan did. Now they had something else in common. He should tell him all about Dr. Kazall and the colour wheel. Bonding was important, between pilots. And when someone shared something personal, the right thing to do was acknowledge it. But then the potentially-hot Cizerack girl spoke, and he forgot all about that.

Kiimiti Taassaurra. So her name was Kiimiti Taassaurra. Immediately, he set to work, prodding the impractically small keyboard beside him, with his thick padded fingers. K- I- I- She was talking again. There was almost no sign of the stutter. That was good. It meant she felt comfortable, and that made him feel comfortable. M- I- T- I- The sudden radio silence encroached upon his mind like a chill. Her question returned to him, like an echo, and he leaned in close to the comm, incapable of suppressing a broad grin.

"Uh, Rodes? Gunner Rodes. The good-looking one."

With a snort of amusement, he turned to face Tristan, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"That was sarcasm," he said, cheerfully. "It is an effective way to make light of one's faults. You are the handsome one, so I'll be the funny one. And 93 percent of sexually-active men, aged 20 to 30, agree that humour is the fastest way to get the chick on the dick."

He gave a happy sigh, and returned to his station.

"Hey, Kiimiti, want to hear a joke? The past, the present, and the future, right? Walked into a bar. It was tense."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"Haa-a-a-a-a-aa!"

Kiimi's laugh drew out in excitable monotone, like a comedic ululation autoblaster.

"jI hearrd that a hjyperrbole t-totalljy rrjipped jinto that ss-ssame barr and d-desstrrojyed everrjythjing!"

Her nose crinkled in amusement and she leaned in.

"jI haven't hearrd a g-g-good grrammarr joke ssjince jI wass jin qujiz bowl at Unji."

She may have overplayed her hand. Now she was talking to a man about Quiz Bowl?? That wasn't exactly the fast track to male attention!

[Gunner Rodes]

"Pffft!" Gunner's amusement passed over his lips like a wet raspberry. His face lit up, and, catching Tristan's attention, he pointed at the comm, "Hey, she's funny, too."

More to the point, though, she found him funny. That was a satisfying feeling, like scratching an itch you never knew you had. If he could somehow take that laughter, frame it, and hang it on the wall of his quarters, he would. Maybe he could extract a recording later, then, he could play it whenever he felt down. Like whale music.

T- A- A- S- The typing resumed. Kiimiti was talking, again. Gunner found himself wondering if she included his grammar joke amongst the list of poor grammar jokes she'd heard since her time in university, or if she meant that his joke was the exception, the joke to break the unfortunate run of bad grammar jokes. He opted for the latter explanation, remembering Tristan's wise counsel: stick to the facts. She had laughed, after all. His frown unfurled, and, when he spoke again, he sounded impressed.

"You went to university? I always wanted to go to university. UHC has excellent courses in xenolinguistics and psychology. I've always been interested in how people think, and, if I can learn how people think in different languages, then all the better, right?" S- A- U- R- "Intelligence is a very attractive quality in a person, for me. But you probably want to hear more jokes, like like what did the zero say to the eight? Nice belt. Heh!"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"jYeah, jI went to B-Behladue Poljyt-technjic jInsstjitute on n-naval sscholarrsshjip."

Kiimi self-censored the next bit, keeping a little smug grin to herself. Second in my graduating class, and that's with a double major! But bragging wasn't a good look, and she was trying to keep this fish on the line. And Gunner apparently was not only funny, but he was into xenolinguistics and smart women. It was enough to cause a moment of heavy breathing. So he hadn't gone to school, but he had a natural enough ear to one-and-done Cizeri tonal inflection and had both grammar and math jokes!

Speaking of jokes...

"Haa-a-a-a-a-a-aa!"

What a find! Sometimes it seemed like the only guys around were the sort that were too interested in working out, fashion, and all the usual vapid guy stuff. And that made it impossible to connect. It was hard to talk about future perfect verb usage in Rodian with a guy who's day's highlight was getting his eyebrows waxed. Not that all men were like that. Just usually the really hot ones.

"jYou'rre jinto xenol-l-ljingujisstjicss? That'ss one of mjy m-majorrss! Arre jyou a p-poljyglot?"

[Tristan Tahmores]

It was strange, sitting there listening to the awkward back and forth between Gunner and Kiimi. Ordinarily, it was the kind of situation that Tristan would zone out from, out of respect for the privacy of the participants. Unfortunately, this was happening through the Blackbird's comm array: something that Tristan was obligated to listen to for the purposes of protocol and safety. If this Officer Taassaurra - Tristan found Cizerack ranks a struggle, and had no idea if a Preita'rrou outranked him or not - had to urgently give a course correction or a warning, it would be irresponsible for Tristan to not have his ears on. So, Tristan sat and listened without quite listening, cringing at the awkward jokes and frowning in disbelief as Gunner somehow fumbled his way into the comm call equivalent of Kiimi's pants, or whatever the Cizerack equivalent was.

As that question trickled through however, Tristan couldn't help himself from chiming in. Not over the comm channel of course, Tristan's mic output was muted, something he triple checked before speaking, voice low enough that hopefully Gunner's headset and Kiimi's sensitive hearing wouldn't pick it up.

"Tell her you have a talented tongue," he suggested quietly, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "She seems like the kind of girl who'd dig a little innuendo and wordplay."

[Gunner Rodes]

When Kiimiti confessed that xenolinguistics was one of her chosen majors at university, Gunner's enthusiasm was squared. The moment she stopped talking, he was already poised, ready to speak. At Tristan's intervention, however, the first word evaporated from the tip of his tongue. His open mouth split into a wide grin, and he fought hard to keep himself from laughing. Once his composure was solid, he proceeded:

"Well, I'm proficient in Bothese, Huttese, Rodese, Ithorese, and Zabraki. And, lately, I've been working on my Shyriiwook, but it's tricky to get the howling pitch right."

In a tremendous display of willpower, Gunner cut himself short. His mouth was open again, on the cusp of relating the 18 different ways to say 'Hello' in the Wookiee's native tongue, but he refrained. For his was a goal far loftier than pure academia. And, as much as he wanted to tease out of Kiimiti the details of her education in xenolinguistics, along with the details of her other university major, he didn't. He played it cool, and allowed the words to glide over his smiling teeth.

"So, you could say I have a talented tongue... but I'll let you be the judge of that."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Kiimi's ears warmed so fast at that remark that she unconsciously pulled them down and flush against her neck...then immediately let go in case anyone was watching. She wasn't any stranger to bawdy talk - you couldn't go a day without an hour's session of it in the High Mother's Trade Navy. But the scuttlebutt from the girls who'd slapped tails in foreign ports was that you definitely wanted to get to know a human and their tongue. But then that tongue can also speak five and a half other languages? This wasn't double entendre territory, it was entendre cubed!

Kiimi cut a furtive smile, thankful that they were still strictly voice-only on the comm so that he couldn't see it. She wondered whether the other human was egging Gunner on, or if he was being cryptic-sexy in order to maintain comm discipline. Erring on the latter, she cooked up a reply. He'd said he was fluent in Rodese, didn't he?

"N-nawo ba kanee t-tawoo ssu echaa."

That was the right phrase, right? Yeah it was, hehehe. Even an eavesdropping Rodian might think it was innocent in a vacuum and miss the randy subtext. But it was there. Kiimi chewed on her thumb. She'd run it up the flagpole. Time to see if he saluted.

[Gunner Rodes]

Though it was not the most exotic or flattering of languages, the nasally buzz of Rodese fell on his ears like sweet music. Basic was, by necessity, a boring and sterile language, valuing function over form. This gave it the universal appeal that made it the most common language in the galaxy, but it lacked the nuance of Ithorians, the poetry of the Hutts, and the apparent romance of Rodians. Everything sounded better in an alien language. But Gunner had not expected this. His eyebrows climbed, making moons of his eyes, and by the time Kiimiti was done, his mouth fell open in wonderment. Frozen, like an infant clinging to a secret, he turned to look at his partner. Tristan did not share his enthusiasm. But that was ok - he held up a hand - he'd explain later.

It was part of an old proverb - innocuous, by all accounts - however, as part of a cultural revolution within Rodian society, driven by a desire to sever ties with their barbaric past, it became popular, amongst younger generations, to take traditional words of wisdom, and reinvent them for their own amusing ends. Such was the fate of Nawo ba kanee tawoo su echaa. This, Gunner knew, because, like all good students of language, he endeavoured to learn all the naughty stuff, first. And, in its new context, hearing the phrase tumble over Kiimiti's lips, made his insides knot like durasteel cables.

But what to say in return? Tristan, it turned out, was a veritable master when it came to the fine art of flirtation, but this? This was his arena, and it required a certain linguistic finesse. He grinned to himself, then. It was well known that Rodian's had great difficulty producing the sounds associated with the letters L, R, and S. Indeed, when speaking the language, non-Rodians, such as himself, made a special effort to emulate their unique lisp when pronouncing words with those same letters. What strange and curious connotations could be derived from a deliberate deviation from this commonly-embraced norm, he wondered.

Feeling more than a little pleased with himself, Gunner became intimately close with the comm, and in a low voice, said:

"Dota kuwa manchee katarrrrrrrrrrrrowww."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Kiimi gawked. Gawked, as she stared at her terminal. Her mother might tell her if she didn't stop gawking, she might swallow a fly, er, assuming there were any flies in the flight station. Probably not. But the way he rolled those R's!! Oh, he was having fun, and she liked it!

Willing her mouth closed, Kiimi pressed her tongue between suddenly dry lips. She pressed her suddenly-perspiring palms along her jodhpurs, fretting away the sweat as more of a compulsive behavior than anything. She wanted to turn on the video feed so badly. Wanted to watch Gunner's lips as he plied through declensions and conjugations.

"Preita'rrou?"

Kiimi nearly fell out of her chair in surprise. With a quick save, she merely swiveled 180 degrees to face the Watch Chief, a considerably less-attractive specimen of human male than the one she was considering ogling.

"jY-jy-jyesss...ss-ss..."

Chief Jegg's thin mouth pressed into an impatient line. It was a universal expression Kiimiti saw whenever the traffic snarl on her tongue got particularly backed up. Just spit it out already. He didn't have to say it.

"...ssjirr?" she finished lamely.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Kiimi's eyes were blue saucers. She hadn't heard him at all. Not even enough to infer to make something up. Oh Goddess she'd been daydreaming so hard she'd practically been paying rent in Gunner's trousers. Chief Jegg's puffy face and bald head took on a pinkish hue. Pink could be good on humans until usually when it wasn't.

The Chief sighed.

"Space tug's on dispatch to clean up the mess. Divert that HWK-290 to bay G-2. We've set up a security cordon for it."

Durasteel stiffened Kiimi's spine, and she sat straight with her chin out.

"D-djiverrtjing to bajy g-gee-two. Ya Ve!"

Jegg grimaced.

"In basic, please, Taassaurra. Get with the program, we've got a lot of traffic to clear!"

Kiimi steeled her expression back to the Chief, biting at the insides of her cheeks.

"jYess ssjirr."

Chief Jegg waggled a finger, as if to spin her chair around. Kiimi did so, side-eyeing until she was sure that he'd gone to pester someone else. Okay, so she'd been made to look like an idiot, and her honeymoon with Gunner was definitely over. Still...

Kiimi savored a little smile. She might not get to have dessert, but no harm in pilfering the cream on top. She stared down a certain blue switch on her console. With a final tamping of clawhoppers in her stomach, she got over herself and hit the switch to open a video feed.

"Wrrajith Ss-ss-sseven One. Prreparre to d-djiverrt courrsse to Bajy Gee-Two."

[Gunner Rodes]

Dejection, painted, for a brief flash, in hues of cool blue, reshaped itself into surprise. The pouting lower lip fell away to form a small but perfect O, and the heavy brow leapt, making his eyes wide enough to not so much as drink in the sight before him, but gulp it down like an overzealous freshman on his first cantina crawl. After his demonstration of oral gymnastics, Gunner had expected some sort of reciprocation: an amused giggle, an aroused purr, a spot of saucy agglutination, or even some hot Trandoshan rhyming verse. Anything, but this.

There she was, Kiimiti Taassaurra, in all three of her virtual dimensions. It occurred to him, then, that maybe there was some truth to what Tristan had said: perhaps there was no such thing as an unattractive Cizerack. There was a symmetry to Kiimiti's features that was most agreeable. If he drew a line from the top of her olive-skinned brow, down her perfectly straight nose, all the way to her cute chin, he had every confidence that her measurements would be identical on either side. What was the best way to offer to measure someone's face? Later. Her eyes were blue. Like daylight side of Dac blue. And the hair - there was so much of it! The ears were a bit on the big side, though. Perhaps she was beautiful. Maybe she was just pretty. Gunner could never tell. But one thing he was unquestionably certain about was that the impromptu holo link was a blatant deviation from protocol.

"O... kay..." he said, at last, frozen somewhere between shock and uncertainty. His hand stretched out to the side, and fumbled around in the dark for a painful moment until, at last, the feed was terminated. The spectral blue shape of Kiimiti Taassaurra blinked out of existance, and Gunner relaxed into his chair with a sigh. As soon as the feeling returned in full to his extremities, he started punching commands into the twin consoles before him, and called to the back of the cockpit:

"Longshot, we have been diverted to G2. Take us in."

[Tristan Tahmores]

Oh, Gunner.

He could only blame himself for this; Tristan was well aware of that, and the act of complying with his copilot's navigational directions didn't distract him from that. He'd grown complacent. He'd sat back, enjoying the show, letting the conversation unfold without interruption or input. It had seemed like Gunner had this. By some sheer fluke, he'd stumbled onto the rare breed of woman who got moist in all the right ways with Gunner's weird linguistics routine. Honestly, Tristan's reaction had been close to awe at times; it had been all he could do to not cheer and whoop in the background, and when Kiimiti had made that final gesture - turning on the vid-feed to talk face to face; how clutch was that? - he'd practically had to bury himself behind his console so that he couldn't be seen punching the air and dancing in celebration in the background.

But then Gunner had hung up. He'd hung up. He'd reached the final tiny hurdle, and instead of leaping over it gracefully like an elegant soon-to-be-laid gazelle, he hadn't just stumbled, or ground to a halt. Oh, no. He'd stopped, taken cover, and called in an orbital bombardment to obliterate that tiny hurdle into a smoking uncrossable chasm.

Tristan's eyes were lasers, slowly but surely burning holes into the back of Gunner's skull.

"Flight Officer Rodes."

Oh, it was on now. The stern voice and the formal address was coming out.

"Sweet Skywalker, man. What the hell kind of frakked-up Forceshit was that?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Kiimi fell back in her seat with a sigh. She'd put everything out there for...an okay. Okay! Seriously? Nobody wanted to end that kind of talk with okay! It most certainly wasn't okay! Questioning hands fumbled at her hair, her cap, her laced cravat. Kiimi was the first to admit that maybe she wasn't the most beautiful woman in the fleet. Okay, so that was putting it lightly. But was it so bad that a flirting encounter would experience a complete evacuation to vacuum once she'd show her face.

Okay. Click.

Okay. Click.

She wanted to call back, but ugh, so complicated. One, Chief Jegg was probably watching her like a hawkbat now. Two, what kind of woman called back after that? In lieu of something so forward, Kiimi began to think of a more desultory approach. A few quick keystrokes saved Tristan and Gunners' dossiers, and she exported them to datastick. With them both being recon pilots, there was a chance they billeted aboard the station, instead of reporting to a capital ship with a home port at Jovan.

Now, what to do? Her shift still had another hour to it. By then, Gunner and Tristan might have left G-2 completely. Would it be creepy if she tracked down the location of his personal quarters. Ugh, yes that was probably too creepy.

"Dammjit." she muttered under her breath, turning the dataslip over in her hand.

[Gunner Rodes]

When his name tumbled out of Tristan's mouth, Gunner froze. There was something in the way he said it that gave him the impression the lieutenant had built his name around a framework of durasteel rods. He had his attention. Gunner turned in his seat, and wrinkled his brow at the volley of colourful language Tristan launched his way. After a moment of silence, he concluded, "You're upset."

Tristan Tahmores was not, in his experience, the kind of man to upset easily. His experience was admittedly limited, but, at the very least, he knew his partner to be measured, rational, and calm - the antithesis of your average hot-headed starfighter jock. Of all the pilots he had encountered in his time with the Alliance, he was by far the least intolerable. More importantly, he was excellent at his job, and that was all that really mattered. And, as such, his opinion mattered. Gunner's eyes narrowed in a futile attempt to discern the mystery behind the new creases in his partner's face; his mouth was misshapen; he wore his feelings like a mask, but that voice, there was no mistaking the... the... the annoyance. But why?

And then it hit him. He straightened up, in his chair, and gave Tristan a nod.

"Apologies, lieutenant," his voice was back to being as impassive and professional as when they first flew together, "Had I known the Preita'rrou was going to initiate a vid-link to the ship, I would not have encouraged the conversation. It won't happen again."

[Arnan Jsorra]

* * *


Arnan fought the urge to reposition himself in his seat, listening intently to the day's escapades that Gunner had recounted. As Arnan had come to expect from his frequent patient, the retelling came with extensive detail, much of which many might have found superfluous, but that were clearly of particular importance to Gunner's mind. A lot of emphasis was placed on protocol, on how Gunner had fulfilled his duties and responsibilities in the proper way at the proper times - more so than normal, almost a subconscious fixation. It felt like preemptive justification, like a foundation laid in preparation of an excuse. As Gunner reached his account of Tristan's stern words, Arnan began to understand why.

"You believe that Lieutenant Tahmores was angry at you for breaking protocol."

It was a statement of fact, not a dismissal. There were rationales and thought processes that could deconstruct Gunner's interpretation of the scene, and perhaps steer him towards a better understanding of what Arnan expected was Tristan's intent, but for now that didn't matter: of more importance was the window that it provided, and what Arnan could hopefully help Gunner to see if he showed him how to look for it.

"As you were talking me through the events, you made a point to stress how rigorously you adhered to those protocols during the rest of your flight. If the Lieutenant's words were intended as a criticism of that one lapse, how does that make you feel? Do you believe that critique to be accurate, or unfair?"

[Gunner Rodes]

"It was a fair criticism," Gunner said at once, steeling his voice with enough certainty to hold Dr. Jsorra's doubts at bay. He was not prepared to humour any line of reasoning that might suggest his partner was at fault. He gave a nod, "Lieutenant Tahmores has a right to expect the highest standards of professionalism. One deviation from protocol is one too many."

The ceiling of Dr. Jsorra's office was not entirely unremarkable. There was a patch, to the right of his desk, about three inches across, that was a slightly darker shade of grey than the rest. It was a stimcaf stain. Gunner knew this because, the day it appeared, he insisted he inspect it. After repositioning his unused chair, he climbed to get within sniffing distance, and discovered an acute smell of Corellian dark roast. The ceiling had been cleaned since - several times, in fact - but Gunner was starting to suspect he'd never not see it. He pointed it out to Dr. Jsorra every time he visited.

Gunner stared at the ceiling while he spoke. What he liked about Dr. Jsorra's office was that his couch was positioned centrally, so, from his unique perspective, lying down on the rich green leather, he was unable to see where ceiling ended or where it began. In his mind, he liked to imagine himself in the heart of a vast expanse, with only the doctor for company. It was easier to be honest, that way. It was also easier when he wasn't making eye contact. Instead of worrying about what Dr. Jsorra might be thinking, he could dedicate his own not-inconsiderable faculties to decrypting their discussion. Presently, he wrestled with an insubordinate thought that twisted his face into a frown.

"Although, Tristan did provide me with assistance for the unconventional comms with Preita'rrou Taassaurra." His brow knotted, and he folded his arms across his chest, "Does that make him a hypocrite?"

[Arnan Jsorra]

"Almost certainly," Arnan replied with a simple shrug.

"But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Hypocrisy as a term is often just another way of verbalising the concept of do as I say, not as I do. That is an extremely important social construct, that stems from the earliest days of sentient evolution. Hypocrisy is how risk is managed, at the expense of one for the protection of many. Hypocrisy is the backbone of the premise of maturity and adulthood, older members of society prohibiting younger ones from access to alcohol, narcotics, pornography, politicial activity, firearms, explosives, and more, all in the interests of safeguarding them until they are deemed ready, and mature. It is the foundation of the chain of command that governs the military, the hypocrisy of a commander instructing a soldier or pilot to take a risk that they would not take themselves, because those are the respective roles to which they are each assigned."

Gunner Rodes was a fascinating patient, one who thrived on systematic thought, and struggled when the unpredictable and irrational behaviours of those around him strayed away from what seemed rational. It would have been easy to dismiss that struggle, to state that sentient beings were inherently unpredictable, and to derive confusion or anxiety from that was simply illogical. There was a rational structure to sentient behaviour, though: the same rational structure that allowed the discipline of psychology to exist in the first place. Gunner was hardly here for a crash course in fundamental psychology, and yet at times, such an avenue served him best: to be encouraged to analyse his situations clinically, and to search for the patterns and systems that led to understanding.

"That said, I believe you may be working with a faulty premise."

Arnan's expression adjusted into a frown, deliberately exaggerating his body language to help convey the intention behind his words: not the simple question that they might initially have seemed, but one with added depth that warranted additional consideration.

"Would you consider Lieutenant Tahmores to be a friend?"

[Gunner Rodes]

The trouble with Dr. Jsorra was he often said things that warranted further analysis, but scarcely allowed for it. Gunner understood: what he thought he wanted to talk about wasn't what he needed to talk about. He hadn't always understood it, however. Indeed, it was a concept that had taken him years to understand. Even in his late teens, he'd been known to waste entire hours of Dr. Kazall's time with questions about the nobility of white lies, the comedy of falling over, and the etiquette of public erections. There was an argument to be made, he thought, that some of those discussions were examples of time well spent, but he also had an appreciation for his responsibility in facilitating the therapist's role. And despite all this, there were times when he lapsed into a fixation. His mouth hung open, barely stemming the flow of a hundred questions about nature of command and the intrinsic need for dual standards. It had been a point well made, and he was intent on discussing it further, until...

"No. We're not friends." Gunner had given this some thought, "A friend is someone who chooses to spend time with you when they don't have to. We spend a lot of time together: training, missions, the mess hall. But it's all part of our routine. It's professional."

His thoughts drifted back in time, to memories of his old friend, Red. They used to spend so much time together. Red liked the outdoors. Gunner hated it, but for Red, he'd weed the garden, and till the soil, and plant seeds all day long. When they were done, his shirt would be sticky with sweat, and his hands would be filthy. It was the sort of thing that usually sent him into a fidgeting frenzy. But not with Red. The dirty hands and sweaty shirt became intrinsically linked to their friendship, and he liked that. And when Red wasn't around, he noticed. He felt it. His thoughts returned, then, to Tristan.

"My flight suit is like a sauna. It's like I've been swimming when I take it off. But I don't mind. I miss him, sometimes. Do you think I should tell him?"

[Arnan Jsorra]

Arnan remained patiently silent as the tangle of thoughts and rationalisations cascaded from Gunner. It was easy to think of the thoughts as broken, the ramblings of a mind that was programmed wrong, Arnan knew better. His thought processes might have been a winding mountain path, but everything made sense, as long as you knew which strands you were following.

"I am intrigued by your analysis," Arnan responded, ignoring Gunner's immediate question for now. "You describe your relationship as being purely professional, and yet you are fighter pilots. Members of the Rebellion and the Alliance - and any military, really - who serve in such close-knit roles, as pilots, foot soldiers, mechanics, special forces, are notorious for the bonds of friendship and cameraderie that form between them. The performance of their duties requires an inherent level of trust, and that trust often is built on a knowledge and understanding of each other, and on the intense shared experiences that they encounter. Those are the same building blocks as friendship."

His fingers laced together, as he wove his analysis into a query.

"With that in mind, and given his background in Rogue Squadron - the archtypical example of such a close-knit unit - do you think that Lieutenant Tahmores would consider you a friend?"

[Gunner Rodes]

"In the context of your example, I guess he does."

Gunner didn't sound wholly convinced by his answer. He was using Dr. Jsorra's logic, and his parameters of friendship, to arrive at a conclusion. It felt a bit like wish-fulfillment, like he was being told what he wanted to hear. But Dr. Jsorra was not a liar. His job was to help him see the truth, and make sense of things that seem complicated. Friendship was a complicated thing because people were complicated. There should be rules, like, if you go for a beer and don't talk about work, that makes you friends, or, if you give someone a gift when it isn't Life Day, then you're friends. In the thoughtful silence - Dr. Jsorra encouraged thoughtful silences - he imagined what a friendship would be like between Tristan and himself, or if indeed what they already had was friendship.

"I don't know," he concluded with a shrug, "I'll ask him."

And, just as he was about to consider the matter of friendship closed, his expression darkened beneath the shadow of a troubling thought.

"What if Tristan was angry with me as a friend?"

[Arnan Jsorra]

There was something sad about that question, and something sad about Gunner Rodes that made you want to bundle him up like the awkward puppy he was and reassure him that he'd been a good boy, and that everything was going to be okay. The galaxy was a scary, complicated, confusing place, a fact that was easily forgotten by most, and yet Gunner experienced that to the fullest, though not always in the most obvious ways.

Still, Arnan couldn't simply hand him answers, reassurances, or countermeasures to what life threw his way. His task was to help Gunner learn to build those for himself; prepare him to survive a little better in the world beyond the doors of this office.

"If Tristan is your friend, or at least sees you as such from that perspective, then he is interested in your wellbeing. He cares about you, on a personal level. He wants you to be happy."

He arranged his features into a patient frown, once again walking Gunner through the possibilities.

"I am no expert," he lied, "But it seems that Lieutenant Tahmores was trying to support you and assist you in your -" What had Gunner called it? "- unconventional comms with Preita'rrou Taassaurra. In fact, from your description, he did not show any signs of any negative feeling until after the call was terminated. Think back over those final moments. Is there anything that, from the perspective of a friend, might have seemed as if it ran contrary to his investment in your happiness and wellbeing?"

Arnan winced a little, feeling the convoluted path that the logic was taking; a little too much for even Gunner's ambulatory thought processes, perhaps. He offered a faint facial shrug, letting the pretence of guidance fall aside for a moment.

"My hypothesis? Tristan was trying to help you score a date with a girl you seemed attracted to, and then you hung up without making plans, or figuring out how you were going to talk to her again."

[Gunner Rodes]

"He was trying to help me!" Gunner confirmed, in an undertone of vindication.

That part had always been clear to him about Tristan, even against the contrasting light of his reprimand, but now it was starting to make total sense. He sat upright, suddenly, supercharged by this new information, and turned to face Dr. Jsorra. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees - a plea for them to work together to figure it all out. His finger tips tapped together in rapid succession as he drummed up the first of his new thoughts.

"So so so Tristan was upset that I didn't score a date?" He tried to imagine himself in Tristan's place, but that was too difficult. He rubbed his head vigorously in thought. "Ok, so you said he was invested in my happiness. If you make an investment in something, you want to see a return on that investment, and in this case, the return would've been me asking Kiimiti out on a date. But I didn't do that. I ended the call. All of the help he gave me had gone to waste."

He looked up now, searching Dr. Jsorra's face for a clue. His face was usually still, a placid lake of non-emotion, until it wasn't. Dr. Jsorra always knew when to be generous with his expressions. He was a very smart man, Gunner could see it in his eyes, they were sharp, and piercing, but soft, too, and gentle. He recognised that look: his intelligence was tempered with kindness, just like Dr. Kazall. Just like Dad. And there was something else that he recognised, too. It went unspoken, but rang as clear as a bell. A confirmation that lit the way for his thoughts to follow. He smiled, pleased with himself.

"I'm right, aren't I?" He waited for no response, instead he clung to his momentum, and ran with it, "Ok, so I should ask Kiimiti out on a date. We can go eat somewhere that serves Cizerack food, or human food, if she wants to try something different. I don't mind. I could bring her flowers, or a Shyriiwook dictionary. I bet she'd like that."

The afterglow of victory paled for a moment, as he considered something else, "I owe Tristan an apology. He helped me out and I let him down. I don't think he likes flowers. I'll get him beer instead. Yeah. I'll apologise to Tristan, first, then I'll get my dick wet."

[Arnan Jsorra]

There it was: the blossom of realisation across Gunner's face. It was moments like this that made the job worth it. It could be hard at times, brutal even, draining to watch people wrestle with their emotions and struggle with their trauma. Watching thoughts click together, though? Watching someone's face change as a new train of thought rewrote their concept of the world for the better? Of all the fields of medicine, mental healthcare was the one that perhaps offered the least tangible, visible results: you didn't see the satisfaction of watching a patient recover the ability to walk, or regain the ability to hear. You cherished moments like this, small and quiet victories, subtle contributions to a slightly better universe.

"I think that's a good call on the flowers," Arnan agreed with a sage nod. "There are exceptions, oddly sexist ones now I think about it actually, but in most cultures, a gift of flowers tends to convey a sense of romantic interest. Under the circumstances, I think that might be a confusing message to risk sending."

Or perhaps it wasn't. Arnan contemplated the possibility for a moment, regarding today's conversation from a new perspective. Certainly, Tristan Tahmores was someone in whom Gunner displayed a significant level of interest. While he portrayed it as platonic, the way he described his pilot, the way he fixated on details like his voice and mannerisms when he spoke about the man, it was an interpretation that certainly didn't seem to want for supporting evidence. From his own experiences, he knew that such realisations were difficult to understand, even when they occurred inside your own head. When you grew up in a world that raised you with certain expectations, it was all too easy to fall into the trap of classifying your feelings differently purely based on how your life had taught you to regard different genders. If Gunner's feelings towards Tristan really were of that nature, it would certainly explain a few things.

Arnan frowned, tapping his stylus idly against his notes.

"Do you often find yourself harboring romantic or sexual feelings towards your male coworkers?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

"Ssometjimess."

Kiimi held the glass of water in her lap with both hands, drumming her fingertips on its rim. She paused to take a sip, and lowered the glass again to still the bounce of a restless leg.

"Okajy. M-m-morre than ssometjimess. A lot. B-but not that jI'm thjinkjing about, jyou know, d-d-dojing anjythjing. jIt'ss therre jin mjy head, and then jit'ss g-g-gone."

Even now, the way Doctor Jsorra talked to her. The sound of his voice, slightly exotic to her. She quickly looked back at her water before a purr might betray another spontaneous flight of fantasy.

[Arnan Jsorra]

Arnan offered her a small smile, leaning forward encouragingly in his chair.

"And that's okay."

Kiimiti Taassaurra was a tricky patient to assist. Not complicated, but very easy to spook, and very prone to spiralling thoughts that span off at tangents based on her worries and insecurities. Her voice and body language at least made that somewhat easy to spot, once you'd got the hang of how emotions played out across Cizerack physiology. He wondered how much of it she was conscious of, and how much were nervous ticks driven by her subconscious of which she had no real awareness. Such would be something difficult to discover without challenging them directly, however, and provoking some sort of self-conscious reaction from the Preita'rrou.

Arnan let the stylus rest between his fingers, allowing himself to indulge in a nervous mannerism of his own, fingers idly fidgeting the implement. It was not for show, not fraudulent, and not something he drew explicit attention to: more a subtle relaxation of his efforts to curb such tendencies, a deliberate breach in his social defenses that allowed Kiimiti a glimpse of a shared affectation.

"I have helped a lot of the Cizeri -"

He stopped himself, deliberately, adjusting his features into a frown, artificially creating a modest opportunity for Kiimiti to bolster her confidence.

"I'm sorry. Is it Cizerack? Cizeri? Cizeracks? I've never been quite sure, and I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity to seek an answer from an expert linguist."

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

Grateful for the spotlight to shine somewhere other than her idle sexual daydreams, Kiimi's smile was almost one of relief, and she instantly calmed a bit.

"Cizeri jiss correct. Cizerack jiss morre forr ssjingularr orr p-p-prroperr usse, ljike a tjitle."

Ahh, I see what you did there. So she was aware of the little trick after the fact, but that was nice of him. Doctor Jsorra, what a nice guy. He probably liked to...

She blinked, then took another drink of water, using the swallow afterward as an opportunity to clear her throat.

"Excusse me."

[Arnan Jsorra]

It hadn't quite achieved the desired effect, but Arnan wasn't deterred.

"Well in that case, I've helped a number of the other Cizeri officers come to an understanding of other Alliance cultures, and how their attitudes towards sex, gender, and courtship function. Having urges and desires is a natural part of your culture. What the Cizeri tend not to realise is that they are absolutely a part of other cultures in the Alliance as well. The difference is usually between how cultures act upon those impulses, and as that is an active behaviour, it is far easier to make concessions there, than to attempt to affect thoughts that are nothing more than a cognitive manifestation of physiological reactions."

He let his features settle back into his usual smile. "In other words, Kiimi, you're already several steps ahead of your peers. Separating the impulse from the intention to act? That is exactly the right thing to do."

He pulled away, no longer feeling the necessity of his reassurance posture, instead settling back into something more overtly comfortable and relaxed, making full use of the lumbar padding in his seat. Interest in his notes was abandoned for now, but his stylus still continued to idly fidget subtly, as much by accident as by intent.

"Before we stumbled down this path, you were telling me about your comm encounter with -" For a split second, his notes were needlessly consulted. "- Flight Officer Roads. What made that different from your normal encounters with Alliance males? What about the exchange invited you to take that step from impulse to action?"

[Kiimiti Taassaurra]

The way he put his reassurance made Kiimi feel a little uneasy, and she shifted her weight on the couch slightly. Of course she shouldn't be going off on every idle deviant thought, but who did that anyway? Of course, there was a lot more to human checks and balances than in Cizeri culture, so maybe the intention was still good. Either way, being several steps ahead of her peers felt exhausting at times. She second-guessed herself enough around Cizeri.

Her ears perked - and her train of thought derailed - immediately when Doctor Jsorra mentioned Gunner.

"Oh. Well, um. He wjisshed me g-good forrtune."

She paused, amending her statement with a raised finger.

"jIn Cizeri, jI mean. He assked jif jit wass Ja irra korra'nai, orr Ja irra korra'rrou, b-b-but the wajy he ssajid jit, he wass pjitch perrfect - beautjiful."

Her raised finger had begun to busy itself twirling into her curly ringlets of blonde hair as she talked.

"He'ss a sself-taught p-p-poljyglot, er, that meanss he sspeakss manjy languagess."

[Arnan Jsorra]

Arnan offered a small but encouraging smile.

"Common interests are often a good foundation for a romantic endeavour," he conceded, words chosen as carefully as ever. "Though from the way you speak about it, it is not his ability to speak many languages that intrigues you, but rather his ability to speak your own. You yourself are fluent in an additional language - Basic - as are most of the non-humans on this station. Fluency in a second language is not in itself remarkable, and yet with this individual, you speak as if it is."

A thoughtful pause interrupted the Doctor's speech.

"Why do you think that is? Do you find it exceptional because he is human? Is it the novelty of him knowing your language, through choice rather than necessity? Does his ability to speak Cizeri imply that he might be receptive to other aspects of Cizeri culture, such as gender roles, making him a more viable candidate for romance than the average patriachy-born Alliance officer?"