Raxus Prime's Open Orbit

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

When Ami-Lee Westar - or just Amy or Millie depending on people's and her own preference - had been picked up from Tatooine by the Galactic Alliance, thanks to a chance meeting with an old Rebel Alliance acquaintance, she had agreed to provide her assistance and expertise in exchange for getting off that forsaken sand pit. It seemed that her uncles were roped into service too, along with their old VCX-100 light freighter, the Tense Star. But they didn't get to stay together for long, as she soon found herself being assigned to the CR70 corvette with a skeleton crew on a swift refit mission. Mostly she was there in case they needed another gunner or doctor, since she was good at both.

She said little to the rest of the personnel throughout the journey, and kept to herself as much as she could. She didn't need to bond with anyone. Attachments complicated things. Friendships were two-way streets. And while she valued it, she didn't seek it with anyone who was Galactic Alliance. They were formed from the ashes of the Rebellion, which took her parents. That would always be something she held against them. But she hated them less than she hated the Empire or this new First Order. It was still a whole lot of Bantha poodoo. She decided once she was done here, she would walk away from the Alliance and their endless wars. She had done enough to repay for the favour of getting her off-planet once, as far as she was concerned.

As it turned out, her services were needed as a doctor when one of the crewmen managed to injure himself. She tended to him, using bacta patches and splint. Inflamation was minimal, plus the overall climate was quite cold, what with the most minimal effort spent on climate control systems. Apparently it wasn't needed for whatever mission it was they had planned for this ship. It was a good Corellian design, and she supposed a mostly salvageable ship like this was not something the Alliance could afford to waste or ignore. “Keep your weight off the leg much as you can.” said Amy, and she let the auto-suture seal the wound and clamp around the leg as its own bracer for the man.

“Thanks doc,” said the man, whose name Amy didn't even know, “when we're done here, I'll get you a round.”

“Just don't get yourself hurt again.” said Amy, impassive and ignoring any attempt at friendliness. She rose from her seat, leaving the man to rest on the bed for a while.

“Okay.” said the man, taken aback. She walked out of the medical bay, and glanced down the corridors that led to the bridge, frowning. What in the world were they planning to use this ship for? She only hoped it wasn't going to take her right into another full scale battle.

Kark.

Fel had completely forgotten etiquette. The open air between the two of them spoke volumes, though nothing was being said. If there was a 'worse' part than what the Admiral had mentioned, then it was the worst possible news. The spacer tried to take in the staggering numbers. Thousands? Thousands dead? He'd never experienced anything remotely like that in his life. Keeping five or six alive was next to impossible sometimes. He couldn't fathom a whole fleet. It wasn't something he was capable of doing, and suddenly he felt very small. What was he thinking, with this plan? Hoping to get himself killed? Trying to get hundreds of troops killed? His heart sank. But there was the open comm to consider.

Admiral... I'm so sorry, sir. What's our move? Your orders?

It was amazing to the smuggler how quickly he could shift gears. Upon mention of payroll, and Hargrave dangling the worm within easy biting range, he was thinking of the angles. Playing out the possibilities. This was win-win for him. If the Imperials (or First Order, whatever the fark they were calling themselves these days) had bothered to offer him the same chance, he would have been gone in an instant. But for the first time in a long time, he felt right about what he was doing, and where he found himself. There hadn't been too much talk of payroll before, but he liked the sound of it. And what's more, he knew that Hargrave knew, he liked the sound of it. There was no point in beating around the bush. And he didn't want to keep the flag officer waiting.

Absolutely, Admiral. I'll return your shuttle, and return to the 'Spear,' with your say-so, sir. I'll await your orders, and when you call, I'll be en route. If that's what you prefer... sir.

Keep... Keep the Blasphemy? A multi-millon-credit Corellian Corvette? He must've heard wrong. No way... no WAY the Admiral just gave him a ship. Galdaart leaned back in the chair at the comms station, and listened to the sounds of the vessel for a moment. She hissed and beeped, and if you listened just so, thrummed softly, almost imperceptibly. The spacer wasn't used to a ship of this size, and it was a little unsettling. What the hell would he do with it? How would he crew the fireblasted thing? Even with a skeleton crew, A CR-70 needed a dozen well-trained staff... He laced his fingers behind his head, and smiled, wondering what Karana would think of this. Likely shake her head and mutter something about selling ice to a Wampa.

First things first. The ship still required another few hours' refit, and he had to return a shuttle-craft. Maybe there's be time to try and fire off a deep-space wave to Draykon... see if he'd made good on his promises. And then there was Melia to contend with. She'd likely kill him, but that was for Dathomir to worry about for the moment. Oh man... she's likely in the brig.

These thoughts filled Fel's mind as he moved out, into the adjoining hall, aft of the bridge. The shuttle was only a few passageways aft, and one deck below. He'd be back aboard the Cryptwalker in half an hour.

He hadn't expected to see anyone here. Truth be told, his head was full of the future. Getting back to the Spear, making sure Melia didn't commit multiple murders, the prospect of finding Draykon, and then, home. And -- his mind was reeling over what he'd just agreed to. New ship (how the kriff to make it go?) but duties to be performed in exchange for said ship, which was really only on loa, since the plan would most likely result in the ship's demise. So THEN his mind starts spinning about how best to make the short time available with the CR-70 work to it's full potential... but then she spoke, and nearly frightened him out of his skin. He instinctively reached for his DL-22, which of course, wasn't there. Likely looked a right arse in that moment.

Fireblast, lady... you scared the critters outta me. He calmed, but then started really thinking about what she had said. If she had 'seen' him at the Max Sec on Aargau, was she with Imp Spec Ops? Was she an assassin? The hallway was suddenly very empty, and too long. His demeanor changed, he was caught, dead-bang. If she was going to end him, there was little he could do to stop her. He straightened, cracking his neck. What do you want?

Her eyes went right to his hand which was moving as if to draw a sidearm, and thusly she responded almost as quickly, except she did have guns. Two of them, in fact. She had them trained on him when she finally noticed that he had no weapon, and she arched an eyebrow. Clearly he was used to having a weapon with him. One that he carried so often it was literally a part of him, so much so he instinctively thought it to be there. It was probably just as well that he didn't have it then. Amy noted that he was a fraction faster than her and if it came down to a quickdraw, chances were high she would have lost. She also noted how jumpy he seemed.

Holstering her WESTAR-34 and Glie-44, she watched him change his demeanor and cocked her left eye at him. She shrugged, "Jus' sayin' hi, I s'ppose." said Amy, "I was an inmate too, on Aargau. Saw you a few times, here'n'there. Sorry 'bout the drawin', but you were reaching for a sidearm. Ami-Lee Westar. You can jus' call me Amy or Millie, whichever you prefer. How'd you get out?"

Amy of course got lucky, and found her escape route, but she wasn't sure why she was so drawn to the man before her, in the sense that he carried a sense of intrigue that had her wondering, and wanting to know.

Interesting. He identified her by her full name. He was either being supremely professional, or impersonal, or both. Or he was just speaking her name aloud to remember it in full. Some people did that. She was also intrigued with how he essentially turned the tables on her by questioning her while giving her absolutely nothing. Not even his name. Maybe he was like the Firrerrans. They were quite particular about revealing information about themselves.

Quirking her lips upwards ever so slightly, she shrugged again and said, "Saw an opportunity for escape an' took it. Always a way if you're payin' attention. An' yeah, sort of. I'm a doc. Got steady hands." She raised both arms partway, showing him the back of her palms.

He wouldn't have recognized her outfit, since she wasn't dressed like an actual Alliance member. Though she dressed neatly, her attire was of civilian fashions. She had a black-on-white collared dress shirt, with comfortable blue trousers that flared a bit halfway along her shins to the ankles, covering most of her combat boots. Her blasters were strapped to either thigh in full holsters, with pockets up to her belt with spare clips. The belt itself held numerous pouches filled with various things, including a completely foldable duster, which was more of a added fashion item than for any particularly useful protection against the weather or firepower.

Nodding her head, she started walking in the direction he was last heading before she stopped him, "Sure, walking's good, so they say."

She made sure to keep pace with him, so she wouldn't end up leading or following, "Hargrave's a good enough man. Rides the people hard, sometimes, but not without a good reason. So you're the captain of this ship, then?"

He didn't strike her as the kind to sign up with the Galactic Alliance or to join up for a cause of this magnitude. But what did she know? She made no secret that she was very curious about him, and she openly studied his behaviour, movement, and attire.

As they made their way along, Amy noticed more peculiarities or curiosities about the man. He was brushing his hand against bulkheads, but he didn't seem upset. More...interested? It was as if he was listening to the ship. Perhaps he was Corellian like her. It had been so long since she'd been to the planet of her birth. She honestly wasn't sure she was a Corellian anymore. She refrained from grinning insufferably at him when he said he was a custodian rather than captain. He was most definitely a captain. If not this ship, then another. She had travelled around long enough with her uncles to know ship captains. They gained a certain manner about them. Of course, she could be wrong entirely in her reading of him and his few answers. She thought she[/is] was laconic, but this man was borderline functional mute.

"Just for the time being," said Amy, answering his query, "maybe longer, if I like it enough."

She bent down and gently scooped up some severed wiring, looking at it wistfully, "She took a beatin', but she'll keep on goin'."

At the sound of the chime the blonde woman looked up at the man and pursed her lips thoughtfully, then nodded, "Everybody needs company at some point or another," she said in a husky tone. "I'll be here. Maybe take a look around some more, see who else I meet who isn't repair crew."

She hooked her thumbs into her front pants pockets, and looked at him a moment longer, then smiled, "You're an interesting person. Hopefully I'll see you again soon, if you ain't tired of jawin' with me." She turned and started walking back the way they came, paused, and turned to look at him, "Or if you ever need patchin' up. Get the feelin' you require that a lot."

She didn't mean just the physical wounds. But she left him to consider what she meant by that exactly as she walked out of sight.