2022-03-10: Pizza Up Our Sleeves

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<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

The time for banter is growing short. In a few days, the Sleeves will be making their move on a Federation shipyard.

As much as Palau is just a misshapen mining asteroid repurposed into a rebel hideout, there are places that are livable enough. Like this one - a common space that seems like it used to be some sort of control room before all the equipment got pulled out. It's been repurposed with tables, chairs, and a few propaganda posters - and of course, a small cooking area and a wide window overlooking a dock area down below, where several Geara Zulus are lined up and being worked on.

How many of them will live when this is all said and done, Saraven wonders.

She's standing at the overlook window, one hand on the glass pane. The other's holding an opened can of Space Punch!, still cool. A few more sit in a small fridge at one side of the room, joined by a basket of snack foods and a couple of pizza boxes. Apparently someone went to Riah for a pickup.

"...I'm glad there are a few more of us now," she finally says out loud as she turns away from the window and migrates toward the best-smelling thing in the room: The pizza. She stacks a slice atop a paper plate. "I hope everyone has been settling into Palau alright."

It occurred to Saraven that she didn't know many people in the Sleeves' upper echelons all that well. The offer of pizza might help. 

<Pose Tracker> Krontil Zjekertlan has posed.

"It was a strong first showing, back in this part of space," says a voice from the door. "It must have done a great deal to galvanize the people who remember Zeon fondly!"

Krontil emerges from the hallway and practically marches up to the pizza. He's hauling his own contribution to the get-together, depositing a battered old footlocker next to it, undoing the latches and swinging the top open. Inside, the treasure is...

Chicken wings. Lots of chicken wings. A label slapped onto the outside marks it as being the product of a farm somewhere in the colonies, with a logo that looks like a chicken wearing a cartoonish Glaug's outer plating. Krontil probably knows a guy from back in the day. Despite having come back from a stint on Mars, he still has connections in weird places.

"A proper contribution to a gathering of this type!" Krontil declares. Nonetheless, he acquires his own plate and pizza, chuckling to himself. "Palau has a nostalgic feeling to it. I wonder if it can ever really be 'settled into' by people like us."

<Pose Tracker> Trevor Teach has posed.

SOMEONE HAS SPIKED THE SPACE PUNCH!!

Really, someone has spiked exactly one cup full of Space Punch!, and it's their own cup of Space Punch!!

Trevor Teach, vaguely infamous piratical type whose dread renown has only just begin its climb in the inner solar system knows that a proper pizza party just isn't right if it doesn't have at least one alcoholic beverage on hand. It's a terrible mystery of space where he managed to find that keg of space vodka, but it probably involved at least one black market deal and a couple of customary good-natured shootouts. Either way, it sits in the corner with a tap screwed in, ready for someone to pull a draft.

He's terribly comfortable lounging around in Palau's somewhat rough interior decor. The whole ramshackle rebel asteroid base is exactly his aesthetic. "I've got a pretty good feeling about our chances," Trevor says between pizza bites. It doesn't have the ozoney, 'cooked over a minovsky furnace' aftertaste that he's used to, but it's pretty good!! "Especially if ZAFT actually shows up, and if Frontal actually listened to the suggestions I stuffed under his door." He's-- probably kidding?? "Heh, but those Feds are a pretty gung-ho group...! Well, it'll be something to look forward to--"

The door opens! There's... a chicken wing locker!? And more importantly, there's a familiar Zentran!? "You're..." Trevor blinks slowly, "Uncle Krontil? I had no idea you were over in this part of space...! When was the last time...?"

The Vestan Vultures have quite a few old Zentrans among their number. It looks like their young pilot might be acquainted with a few old war heroesvillainsscallywags...?
@emit The pizza, to be fair, is a tempting invitation to even the most grizzled of veterans. It is, perhaps, highly deculture.%r%rSaraven shifts her can of Space Punch! to a secure spot between the crook of her elbow and the side of her body, freeing that hand to let her take a bite of pizza. Curious eyes follow Krontil - a man she's at least heard of. Mars can be a small world like that.%r%r"You will have to thank Ensign Puppers," she comments. "He was kind enough to bring the pizzas back. Fat Uncle's does not exactly deliver to Zeon's Secret Base." It might be a joke, if her tone weren't so flat.%r%rSaraven's Space Punch! comes from a can entirely because she's eighteen and not technically old enough to drink. She is, however, old enough to take a couple of chicken wings. She gives one a curious look, as if she's never seen a chicken wing before. Or at least, not in a long time.%r%r"...Is that what comes in a Macro Meal," she asks. "I have heard about it."%r%rWith a cant of her head towards Trevor, the young woman nods slowly. "I think we have a very good chance of success. The attacks recently have been aimed at pulling Federation patrols away from Luna. When we attack the Amman shipyard, that should significantly weaken their response. We will still encounter resistance, but they will be expecting us to attack from outside, and...."%r%rSaraven trails off before blinking and looking down at the pizza. "...I was supposed to not talk about work," she murmurs.

<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

The pizza, to be fair, is a tempting invitation to even the most grizzled of veterans. It is, perhaps, highly deculture.

Saraven shifts her can of Space Punch! to a secure spot between the crook of her elbow and the side of her body, freeing that hand to let her take a bite of pizza. Curious eyes follow Krontil - a man she's at least heard of. Mars can be a small world like that.

"You will have to thank Ensign Puppers," she comments. "He was kind enough to bring the pizzas back. Fat Uncle's does not exactly deliver to Zeon's Secret Base." It might be a joke, if her tone weren't so flat.

Saraven's Space Punch! comes from a can entirely because she's eighteen and not technically old enough to drink. She is, however, old enough to take a couple of chicken wings. She gives one a curious look, as if she's never seen a chicken wing before. Or at least, not in a long time.

"...Is that what comes in a Macro Meal," she asks. "I have heard about it."

With a cant of her head towards Trevor, the young woman nods slowly. "I think we have a very good chance of success. The attacks recently have been aimed at pulling Federation patrols away from Luna. When we attack the Amman shipyard, that should significantly weaken their response. We will still encounter resistance, but they will be expecting us to attack from outside, and...."

Saraven trails off before blinking and looking down at the pizza. "...I was supposed to not talk about work," she murmurs.

<Pose Tracker> Krontil Zjekertlan has posed.


Pizza is a weapon the miclones didn't even properly appreciate they were deploying until it had already claimed its first victims.

Krontil is quick to laugh at what seems like a joke, even if it's delivered totally flatly. He's that kind of person. He's also fairly infamous on Mars for the same reason he's infamous everywhere: he's practically ancient as far as veterans go, and he shows no signs of slowing down, even if -- once a conflict has been thoroughly decided -- he tends to disappear and reappear in someone else's space navy. Down in the hangar below, though, the familiar red armor of his Barzam II is being unpacked...

"Indeed! Please, dig in! It is a donation from an old comrade of mine. Superb for morale!" He adds a few of the wings to his plate, making a vaguely messy pile of gradually combining foods. It doesn't seem to be bothering him at all. He's just about to dig in when the vaguely disbelieving tone of the other talkative type in the room triggers recognition, and --

"Trevor? Trevor Teach!" Krontil looms large, reaches down, and claps him on the shoulder. "It's been an age! I only returned from Mars just recently. If I'd known you were going to be here, I would have brought you a souvenir! How old are you now, eh? Did they finally find a normal suit in your size?"

He casts a glance at Saraven, his grin not at all fading. "It is why we're here. We couldn't *not* talk about it, eh?"

<Pose Tracker> Trevor Teach has posed.

Pizza is the ultimate dish. It is perfectly flat and disc-shaped, which is incidentally the same shape as the Solar System! Which means, obviously, it is cosmologically ordained to be the Best Food...!

"Ensign Puppers... What a good Puppers...!" Trevor says with exaggerated solemness, "Hmph, what a world we live in where space pizza delivery service doesn't serve anyone and everyone. They need to be sworn to an oath of secrecy, I say! Pizza for all!"

He poses! With the pizza. He might be imitating someone on one of the propaganda posters plastered on the walls of the miniature canteen... But it's soon ruined when he shoves what's left into his mouth in one big ol' chomp.

He should probably save room for these unusually fresh wings. "Did you get dipping sauce? Do we have dipping sauce?" Trevor looks over to Saraven. Space Ranch, perhaps...?!

"Hmph, I'm not as small as I used to be," he bristles in the timeless manner of someone who is absolutely still on the small end compared to his (zentran) friends and family. "Eh, twenty-ish? You know how time gets out on the rim. What's a year even anyway?" Trevor grins, throwing an arm 'round the miclonized Zent. "It's good to see you again. I'll have to let the captain know we ran into each other! What've you been up to? Get into any good brawls?"

"Ah don't worry about it," Trevor waves a chicken wing lazily Saraven-ward, "Work, play, it's all fine. It's only a problem if you let it get you down, and walking on eggshells all night isn't going to be much fun. We'll just go where the winds of conversation take us, yeah?"
@emit Miclones are good at finding military applications for the unexpected. Luring Zentradi with pizza is just one of them.%r%rSaraven's demeanor could easily be read as a very dry humour, if one doesn't know her that well or watch her for that long. She looks down at her plate before taking another bite of pizza, as if it could distract her from the moment of embarrassment. These things bother her more than they should, even if it's hard to express it.%r%rWhen she looks up, her eyebrows rise slightly, the closest she gets to surprise. "...I didn't realize that you two knew each other."%r%rTrevor asks a pointed question, and Saraven moues her lips. "The status of the dipping sauce, I'm not sure about. The delivery service is because it is slightly tactically bad for us to call a civilian and ask them to deliver to Zeon's Secret Hideout. But I suppose that is Commander Full's call to make."%r%rPicking up the chicken wing, Saraven gives it a pensive look. She puts both her plate and drink down to bite into the chicken delicately. Her eyebrows go up just a little.%r%r"Spicy," she murmurs, cheeks going slightly pink.

<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

Miclones are good at finding military applications for the unexpected. Luring Zentradi with pizza is just one of them.

Saraven's demeanor could easily be read as a very dry humour, if one doesn't know her that well or watch her for that long. She looks down at her plate before taking another bite of pizza, as if it could distract her from the moment of embarrassment. These things bother her more than they should, even if it's hard to express it.

When she looks up, her eyebrows rise slightly, the closest she gets to surprise. "...I didn't realize that you two knew each other."

Trevor asks a pointed question, and Saraven moues her lips. "The status of the dipping sauce, I'm not sure about. The delivery service is because it is slightly tactically bad for us to call a civilian and ask them to deliver to Zeon's Secret Hideout. But I suppose that is Commander Full's call to make."

Picking up the chicken wing, Saraven gives it a pensive look. She puts both her plate and drink down to bite into the chicken delicately. Her eyebrows go up just a little.

"Spicy," she murmurs, cheeks going slightly pink.

<Pose Tracker> Krontil Zjekertlan has posed.

Another laugh. Krontil has no shortage of laughter at times like this.

"Then you're still growing. Good! You'll have plenty to do to fill those shoes you've been eyeing!" Krontil reaches over to the locker and raps on the side of the lid. A hidden compartment (practically standard issue in older designs like this; you had to hide your contraband somewhere) pops open creakily, spilling packets of loudly-labeled sauces onto the racks of curiously hot chicken. "I'll have to visit the rest of the Vestans, once there's time."

"As for all that, well... Mars has had no shortage of opportunities to fight. But the true test is beginning to come together back here, in the Earth Sphere. It all comes back to that little orb, hanging in the blackness, eh?" Krontil briefly looks wistful. He exhales a deep sigh.

Then he finds himself a seat, lowering himself creakily (on the chair's behalf) into it. "I know his extended family from some time ago, during forays into the shoals and among the colonies," Krontil explains for Saraven's benefit. "When you have been roaming space as long as I have, you come to know many and more as friends and allies, even if they had once been foes and rivals. Time softens many of those sharp edges as nostalgia creeps in. It becomes more and more appealing to speak to someone of the old days, even if that someone had been down your sights once or twice."

Krontil claps a hand against his leg. "But enough of that! You're that 'Lilac Gale,' right? I've seen you once or twice, but I do not think we have ever properly spoken. Perhaps your commanders thought I would be a bad influence! Hah!"

<Pose Tracker> Trevor Teach has posed.

Sometimes, Miclones don't even realize they're doing something that can be militarized! They just do things that happen to be extremely hazardous to other living things! Singing? Yep! Pizza!? Double check! EATING CHOCOLATE!!??

Yes. Absolutely. But only to the Canids of the Dog Star.

"Oh, yeah! Uncle Krontil is an old friend of the Captain and a bunch of the others back home. Some of the Zentraedi, you know, they didn't take too well to the whole 'peacetime' thing, or they just wanted to get away from all the guilt of seeing Earth, or for whatever reason, so they went and spread out into the Solar System. Some of them settled around Vesta and joined the Vultures. And the others, they've been fighting for years on one side of the battlefield or another, and where there's conflict there's Krontil." He shrugs! "Also, there are only so many space diners out there, so we used to run into Uncle Krontil a lot back when I was a kid."

By Zentraedi reckoning, he's absolutely still a kid.

"Yeah... Earth. I figured it was about time that I get out and see it for myself, too. There's been word of war brewing between the Jovians and the Feds, so I decided to come take a look-see. I'm glad to hear you've been doing alright, uncle. I'm sure the others would love to have you back for a visit one of these days. The Captain especially; he's getting up there in years now, you know? He's got the..." Trevor's expression darkens, his voice deepens to deep tones of utmost seriousness, "...Nostalgia."

But that is enough of that. Trevor nods, "Sara's a heck of a pilot. An expert with those Psycommu systems-- funnels, bits, the like. You should have seen her the other day, taking on a half dozen Feddies all by her lonesome...!" 

<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

Saraven picks out a chair, too. She settles in, crossing her ankles delicately and resting her chilled can of Space Punch! against one cheek. It helps the spice - though it's not the most severe spice in the world.

She cants her head and turns quiet eyes to Krontil. "It sounds like you've traveled a great deal. I... I think you have that in common with many here. Especially those who have come to Mars. The planet is very attractive to people looking for their next place to stay for awhile...."

A sip of her drink precedes a simple nod. "That's what they call me," she concedes. "My name is Saraven Vai, though. And I don't really... socialize like this, normally. But I've been doing more things like this since we came to the Earth Sphere."

The subtext is left unsaid: She's more front-and-centre because the Sleeves need people front-and-centre. Saraven is not a charismatic leader like Full Frontal. She's used to being told what to do and then doing it. For all that Krontil is being tested, so is Saraven - in an entirely different way.

Trevor's praise leaves her lowering her head with a hint of a blush, this time having nothing to do with the wings. It has more to do with 'Uncle Krontil' being a concept given voice. "It was what I had to do. It doesn't matter how many of them there are. I have to find ways to defeat them. And besides, we're often outnumbered here." 

<Pose Tracker> Krontil Zjekertlan has posed.

'Kid' is very relative to the Zentraedi. They've certainly adopted the Earth viewpoint on children, but that doesn't at all mean that Krontil's personal opinion -- that you should get them a Petite MS early so they can defeat their bullies in mechanized combat, as Pod intended -- isn't shared by at least a few of them. When you're a people that used to be solely made to do battle, childhood becomes kind of a weird murky area.

Trevor is definitely still a kid, though. Absolutely.

"Nostalgia," Krontil repeats, a slightly grim intonation. "Once we have made progress here, then." A slight nod. He's committed, now.

"Really?" The funnels thing gets him to perk up in interest. "Perhaps you can show me some of your favored attack patterns with them sometime! The Barzam II has a similar system, albeit smaller scale for an old warrior like me. It has taken a little getting used to." He finally actually eats some. Pizza is put away with the kind of methodical efficiency born of short periods in a crowded mess.

"I am Krontil Zjekertlan. If I have as impressive a moniker as you, I surely do not know it." His expression is suddenly serious. His one mechanical eye brightens fractionally as he inclines his head. "I have been doing battle in this system since we Zentraedi first arrived within it. If you require a foe defeated or an objective taken, please do not hesitate to ask. I pre-emptively volunteer."

Then, he breaks into a fierce grin. "You don't? Then you must be commended for stepping onto the field of social combat! Tell me, young warrior...!"

        "What is your favorite kind of music?"

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<Pose Tracker> Trevor Teach has posed.

"And here I had my hands full with just the one," Trevor sighs, shaking his head into an exaggerated shrug. "Ah, Sara, you sell yourself short. It sounded like there was someone among the Federales who was getting quite friendly with you, too. It's not easy to fight back against large numbers when someone is chattering at you like that. Trust me, I do it on purpose!"

Also because banter makes fights more fun.

...

Trevor may in fact have been raised by Zentraedi and given a Petite MS to tool around in as a toddler. It may, in fact, have been a retooled Ball or something.

"It's a shame Mars got hit the way it did," he says, then. "Were you there for the Lizards, Uncle? You mentioned you were in the area for a while there."

Trevor munches at a wing. It is, in fact, muy caliente-- but this is the way wings should be. They should be trying to punch you in the face to exact vengence for the chicken to which they were once attached.

"Sara's favorite kind of music...?" Trevor peers an eyepatched gaze over, his eye glinting with mischief and curiosity over the lip of his cup of spiked punch. "Oho...?"

<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

Saraven's about eighteen. In mecha pilot terms, she's already an old granny.

She furrows her brows slightly and looks off towards the deck. "...There's a starship captain," she muses. "One of the Londo Bell regulars. It feels like she has an... unhealthy fixation on me. I don't think she hates me like a lot of the others do. It's... a strange feeling, isn't it?" She looks back, brushing a loose lock of hair away from one ear. "When someone doesn't feel the way they should."

With a shrug, she picks up her drink and sips. Her gaze migrates back to Krontil. "Hello, Mr. Zjekertlan." She nails the pronunciation the first time. "And I'm familiar with the Barzam II. I've never flown it, but I've seen it before. You must be a very good pilot to have been given access to it."

For Trevor she elucidates, "The Barzam II has a very powerful communications system. On Mars it could tap into an orbital weapons satellite. I imagine it does other things here."

The music question is, somehow, more challenging for her. Saraven knits her brows and presses her lips together. She really, really has to think about it.

"...I don't listen to... a lot of things," she admits with a slight ducking of her head. "But... there's a musician called Sharon Apple that I like...? She hasn't put out anything in the past few years, though...." 

<Pose Tracker> Krontil Zjekertlan has posed.

"I was reconnecting with some contacts from the Titans who said they could use a strong pair of hands on Mars. The Lizards' assaults were a happy coincidence! Well," he tilts his head and one hand alongside it, "happy for me. Not so for the colonists. If I knew they were coming, I would have brought more fighters with me." Large casualty lists don't move Krontil very much. Bad fights are more irritating. Imagine showing up to beat up some frontier bandits with a surplus mobile suit and getting jumped by something that would give Gundam pilots a hassle. What a waste of everyone's time!

"I am," Krontil says, with no trace of smug self-satisfaction or shy humility. He's a very good pilot and he's aware of it. It's been proven time and again. "Even without the satellite, it ought to be able to pierce Minovsky intererence and allow us to communicate with assets outside the immediate area. Coordination at a speed and scale not seen in decades. Good, eh?"

Krontil sets aside his plate, crossing his arms and nodding. "Mmm. Yes, indeed. A shame, really; it seems like a waste of an excellent talent. Ah, but you may consider listening to Sheryl Nome's work, if you are similarly inclined! I can lend you my copy of her chart-toppers from the colony fleets." He nods a couple more times, apparently in approval.

A sharp glance to Trevor. "What about you, young Teach? What snakes its way into your ears and reaches your heart?!"

<Pose Tracker> Trevor Teach has posed.

"Last I heard, them showing up places is usually a surprise for everyone involved," Trevor frowns. "They just kind of pop out of nowhere and wreck everything, then disappear again. If we had that kind of technology, there'd be nothing we couldn't plunder...!" Is he talking about the Sleeves, or his merry band of pirates from out on the Rim?

"At least we're getting one heck of a command and control machine. I didn't know you could use something like funnels, uncle! Are you running an INCOM or something...?" Is his uncle... PSYCHIC!?

Beat.

"Mmmmn, I see. She's eyein' our Sara with a greedy gaze, is she? Well, we can't have that!" Perhaps he'll have to take up some <<issues>> with that battleship captain sometime. "Well, it's no surprise that some of them have complicated feelings though. They're all people too, you know? They're not all stomping around being all military-ish everywhere all the time."

"...Sharon Apple...?" Trevor tilts his head this way and that. "I think I can remember some of her songs on the broadcasts before." He scrubs his chin slowly, what kind of music does he like...? What reaches his heart and grabs it tight...? "Well, I'm not the kind of guy who's really into the sing-songy stuff... Oh, but there's this new rock and roll group. We nabbed one of their albums a bit before I left-- 'Fire Bomber.' That's some music that gets the blood pumpin'!" 

<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

"I haven't really listened to music much," admits Saraven with a dip of her head, hands folding together in her lap. "I never... had much access to that sort of thing growing up."

The girl sips her Space Punch! as the two older pilots talk things out. Quiet eyes watch Krontil a moment, his confidence a sharp contrast to her more subdued mannerisms. Her shoulders rise a little, then fall. "Yes, the communications ability will help a lot. The interference is... much greater here, because of the larger number of battles."

Her eyebrows come up at Trevor's description of Eight's... attentions. "...I don't think she means poorly," she murmurs. "But I think she thinks I don't want to be here. And she's wrong."

        Yes... yes she is. Definitely.

"I don't know what happened to Sharon Apple." Saraven shrugs. "I heard there was some sort of incident. I assume trends just change."

<Pose Tracker> Krontil Zjekertlan has posed.


"You should. It's a strong component of cultures across human civilization! It can move mountains. Or mountainous foes, at any rate!"

Krontil is a primary source for this particular claim. Space Wikipedia hates it when he cites himself during edits.

"The Barzam II has a Quasi-Psycommu. I convinced," relentlessly bothered, "a designer on Mars to construct an INCOM pike for use with it." He reaches a hand up and taps the metal band near one ear and crossing one side of his face. "I am no Newtype, but I happen to already have a machine designed for neural interfaces installed. It's a strange sensation, using the weapon like that."

"Fire Bomber... you will have to show me later." A firm nod. More music for his mix tape. "I know little of this incident, just that the artist herself practically vanished. It would not be the first time, I suppose. We live in an age of shadow games, even if they take place in commercial arenas rather than ideological battlefields. Still! What a waste!"

<Pose Tracker> Trevor Teach has posed.

Trevor isn't tremendously older than Sara-- but in terms of life experience, there's certainly a gulf at times. "Oho, well that's certainly an opinion. How people can simply decide that other people must feel a certain way is frustating. Newtypes are Newtypes, I get it-- but it's rude to presume, no? There are always more circumstances than personal feelings at any rate."

It's possible that Trevor just wants to hit up that battleship to try and do some old fashioned boarding action. He might be feeling the scrapper's itch.

"Ahaaaa, you're using the old battle jacks...!" Trevor nods slowly. "That makes sense. That's a heck of a hack! It's almost immoral! But if it works, then the only ones who should be complaining are the ones being stuck by the pointy end, eh?" He nods in understanding, crossing his arms decisively, "That's the best kind of fix, I think."

"Sure," he adds with another shrug. "I think you'd like it. Like I said, gets the blood pumping and the heart thumping." A beat. "...Why would they go after a singer, of all things? No offense, Uncle, but I thought weaponizing music hasn't been a thing since... You know. Your war?"

<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

"I should, yes," admits Saraven with a little dip of her chin. "There are... a lot of things to do here. I would like to... go to Earth and see sights there."

For all that Alba City is probably the best place on Mars to live, Saraven doesn't seem to have had much of a childhood.

When Krontil shows off his jack, Saraven leans forward a little to get a better look. "Oh, that's how you do it," she remarks with a blink. "I've met others with that kind of interface. Dr. Metta told me she was studying that kind of technology before advanced quantum brainwave research became feasible."

Again picking up her pizza and taking a bite, she takes a moment to listen to the two talk about music. Her expression is hard to read. It often is.

        Something to get the heart pumping... is it possible for music to have so much power...? Maybe I should try that....

The mention of weaponizing music is met with a slight furrowing of her brow. "I didn't know you could do that. Other than, I suppose, as propaganda...."

<Pose Tracker> Krontil Zjekertlan has posed.


"Some people do not know their own hearts -- but it seems presumptive to believe you know someone else's, as this captain seems to." He waves it off. People have been talking shit in fights for as long as he can remember. Psychic methods of doing it are just the cutting edge.

Krontil's cybernetics look like a strip of chrome under one eye which unfurls into a pronged claw that cups his ear and goes a little bit beneath his jaw. Other than the eye itself, which is clearly artificial -- he has the chromes of the eye instead of whites, though the color is more or less right -- the jack itself is pretty well tucked behind an ear. It's a weird mesh of alien design with what is probably later human modification. You don't go this long with something like that and not explore modernization as the state of the art advances, at the very least. "It is convenient I did not need to have it installed after I left the Fleet, or it would have been much more complicated. An advantage I intend to use whenever I can!"

Which is why he can turn a melee weapon into a rocket-propelled harpoon. This makes perfect sense.

"So does Minmay's lovely voice," Krontil remarks, smiling widely. "It does not all need to be pounding beats and aggressive riffs -- though they are certainly welcome, when done well." Old people music is some brands of what is now colony pop. It's wild to think about, sometimes. Krontil rises to cross the room, heading for the fridge. "It does not necessarily need to be true utilization in battle; it could simply be a criminal element collecting debts, or an old rival going too far relative to their ire."

He retrieves Space Punch! and turns to the pair, then looks out over the window to the dock. "We had no concept of the power of song, in those days. Have you ever been struck by an unfamiliar feeling and rooted to the spot? Had to grapple with your emotions running wild while you try to place this renegade thrill and contain it, though you never have before?"

Krontil shivers. "Deculture! It was a beautiful nightmare. A wonderful waking dream that left you paralyzed and helpless. Surviving it was the greatest thing I have ever done. I will never forget it."

<Pose Tracker> Trevor Teach has posed.

"We still need to figure out when we're going to be able to visit those snow fields," Trevor asides. "Maybe after this next operation? If things go well, we should have plenty of time to see Earth before things move into their next phase. I think?? I don't know Frontal's mind."

And it would be rude to presume that he does. Also, a tremendous, potentially life-threatening mistake.

"Huh," Trevor murmurs, hooking a thumb into his pants pocket. "Cybernetics making do where psychic ability is unavailable! You'd think they would have more people with that sort of thing going on. Still pretty amazing to think about! Imagine a computer being able to do... Newtype-y things...!"

Uncle waxes nostalgic. Trevor sips his little plastic cup, savoring the tingling, burning sensation as the alcohol settles in his gut, waiting politely for the elder Zentran to finish. "I've always wondered what it was really like, to go from... Having nothing, being just something born to do a job and discovering that there's a whole world of culture and emotion out there. It's hard to imagine that music could do something like that, but the fact we're all standing here talking about it is proof enough. But man, the Culture Shock-- sometimes I wish I could have been there to feel it, myself." But of course, Newtypism was only a pipe dream at the time of the Zentraedi War. "I think the nearest I've come was... when I saw Earth for the first time. And the pocket oceans on the PLANTs." 

<Pose Tracker> Saraven Vai has posed.

The modifications get Saraven's mind churning. Suddenly she can't help but feel lucky she ended up with Dr. Metta instead of with someone who'd pull out her eyes and replace them and other parts with artificial versions. Everyone has someone worse off than them, even Saraven Vai.

Her eyebrows rise slightly, then fall again. "Yes... it's good to use your gifts, however you got them. That's why I fly the way I do."

For a moment she's quiet, just letting the two older pilots chat before flashing a faint smile at Trevor. She doesn't express much feeling to begin with - but she's trying, this time.

"Maybe after Amman," she invites quietly, "we can go see the snow."

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