Discovery Gaming Community

Pages: 1 2 3

After a long day of flights back and forth between Malta and Ouray, Sarita was glad to have a chance to stand on her own two feet. She had been taking lots of notes as of late; notes about the Xenos, notes about Fiorella de Marco, notes about future smuggling operations, notes about philosophy and personal accomplishment, and now, notes about Cobra himself. She made a habit of writing with pen and paper, finding it helped cement ideas into her memory better than typing at a holoterminal, and for the first time in years, her writing hand had begun to cramp.

Not that she would be willing to reveal her fatigue now, of course. The mooring procedures completed, she exited the Especulador and made her way to Ouray's hangar bay, receiving ugly looks but not so much as a word from every gruff nationalist she passed in the ramshackle metal halls. The sleek black respirator strapped tightly to her head, which fully covered her nose and mouth, immediately marked her as an Outcast, as someone whose uncanny presence was only barely tolerated. Here, of all places, that toleration was even more conditional than anywhere else. Sarita didn't mind; as she saw it, it was useful to have such an aura to outsiders. She didn't need to explain herself, or inform others of their place. The respirator said it all, most of the time.

Soon, however, she would have to speak for herself. The leader, as far as she knew, of the entire Xeno movement was meeting her in a few moments. She glanced down at her flightsuit, and readjusted her pistol holster on her hip when no one was looking. After a few deep breaths, she entered the hangar bay and waited for Cobra's arrival.

The hangar was a cacophony of noise and at every perceivable frequency. Hectic yells as a group of raiders shot out to go try their luck on any targets of opportunity. The hiss of welding plates into place, set to the tune of a constant drone resonating from somewhere deep in the base's bowels. Things were lively, to say the least.

Cobra had only just landed, delayed by inbound freighters loaded with supplies and facing some manner of malfunction. But he was an easy man to spot, if not for his distinct face then clearly the hair. Seeing his "guest" on approach, he pulled the canopy open and waved in her direction. When spotted, he went through the motions of removing his helmet and stashed it away neatly. Looking up again just in time to greet Sarita with a polite nod. Naturally, it was going to take him a few more moments to unstrap and get out. But for now conversation and direct observation of the controls was possible. "Welcome to Ouray, the proper piece of it. I trust you didn't have any trouble getting here?" In a way he seemed genuinely concerned, but his exact motivations were not so easy to determine and perhaps not as straightforward as the question.

Soon after asking this, he noticed that he had been stricken with a severe case of helmet hair. Immediately resolving to fix that while first impressions were no doubt already being gleaned. Not only of the surroundings, but himself. And even if the opinions of a "genefreak" bothered him little, looking dishevelled evidently bothered him.

Making her way up to Cobra's vessel, Sarita acknowledged him with a polite, but subdued, dip of her head—a more graceful version of the universal 'sup nod.
“Not at all. Every station's layout is different, but when you spend years living off-planet, you learn to intuit your way around anywhere.” In person, there was no hint of the hispanophone accent that came thru over neuralnet comms or in-space radio. Despite the slight muffling and tinniness of her voice as filtered thru the mask, she sounded like a true-blue Libertonian, with a bit of a middle-class Denver accent even. She spoke with a reserved confidence, befitting the soldier and negotiator that she was, not too assertive, aware of her surroundings and of her interlocutor's demeanor. She had clearly learned to speak both languages to a perfect degree of fluency, something rather unusual for any Hispanian.

The subtleties of the insurgent's self-grooming motions were not lost on the mercenary, but of course, she diplomatically said nothing. Standing on the floor of the hangar bay a few feet away from the nose of Cobra's fighter, Sarita did her best to keep a friendly but alert posture and facial expression. Naturally the cardamine respirator almost entirely hid the latter, but her cheeks were still visible, and if nothing else, even subtle physical cues would impact her business partner's perception of her. Cobra wasn't the only one who took first impressions seriously.

“If anything, it feels... homely, in a way, to see such industry among your men.” This statement was a lie, and they both knew it—Sarita was clearly viewed with apprehension or active disgust by everyone else around her right now—but she said it with a bit of self-aware humor in her voice. Her best attempt to break the ice, brushing gently against the elephant in the room (here, herself) without explicitly calling attention to it. She hoped that her business associate appreciated the tact, that it served to convey the exchange past the awkward opening phases into less choppy waters.

And convey it did, because he would spend no time dwelling on the obviously false but well intentioned ice breaker. Instead, he changed subject to something easier to digest. "Probably doesn't look like it on the surface. But the ship you're looking at contends with hardware produced by an oversized military-industrial complex. And in many ways it does better. Not having any regard for weak stomachs does a lot to improve combat effectiveness." There were at least a few holo-vids out there on the neural-net exhibiting exactly what he was talking about. With the most recent being footage taken during a particularly violent riot on Pittsburgh. A Rebel, much like this one, shot down an Avenger dispatched to secure the skies above all the civil unrest. Thereby prohibiting the LPI's hesitant but still underway response unit from arriving and quelling impromptu violence. The Government had of course been uncharacteristically expedient in denying the legitimacy of said footage however.

"Help me out? Securing or undoing the straps is a two person job." That much would have seemed obvious to anyone who'd ever been part of a hangar's crew. Had Ouray's own crews been a little less busy given the departure of raiders then someone else would have helped by now. From his seated and quite immobile position this would progress at a snail's pace, and he was at least partially curious about the nature of this visitor. The Outcasts were always talked up as instinctively understanding ships and their workings, but he was naturally going to reserve judgement on that count.

Sarita nodded and quickly grabbed hold of the fighter's wing, pulling herself up and shuffling her way across a ledge 'til she was adjacent the canopy. Her build, as best could be discerned beneath her flightsuit and the headshots Cobra had seen in her transmissions, didn't look particularly muscular or lithe, but looks were often deceiving. The Outcast was clearly a soldier, with reaction times and physical aptitude honed by extensive hand-to-hand combat experience.

Hardly a foot away from Cobra, she bent forward and began loosening and unbuckling the various latches that were too awkward for the Xeno to reach, instinct guiding her hands. The most recent common ancestor of Sarita's Rapier and Cobra's Rebel was built over eight hundred years ago, but even in the better part of a millennia's time, not much evolution of these essential internals had taken place. “Real leather for the seat. Imported from Guadalajara? I bet it's less expensive for your people than for the rest of Sirius.” As she asked, her eyes locked with Cobra's for a split second. In the cheap artificial lighting her irides looked black rather than brown, giving her masked face an uncanny look. The breathing filtered through her mask echoed in a similarly perturbing fashion. There were many reasons that outsiders viewed the Maltese with suspicion—regardless of circumstance, they always exuded an otherworldly aura.

“It seems like a nice ship, given what you have to work with.” The restraints were all released now, and to give Cobra the freedom to exit the cockpit however he wished, Sarita turned around and slid to sit on the nose of the ship just in front of the open canopy, legs hanging freely off the side and gloved hands planted palms-down firmly in place. Throughout the entire maneuver, her eyes were trained on Cobra, still space-black in the center.

She was watched with what must have looked like intent. And while he certainly provided no visible reaction and no comment, it was very much the case that he stared a little while she moved to sit. It was likely not intended to be suggestive but it did provoke an idle imagination all the same. Despite that, he refused to dwell and stood up to straighten out and carefully step out of the pilot's seat.

While his presence hardly ever come across as otherworldly, in a place like this it did seem like he was an enigma. At least on the outside, he appeared picture perfect. Well groomed, well mannered, and graceful when in motion. This was in absolute contrast to his far more simple peers that preferred to openly be as they were. No, this felt like the sort of man who would have worn a suit to work, the business kind and not for flight. It begged the question of why he was here, or perhaps more importantly how he got here.

With his feet on the base's flooring rather than the plating of the cockpit, he angled his head up to look at Sarita. His eyes were an oddly specific shade of blue, especially when observed for long enough under proper light. Almost as if hand picked somehow. Contacts could be quickly ruled out on closer inspection. "I hate to spoil a good impression. But that's not real leather. While I do appreciate the aesthetic of a leather seat, I don't appreciate the potential discomfort it can cause. And since I was never on good terms with the Commonwealth or whatever tinpot successor took its place, buying whatever they had to sell wasn't on my list of things to do." With this amused confession out of the way, he gestured for her to feel free about personally inspecting the interior of the ship.

"This was one of the first the workshops built. Some of the kinks they ironed out in the later batches were still present when I got it. Had to work them out myself, made lots of changes along the way. You can see for yourself." Evidently the foremost among those changes was the drastic swap of the controls he hinted at prior to this exhibition. From a cursory glance at another Rebel which was nearby and vacant, the interiors were so different it would have felt like Sarita was looking at two distinct iterations of the same ship. This culture of individualism seemed pervasive here. If only slightly outdone by the extreme dedication, bordering on fanaticism, to a shared goal.

The differences between his ship and the rest were not lost on Sarita. Leaders often felt the need to distinguish themselves as much as possible, so her thinking went, and from the paint on the wings to the idiosyncratic interior design, Cobra's fighter screamed 'special'. As for his correction, well...

“Ah. Excellent imitation, then.” Doing her best to suppress a sheepish look—as if it mattered much with her breather mask covering her mouth—she slid into the cockpit, resting one hand on her lap and raising her other to gently hover in front of the afterburner switch. While the fighter was entirely powered down, she still hesitated, perhaps out of uncertainty but more likely out of manners. “May I?” she inquired, peering down at Cobra.

Cobra nodded wordlessly, watching Sarita with amusement. Even the genefreaks had these human tendencies in them.

This final approval given, the mercenary's professional veneer finally cracked, and the genuine excitement of a gearhead presented with a unique machine took over, even if only partially and briefly. She flicked the afterburner switch to the 'on' position gingerly. Then off, then on again. Smooth, just enough resistance to give adequate tactile feedback, easy to build a reflex for. Ditto dials—gentle ticks at regular intervals, yet somehow it felt smooth, an uninterrupted gradient. The left and right panels were swapped from what Sarita was used to, but such alterations weren't uncommon, hell, her second Dagger she flew as a novice was like that. Stick not too far out, even with the non-adjustable seat and Cobra's arms being longer than hers, she could work with all of this...

Sarita blinked. It had been a full two minutes she'd been fiddling with inputs, or just sitting in silence, letting it all soak in. She closed her eyes, let her hands do the work for her, returning every moving part to its original position. Without opening her eyes, she jumped out of the fighter and landed upon the hangar bay floor on both feet. She took a breath and opened her eyes, quickly scanning until she found Cobra.

“It's not bad,” she said with a pleased tone in her voice. Sarita was only one Outcast, not the entire Maltese nation, but she certainly had a natural understanding of ships.

"Designed by Banner Defense Research in 292, I believe. Only saw full deployment in the subsequent decade after the Government decided it wanted a much faster and more aggressively inclined superiority fighter. Was eventually replaced by some interim design I can't remember the name of. It wasn't as well received, hence the rushed development of the Defender and its popularity. Still, the original version of this thing? It was in service during a pretty interesting time. Sector was still new, Houses still testing their limits, and travel taking much longer." This running commentary helped establish two things. One, being the lineage and pedigree of the original design. Two, that the design in front of Sarita was wildly different from its original intent. While the Xenos were definitely falling prey to the pitfalls of nostalgia despite fighting for a future. This was still being offset by adaptations specific to their methods and conditions. So if a future had to be pictured based on this ship alone, it seemed like a mixture of the old and the new. Hardened by immense opposition and working out severe shortages. Somehow still maintaining relative effectiveness with far more modern and well produced designs. Definitely an accomplishment.

"Still just generation one. We're working on a test batch to see if we can't make improvements." There was almost a hint of excitement to that statement. Like he simply couldn't wait to test out the new batch and see if it was any better than his personal refit. Maybe he was feeling competitive, wondering if he hadn't already solved those key design flaws himself using adjustments which were far too specific to him for widescale rollout. It might still get him some small amount of praise from the workshop technicians who would have potential solutions to work with. But then he changed the subject. "Thank you for the books by the way. The ones in Italian were helpful, I'm studying the language." That was a curious thing. A man in a cause centered around an inherent mistrust or anger with outsiders studying an extremely foreign language. Why was he bothering?

The sudden change in topic brought Sarita back to her typical professional mindset—as much as she'd love to talk shop with him, he was just a business contact, and a tenuous one at that. She wasn't here to offer constructive criticism or do their engineers' work for them.

“I'm glad you've found it useful. I never picked up much myself, to be honest. It hasn't always been so chic among my people. How long have you been studying?”

Sarita wondered briefly if his interest had anything to do with De Marco, but pushed the thought to the back of her mind. It was better to reserve judgment for now, and see what the real reason she was invited here was. Surely he didn't just want to exchange pleasantries like this, right?

That question was followed by hesitation. Not on account of wanting to lie but because he needed to actually give that some thought. How long had it been since he started studying the language with help from benefactors? Months? Close to a year? Probably something between those two points. "A few months now. Gotten good enough to hold a conversation and shrug off my own accent and pronounce things properly. For the most part anyway." While honest about that much, he was giving her no indication about his motivations for learning the language. She hadn't elected to ask, so he didn't reward that with an answer. A quirk of his nature she hadn't yet come to understand was that he would almost always answer questions directly. You only needed to be cautious enough to not ask anything you didn't want to know the answer to.

"Will that be all or was there anything else on your mind?" This was a subtle reminder that she could leave whenever she wanted. Otherwise, she was free to initiate any topic of conversation. And at least from his posture and tone, there was no indication that he would be uncomfortable with anything she may decide to talk about.

Pages: 1 2 3

Petitioner

Reeves

Petitioner

Reeves

Petitioner

Reeves

Petitioner

Reeves

Petitioner

Reeves