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A Galaxie Far Far Awaye

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"Pirates to you," Face said, doffing his hat in an admittedly devilish fashion.

"And bleeding pirates to you," Phanan replied, most gentlemanly. His appearance was, in fact, the more obviously piratical of the two, with the eyepatch over a mechanical replacement, highlighting the contrast between the living flesh and the alchemically-mended metal covering his previous war injuries.

"What are the two of you on about?" Tyria asked, raising one eyebrow as she walked into the aviators' leisure room, tucking her feet underneath herself on one of the nerf-hide chaise-longues as she regarded the two of them with well-hidden amusement.

"Our Fearless Leader," Face explained, "has asked us to examine the available evidence in order to deduce what Warlord Zsinj may be planning in his next attack against the Republic."

"Yes," Tyria said, under her breath. "I was in fact at the briefing this morning, thank you."

"And Piggy muttered something about pirates before leaving at a great rate of knots," Phanan continued smoothly, "so we were wondering-"

"You were poking fun," Tyria interrupted, with quite unfair accuracy, Face felt. His expression gave nothing away, as always - he was clever too a charlatan for that, but she could tell.

"You wound me," he told her, flourishing his hand over his heart in demonstration.

"I'm quite sure you'll live," she said. "Now, if the two of you are done with your posturing, Cubber is looking for you in the hangar."

"Whatever for?" Phanan asked, his human eye sparkling with suppressed humour. For all that he was a product of science and alchemy equally as much as his own original biology, there were some regards in which he was near Face's twin.

...not quite, of course, as that would make certain elements of their relationship rather distressing. But the similarities were certainly there. Like attracting like, and all that. Tyria's Jedi abilities, her sensitivity to matters alchemical was small, perhaps, especially in comparison to some, but sometimes looking at Ton Phanan made something in the back of her skull tingle. He was human still, oh yes, but he smelled of solvents and magic and that was not common enough throughout the galaxy for it not to be remarkable.

"I believe there are some problems with the s-foil actuator on your X-Wing, Face," she said. "Some kind of pressure leak. I think Cubber would like your help in sweet-talking the Incom gnomes in the pneumatic system; they are awfully fond of you." She shared an eyeroll with Phanan at that. Sometimes it seemed like most of the galaxy was sweet on Garik Loran; thankfully she'd gotten over the remnants of her crush quickly enough. Kell was a far better match for her in many regards.

"And I suppose I'm the moral support, and medic in case of catastrophic gear failure?" Phanan said.

"Got it in one," Tyria said. "Now, scoot. You were due in the hangar at oh-twenty-five hundred."

Face tugged a loop of chain out of the pocket of his flightsuit vest, flipped open the lid of his chronometer, and blanched.

"Must run," he said, and looped his arm around Ton's, grip firm on his biceps, almost as if in preparation for a gentlemanly stroll. Although the clip at which the two of them set off could really more charitably be described as a run. Face was almost dragging his wingman, which meant that they were both expecting to be upbraided for some kind of prank in the near future and were thus hedging their bets by being as obedient as possible in the interim. They were almost predictable, in that respect.

Tyria settled her goggles more comfortably on top of her head, shifting them so the straps kept her hair flat and out of her face. She turned to the bar at the back of the room and called, "Squeaky? I'll have a fruit fizz, please."

The gold-and-silver plated 'droid moved with a hiss of steam from his joints, reaching for the smooth bottle above the bar. "As the lady wishes," he said, and the Tibanna gas lamps illuminating his eyes glowed briefly in acknowledgement.