|
A Fine Line
| |
| Aima·Cyllara | Date: Sunday, 02 Aug 2015, 2:32 AM | Message # 1 |
 Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 9
Status: Offline
| The stars danced outside her canopy; a brilliant filigree of blue and white and a steady, soothing hum.
Lieutenant Aima Cyllara was a quiet woman, and she enjoyed the solitude that hyperspace granted her. It afforded her something she eagerly sought but so rarely received, a reprieve from the sheer volume of her fellow pilots. Not that she didn't love her wing mates; in fact if anyone were to ask she would claim quite the contrary. But, like every mother with a litter of rambunctious cubs, sometimes you just needed time to yourself. The T-65 X-Wing's on-board hyperdrive was the driving force behind her championing so hard for the squadron to fly them as their fighter of choice, and for good reason. Another day spent aboard the Delaya, listening to Jad describe the minutiae of harvesting jogan fruit for the fifteenth time that month, would have led to a court-martial for sticking a spanner down the boy's throat.
Lost in the majesty of hyperspace, she found herself wishing it had been a longer journey as the navigation console signaled that the squadron was approaching their destination. With a heavy sigh, the Twi'lek reached out and disengaged the X-Wing's hyperdrive, watching impassively as the stars around her began to streak and reform, and soon her ship rocketed out of hyperspace. There was the familiar boom a moment later, and the other nine starfighters that comprised Thranta Squadron all exited their jumps in the space around her.
Before them loomed the Jolly Roger, a Fire-class cruiser drifting at sublight in the middle of uncharted space. It was a refueling stop and a brief R&R on their way back to the Alliance Fleet, and the Jolly Roger had agreed to their request for fuel and a brief respite. She wasn't entirely sure, nor did she really care what the ship was doing out this far. Outlaw, much like Thranta, was one of the ace squadrons that were often deployed on special or covert assignments. As such, most of their operational details were kept close to the vest.
"This is One," Captain Moorn's weathered voice picked up over comms. "Nice to have you all back. All wings, report in."
Grumbling, Cyllara flipped on her own channel and cleared her throat.
"Thranta Two, read you loud and clear, One." She took hold of the yoke and regained control of the craft from her R4 unit, pitching the X-Wing in the direction of the cruiser. One by one, the rest of Thranta Squadron sounded off, everyone had made it through unscathed.
"Form up, two-by-two, prepare for dock." Moorn issued the order.
"This is our RV point?" The voice, young and with a thick Dantoonian accent, was that of the youngest Thranta, Loras Derlin.
"We're not staying long, Ten," Moorn answered. "Cut down on comms traffic until we dock."
Humbled, the rest of the squadron remained silent, save for Tchikkataruk growling over his own channel. Aima settled back in her seat, watching disinterestedly as the Jolly Roger approached the haggard squadron. She would feel better once they returned to the fleet, she reasoned. She just hated being out this far; something about uncharted space just chilled her to the bone.
Lieutenant Aima Cyllara
Thranta Squadron.
|
| |
|
|
| Kyrum_Axford | Date: Monday, 03 Aug 2015, 0:44 AM | Message # 2 |
 Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 6
Status: Offline
| Kyrum just knew that Lieutenant Cyllara was already preparing her admonishment of him as it neared Thranta Six's turn to sound off. Kyrum had a talent for making the otherwise routine task of reporting in rather more interesting than it would otherwise be. That Cyllara didn't appreciate it only encouraged him, naturally.
"Thranta Three, reading you, One."
"Thranta Four, standing by."
"Thranta Five. Rai, here."
"Hey Jed, your brother was telling me the most interesting things the other day about jogan fruit."
"Come on, Ax..."
"Really, it's fascinating stuff. For instance, did you know if you wait until the tip of the jogan fruit is brown, it'll hold its flavor--"
"For the love of the Force! No more, please."
"Hey, I had to listen to it, so you do too."
"He's my brother, Ax. I guarantee you I've heard it before."
"Thranta Six, do you copy or not?" it was the Captain, and he didn't sound amused.
Kyrum winced. "Six here, I copy," he said. "Sorry, Cap."
"Thranta Seven?"
"Thranta Seven, standing by."
And so it went. Kyrum did not enjoy the solitude of hyperspace as Lieutenant Cyllara did. He hated to be alone with his thoughts, an all-too-common trait among spice addicts, or in Kyrum's case, recovering spice addicts. (He had prudently never mentioned his habit to his fellow pilots, telling them that he'd been expelled from Prefsbelt for flying with a woman in the cockpit of his TIE fighter.) After trying and failing miserably, as he customarily did, to make conversation with his R2 unit, Kyrum had spent most of the flight considering the idea of "Outlaw Squadron." And the more he thought about it, the less he liked it.
Not that he begrudged Captain Suul, or any smuggler, for trying to make an honest living, or a less-than-honest living as the case may be. As far as Kyrum was concerned, the decision to fight for the Alliance was one that everyone had to make for themselves, based on their own priorities in life. But surely it was an 'either/or' proposition. Outlaw Squadron tried to have it both ways; they fought for the Rebellion part time, and the rest of the time it was business as usual.
Alderaan had been sympathetic to the Rebellion, and it had paid a terrible price. But for Suul and his band of loveable 'outlaws,' there was no price to pay. Win or lose, they would come out of this war just fine, risking little more than the lives they'd be risking anyway in the smuggling business.
It wasn't like Kyrum to be so bothered by this. He was a naturally easy-going person. But the death of his wingmate Devra only a month ago had made him appreciate the sacrifices—real sacrifices—that people were making in this war in a personal way that even the destruction of Alderaan hadn't. There were plenty of Alderaanians in Thranta Squadron, and each of them was handling the loss of their homeworld in their own way. For Kyrum, perhaps it simply hadn't yet registered emotionally. After all, he had spent much of his adult life away from Alderaan, whether on Travnin, Prefsbelt IV, or Spira. But Devra had been only a wingtip away from him. Closer, in fact.
Kyrum shook his head and cleared his mind for the task before him, as he followed Rai's lead toward the Jolly Roger.
Ensign Kyrum "Ax" Axford
Thranta Squadron
|
| |
|
|
| Tiron_Suul | Date: Friday, 07 Aug 2015, 3:05 AM | Message # 3 |
 Ensign
Group: Users
Messages: 10
Status: Offline
| ((Before the events of To Each Their Own))
As the Jolly Roger closed the distance between Thranta Squadron and itself, the ship's captain, Commander Tarand Novastar was personally overseeing the docking operations. He was protective of his ship, it being his first command. While he had commanded for over a year now, he felt the assignment of Outlaw Squadron was some sort of punishment. An enjoyable one, but still punishment nonetheless.
The squadron was a group of smugglers and privateers that had previously worked for the Rebellion, who had signed up to become fighter pilots following Yavin. While the brainchild of the squadron's commander, Captain Tiron Suul, tt was supported by General Pharl McQuarrie, who was aboard the ship as the squadron's advisor and instrumental in getting the idea approved. Controlling a group of smugglers and privateers to act like a proper military unit that was still capable of conducting their old operations seemed as much a challenge as it actually was. While the Alliance's force regrettably lacked disciple, these pilots and the crews they brought with them seemed to be even more lacking.
The belief that Outlaw Squadron fought for the Rebellion part-time was a major misunderstanding, but likely a common one. The unease that many of the Thranta Squadron pilots felts in meeting the squadron of rogues was perhaps one commonly shared among the Alliance's starfighter pilots. The truth was that Outlaw Squadron served full time to the Alliance, only conducting smuggling and privateer operations part time, such as during down time when approved, when on leave, or when requested by the Alliance. Their vessels were also used in their missions as needed.
As Thranta entered the hangar, they would find it surprisingly roomy. The X-Wings of Outlaw Squadron, adorned in their unique gold and black color scheme, sat in the launch racks in the ceiling of the hangar, ready to launch at a moment's notice. Along the walls and the back corners of the hangar sat the various private vessels of the squadron; a YKL-37R Nova Courier, YG-4210 Light Freighter , Brayl-class Bulk Freighter, MC-18 Light Freighter, and YT-1760 Small Transport, in addition to 2 Lambda-class T-4a Shuttles and 2 Gamma-class ATR-6 Assault Transports which were their support craft. Despite the large amount of ships, there was plenty of room for Thranta to land on the flight deck.
On that deck, the pilots of Outlaw Squadron would be waiting, their crews and the crew of the Jolly Roger busy in the day-to-day operations of any hangar bay in the background. By the time the last Thranta was clearing the magnetic field, Commander Novastar would be descending in the turbolift at the rear of the hangar from the corridor within the main hull brace that ran the length of the ship. Most likely by the time the pilots of Thranta were out of their own X-Wings, Novastar would be standing among the Outlaws.
Captain Tiron Suul
Alliance Starfighter Corps
Commanding Officer, Outlaw Squadron
Captain of the Firewalker
|
| |
|
|
| Aima·Cyllara | Date: Friday, 07 Aug 2015, 3:30 AM | Message # 4 |
|
Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 9
Status: Offline
| "Your mouth ever stop moving, Six?" Aima rhetorically asked to the squadron as Thranta passed through the magnetic field, shutting out the vacuum of space. As any pilot does upon visiting a new flight deck for the first time, she allowed herself a look around as the squadron's X-Wings settled into a tidy and efficient landing on a reserved stretch of durasteel plating.
Her solitude was finally at its end, and no sooner had that sad truth set in for her that she felt the inexorable urge to stretch her legs. Her fighter's canopy de-pressurized, opening with that delightful Incom thrum. It had been too long since her feet were on solid footing, a tech wheeled the ladder over to her and Aima pulled herself free of the cockpit, descending in a fluid motion and letting her polished boots clack appreciatively on the metal beneath. Her eyes, so often described as colder than Hoth in the winter, cast themselves around the flight deck and paused on the custom-painted X-Wings.
Smugglers, she scoffed, slipping her helmet free and tucking it under her arm. Her lekku fell free and she coiled one over her shoulder, even with her custom helmet, they were grateful to not be chafed.
She was beautiful, as many Twi'lek were, but it was only ever apparent when the helmet came off. Shorter of build, with a well-muscled and athletic form that was hidden beneath her orange flightsuit. Were the helmet more comfortable and military tradition permitted it, she would wear it all the time. Aima never begrudged humans their fascination for her species, even though she felt no more alluring than the average human woman, but there was something unnerving about their wandering eyes.
Around her, the rest of Thranta had already exited or were exiting their own fighters, shaking hands and rolling shoulders, those rare moments where they were all in the same room together. She watched them present themselves to Outlaw Squadron in the sloppiest formation she had ever seen, and it took all her energy just to bite back a sigh.
"Surprised you're not used to it," a voice, calm and fatherly, said beside her. Aima half-turned, smiling over at Captain Moorn. He was the only one that ever really got to see her grin.
"You're too easy on them," she answered as they made their way over to their waiting hosts. "You seen these ones?" She cocked a thumb at the Outlaw's X-Wings, up on their launch racks. "Custom paint job, as if we needed more of a reason to hate these juma-heads."
"They're refueling us," Moorn cautioned. "Respect's due, Aima."
"Of course, sir," the LT replied, eyes snapping forward as they came upon their fellow pilots. One stern look from her, and the entirety of Thranta formed up into a much neater set of rows, five across.
"Commander, sir," Moorn started, standing at attention and flashing a salute, the rest of Thranta following a second later. "Thank you for having us."
Lieutenant Aima Cyllara
Thranta Squadron.
|
| |
|
|
| Kyrum_Axford | Date: Monday, 10 Aug 2015, 3:14 AM | Message # 5 |
|
Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 6
Status: Offline
| Kyrum had never thought it was fair that climbing down a ladder was the first thing they were expected to do after being off their feet for sometimes as many as twenty-four hours straight. But he knew not to simply jump out of his X-wing, either—only once did he need to find himself sprawled out on the deck to learn not to do that again. Even the notoriously stone-faced Lieutenant Cyllara had smiled on that sorry occasion (or, at least, it appeared to Kyrum from upside down that she was smiling). Instead, he'd devised his trademark method of sliding down the ladder, which satisfied his goals of looking cool and not hurting himself, respectively. This had taken some practice, however, which Kyrum had made certain that only his astromech had witnessed.
He pulled his helmet off and shook his head to let his blonde hair fall about the back of his neck as he took his first look around the immense hangar of the Jolly Roger. It occurred to him that the vast assortment of ugly in the hangar—the Brayl-class, the YT-something-or-other, and the MC-18 he was able to see—would be at home in any of the seedy, low-class spaceports he used to frequent on the swoop racing circuit. He had to glance up at the rafters to remind himself this was, in fact, an Alliance ship. Kyrum wrinkled his nose at the sight of the gold-and-black color scheme on Outlaw Squadron's X-wings, appearing as though he'd just smelled something unpleasant. It did nothing to dispel his perception of the 'Outlaws' as nothing more than play-actors profiting from Alliance largesse. Kyrum wondered if they actually used those X-wings, or if they were just for decoration?
But he didn't have much time to think about it, nor to stretch his legs, before he was expected to stand at attention. As usual, he seemed constitutionally incapable of doing so; whether he was looking around, scratching his leg, scratching his head, scratching his head with his helmet, attempting to spin his helmet on his finger or pretending to throw it like a grav ball, or mouthing the lyrics to 'Rotten to the Core (Empire's Crumbling),' or some combination of all of these things, he was either naturally-resistant to conformity, or simply had a short attention span. In neither case would his fidgeting be well-received by Lieutenant Cyllara as she was bemoaning Outlaw Squadron for being 'the sloppiest formation she'd ever seen.'
Once it seemed that the pleasantries were over, Kyrum pretended to wipe his nose with a gloved hand, conveniently covering his mouth as he said in his spot-on Darth Vader impression, "AT EASE, MEN!" With that, Cyllara's neat 2-by-5 formation began to disintegrate, with the pilots of Thranta Squadron going to mingle with the 'Outlaws' and no doubt debate the merits of an outlaw versus a thranta in a hypothetical fight.
Ensign Kyrum "Ax" Axford
Thranta Squadron
|
| |
|
|
| Aima·Cyllara | Date: Tuesday, 11 Aug 2015, 3:33 AM | Message # 6 |
|
Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 9
Status: Offline
| Thranta broke their line with a few scattered chuckles, many of them used to Ax's antics by this point. Aima did her best to hide the momentary lapse in her professional demeanor, a sneer flashing across her face for a moment before she composed herself. Her cheeks darkened to a ruddy blue as she witnessed her squadron convene with criminals; all posturing and hot air, comparing kill counts and recounting stories. Captain Moorn paired off to speak with the Commander, leaving her to deal with the squadron as she saw fit.
Her flightsuit chafed, and she had no patience to reprimand Axford for his gesture, however inappropriate it might have been. She didn't enjoy her job as the squadron's executive officer, after all. It afforded her little in the way of friendship when everyone was determined to be on their best behavior whenever 'Mom' was a around, a nickname they had bequeathed without her consent.
She accepted the loneliness that was borne of her role; in time she had even come to appreciate being the squadron's stone-faced, isolate shepherd. Let them joke at her expense, or act like fools when they should be representing what the Starbird on their helmets stood for. 'Mom' would always be there to remind them of it.
"You coming, LT? Gonna hit up the mess." One of the pilots, a younger Alderaanian girl named Rai, called out to her.
"Go on, Five," Aima answered with a set jaw, waving off the invite. She'd eat on her own, best time to review engagement dossiers.
Aima fussed with one of her lekku, watching as the squadron's other lieutenant--a Sullustan named Ryln--conversed aimlessly with one of the Outlaws. The Wookiee they called 'Chik' roared and chuffed in Shyriiwook, talking about ritual hunting or some such, and Aima made her way over to a stack of crates and set her helmet down. She shook free the cramped and tired muscles of her body, eager to shake the sluggishness that accompanied long space travel. She dropped forward onto one of the crates, palms positioning on an edge, and started doing push-ups. Before long her muscles began to burn, and the cold of hyperspace was dashed.
Lieutenant Aima Cyllara
Thranta Squadron.
Message edited by Aima·Cyllara - Tuesday, 11 Aug 2015, 1:46 PM |
| |
|
|
|
