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She pondered for a moment, shifting her weight from her left foot to her right and back again.
“I'm impressed you've made such good progress in that time. Maybe you have a natural aptitude,” she offered. It seemed more sincere than an attempt to butter him up, but the conversation was clearly hitting that point where two reserved people who are careful not to expose more than necessary find it mutually difficult to progress. But after a brief thought, she interjected again.
“Have you ever flown a transport, Cobra? I imagine you've seen many a Gull's bridge, but perhaps under more rushed circumstances.” Though Sarita hadn't expected to be offering him a tour of her Aspis, it seemed he wasn't averse to establishing friendlier relations, or exchanging knowledge. Might as well capitalize on this.
That question was answered first with a nod and then elaborated on with words. He'd flown a lot of things over the years that he'd been with the Alliance. From dingy interceptors to mil-spec gunships and everything between the two. "When I first volunteered I was assigned to a convoy group that ran between Kepler and Colorado for supply runs. Pretty rough gig. I would have stayed there too if not for the Commander of that era. She decided I was better behind the controls of a fighter rather than some glorified quartermaster. So yes, I've flown transports." Having answered this, he squinted his eyes at her thoughtfully. "Are you inviting me aboard your ship, signora Ybañes?" Clearly clever enough to put two and two together. Save for those occasions where he wanted people to think less of him to achieve unseen ends.
Even though that was a question, he answered it before she could by gesturing for the exit which would lead them to the mooring tubes. "Lead the way."
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As they walked through the ramshackle station, Sarita turned her head ever so slightly to the left, not really looking back at Cobra, more politely acknowledging that it might be difficult for him to hear her while she was in front given the noise of the hangar bays and loading docks. “Kepler and Colorado wasn't such a long run, but I suppose the patrols of other groups might make it meaningfully more difficult for you. Of course, now with the dark matter storm...” She realized a moment too late that perhaps she hadn't been the most tactful just now, but it was already done with, and they were already at the airlock that would lead them to the inside of the Especulador.
“The air inside the ship is hospitable enough to me. I doubt it would pose a risk to you, but as you're a cardamine non-user—I believe—I'd offer you the courtesy of a filtration mask if you deem it necessary.” The slightest hint of amusement came through in her voice; given the nature of their business relationship, it was an ironic proposition, but she had no interest in antagonizing the terrorist. After all, he and his men had been good business thus far. While waiting for his reply, she pulled the lever which opened the first airlock gate, revealing the loose metal tunnel connecting the loading deck to the cargo hold of the transport. Only two-point-five inches of steel between the both of them and hard vacuum, and a good six feet to the second airlock door.
He sighed and shook his head at yet another cheeky assertion of consuming Cardamine. "Filtration mask, please. I prefer being me with no strings attached." Since he wasn't going to take a step further without said mask, his acquaintance had no choice to comply. And once provided with what he asked for, he tried to place it on his face neatly and did a good enough job of it. Not taking safety for granted, he first checked to see if the thing even worked. Which if it did, he'd signal to her by hand rather than words as if underwater.
"Go on then." Almost eagerness in his tone that time. In truth, there were several things he wanted to see on a ship of this scale. Techniques and methods of fabrication which he could note down for replication in the workshops later. His brain was racing in anticipation of the potential inspiration yet to come and the burden of making mental notes that wouldn't be swiftly forgotten. He knew the Outcasts would never be inclined to pay forward favors for free, and he'd never seen the inside of any of their larger vessels. Until now.
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When he was satisfied, Sarita led the way into the cargo hold of the Aspis. It was very roomy, certainly a far cry from the typical maintenance equipment-strewn holds of your average smuggler's freighter, with starkly-lit steel internal walls shining down upon a pristine floor with naught but the chevron-shaped markings typical of industrially-produced plating for features. At the far end from where they stood was another airlock, and a few security cameras equipped with automated laser defense systems idly scanning the interior of the imposing hold. Whatever one could say about the mercenary's ethics, it was clear from the pristine condition of the vessel that she ran a very tight, organized ship.
“Fortunately, there will be no awkward interactions with more-or-less monolingual hispanophone crew members. Some simple algorithms control the turrets, in the rare case I find myself intercepted, and aside from a silent droid or two I get to enjoy the peace of the void. Of course, if I'm headed through rough space, I can always hire some temporary additional hands,” she explained as she led him thru the second airlock. Past it lay a stairwell, made of the same barebones sheet metal as the cargo hold but with some smooth handrails along the walls. It was wide enough to allow a person or robot to carry about one crate's worth of goods thru the stairwell, but no more.
As they exited the stairwell and entered the bridge, they were met with a surprisingly comfortable, if simple, area. Genuine wooden paneling rest snugly atop the metal superstructure, with a large, comfortable rug adorned with traditional secular Maltese iconography covering roughly the left third of the floor. A small burgundy-colored synth-leather couch sat atop it, big enough for three people to comfortably sit or one to lay down, along with an oak coffee table and a small bookshelf. The CIC and control section was remarkably straightforward—a typical metal-and-synth-leather swivel chair, typical for large transports, was quite firmly bolted to the floor, and while the control scheme was large enough it might perhaps be ideally operated by two co-pilots, it wasn't so overbearing that a single caffeinated captain (or sober Outcast, given their superhuman reflexes) couldn't operate it effectively on their own.
At the far end of the bridge, foot-thick pseudoglass windows reinforced with titanium supports revealed the dreary rocks of the Silverton field, a sight Cobra was surely all too familiar with. On the right wall, closest to them, was a small shrine atop a simple table made of some unknown wood, likely native to Malta, complete with two sets of candles, one orange and white and the other set black, green, and gold. On the whole, a very comfortable atmosphere, though likely far more luxury than most Xenos had ever been accustomed to.
The moment his eyes caught view of the genuine wood paneling he couldn't restrain himself from expressing what was on his mind. "A very Libertonian design choice." There was the unspoken symbolism behind him seeming to deliberately tread over the rug riddled with symbols endemic to the Outcasts. One key thing stood out from his end however. He didn't seem impressed. There was nothing technologically marvelous that would force him to start taking notes. No grand revelations in terms of design or ergonomics. Just a spectrum of opulence he was all too familiar with and felt was drab on account of the overexposure.
"Think this place would feel more lively with an actual crew. You probably go insane from isolation on a long-haul especially between Ouray and Malta." He was almost curious how she managed. He was well aware of people's tendencies and quirks, especially his own. Violence and conflict were routine, and if those two were removed for long enough he was almost certain he'd start to unravel. Even with their relatively inhuman behavior, it was clear to him that the Outcasts were still subject to human nuances. It was why they still cared for art and expression. So what made his acquaintance tick?
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While the fact Cobra was of a different breed than the rest of his comrades was far from lost on Sarita, his visible nonchalance—disappointment, even—with her vessel was unexpected to her. What was he expecting exactly?
“On the contrary, I rather enjoy the quiet. It gives me time to read, to pray, to reflect, to practice.” Cobra tilted his head a little, and, sensing his confusion, she quickly turned to the side, a non-threatening 90° from him, and in a flash of robotic motion almost invisible to the eye, she was in a combat-ready posture. Her hip holster was empty, with both arms at a relaxed bend, gloved hands holding some unfamiliar design of sidearm perfectly straight out in the air.
After the silent explanation, she returned to her previous position almost as swiftly, and finally went to unstrap her cardamine mask. Her face had more lines on it than one would expect from a typical woman of her apparent age, but she was no typical Sirian—even aside from the long lifespans of the Outcasts. Her mouth and cheeks bore a gentle smile, seemingly indicating that she thought little exceptional about the display.
“One finds ways to keep oneself occupied, and is grateful for the serenity which is so rare to come by in the sector regardless of occupation.”
Wordlessly, he processed everything she'd just told him. There was no real hint of what he was thinking, save for those cases where he made it obvious, it was always ambiguous. Something about that aspect of his nature came across as more of a defense mechanism rather than any attempt at trying to conceal an ulterior motive. "I can appreciate some quiet time myself, especially considering how much noise people love to make. Only problem is that too much quiet and for too long starts getting louder than the people ever could be. Long hauls with nobody else onboard really isn't for me." He had turned and taken a few paces around the room they were currently in while speaking. It seemed he was looking for any hint of personalization or evidence that this space was lived in. Books, pictures, a journal - just anything that carried a reflection of life in it.
"Personally, I'm grateful when life decides to break well preserved monotony." Upheaval, he must relish it. To watch as an intricately designed plan failed entirely on account of a random variable that nobody could anticipate. Sometimes he was that variable, but he wouldn't take credit away from the constantly evolving equation that was the Sector at large. That would just be in poor taste. While he seemed comfortable here aside from the mask, Damien was regarding his acquaintance with some degree of apprehension. He didn't believe Sarita was being entirely transparent - no Outcast ever was to an outsider. And in that regard, with perhaps a small selection of other traits, they were more alike than either would care to admit.
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In his more detailed examination, his attention might be drawn to the altar at the starboard side of the bridge. The wooden table that served as the structure for it all had a lower shelf, just above the floor, with several leather-bound books and assorted religious paraphernalia on it. At the other side of the room, on the coffee table, was a book in English—a political history book, covering the evolution of Bretonia-Kusari relations and the Tau war that took place over a decade ago. While the bridge wasn't stuffy, it seemed Sarita had almost an obsession with keeping everything in her living quarters thoroughly orderly.
“In that regard, then, we are quite different. Breaks from the norm are good, healthy even, but I prefer to be the initiator there. Perhaps that's why I initiated this series of transactions between us rather than the other way around.” She smiled a little more broadly, ever playing the polite-but-distant acquaintance. Yet her words seemed inviting, as if she was unwilling to discard the façade on her own but was open to a shift in dynamic if Cobra would plainly pursue that route. In this, she was subtly taking the initiative herself, and she imagined her acquaintance would pick up on it.
He shot occasional glances in her direction, momentarily distracted by the collection of books which he ran his fingers over. Stopping randomly on one of the leather-bounds, he pulled it free and raised it to his nose, as if to enjoy the smell of an aged book. But he realized he couldn't - not with the mask on. With a little awkwardness at that realization, he placed the book back where it belonged and turned to face Sarita directly. "Fine. I'll drop the act if you will." Damien asserted those words by pointing a finger at nothing in particular, possibly just the floor where she was standing, it signified absolutely nothing and was done simply because it felt appropriate under the circumstances.
That apprehension from before was replaced by anticipation now. It was genuine, conveyed by both simple body language and the look in his eyes. At the forefront of this new demeanor was curiosity. What was her endgame for behaving frankly? To have him drop his guard? Achieve some agenda? Or was it simply a matter of choice? He hoped she'd supply truth to dispel all the doubt. But if she didn't then he'd hardly be surprised given the nature of her kind.