Log:Resistance: Out of Line on the Bridge

Resistance: Out of Line on the Bridge

Location: Yelsik's Valor
Participants: Callax Dalso, Tallie Lintra

And so, perched in the command chair once more, Callax holds court. Quiet. Staring out into the dark, surrounded by the quiet murmuring of people at their stations, occasionally calling out reports. That's what they do, after all. It's their job. Everyone's doing their job here, cool as ice. Little Fonzies. Quietly sitting and staring into space.

The turbo lift opens onto the chatter of a bridge under full operation, a holoprojection of the system revolves on the projection platform. There is the low murmur of conversation between techs going through their end of shift checklists. Someone is humming a pop song, one of the latest hits from Nar Shaddaa that has made its way to Naboo so is only a half a year out of date. Tallie's humming voice is passable, there is a reason she is a pilot and /not/earning her keep on the stage. She wobbles only very slightly as she hums, erm, walks, the careful walk of someone who knows they have had a lot to drink but still thinks they can hide it. Up on the command dais she goes, hands behind her back. She is in the black ops uniform, one honey gold lock of hair has come out of her once neat bun and curls down her cheek.

"Still on duty then, FO?" She addresses Callax, carefully enunciating.

"That's the notion, aye, Captain." Callax does not look back yet, does not see her over-careful gait - perhaps someone at their station does, but nobody's talking. Callax, himself, smiles faintly to himself as he hears her singing. Likes that voice. "Everything is peaceful."

"Peaceful? It's all appearance. You mean nobody has given our position away or discovered us cowering in space, riiight?" Tallie blinks at him owlishly and pushes back the strand of hair.

"Any day I don't have to kill someone is peaceful enough to me, Captain." Callax looks to the lady then, his own hair in a bun, though perfectly coiffed and in place. "I wouldn't call it cowering. Is everything all right?"

"All right? What's a day without killing, I ask you? It's our main source of entertainment and fun. That and burial in space for our lost. Oh!" The captain holds up a finger in the air, swaying slightly. "Lest, we forget, memorial services. We are a dab hand at that!"

Callax's eyes narrow faintly. "That would be the nature of soldiering, I'm afraid," he replies, slowly rising to his feet. "The burden that we bear - Captain, would you adjourn with me to medbay? You seem unwell." Which is a lie, of course; she doesn't seem unwell at all, she seems tanked. But without a bottle in hand, he's hardly going to point out the obvious. "Please."

Her eyebrows crease for a moment as she parses what he just asked her to do. "Adjourn with you to the where? To the dressing room so we can compare dress lengths? Ridiculous." Face turned away from him, one side of her mouth is tugged into a sardonic smile as she ignores him and looks out into space.

His lips set, and a certain stillness falls over the pale pilot's face - not angry, not like he was with Ektor the night before, but stern nonetheless. "Ridiculous indeed," he replies. "Our calves are too different to worry about it. But, yes. You are unwell, Captain. And you have no place on the bridge in your condition. So, I ask you. Please." His eyes are upon her, quietly pleading. "Come with me to Medbay."

"What are you lookin' at me for, like that? I.feel.fine. Better than I have for weeks. 'Cause I finally just said drek acting like it's all alright. Right? Ektor's right, you know." She points to herself, hand unsteady and looks around at the techs at their stations who are studiously avoiding looking like they are hanging on every word. "He's right," she says in a louder voice.

Turning back to Callax, "What do you mean our calves are not at all alike? You put mine to shame with those trim ankles. Not going anywhere I don' wanna go."

"Well I haven't put on a frock since soon after joining the Resistance, I'm afraid," he replies, fixing his eyes upon her. "Doesn't seem much point when I'm having so much fun being butch." He steps closer, Callax does, his voice going low, soft. "Captain," he repeats, fixing his eyes with hers now in a flat stare - pleading still, but now with a note of finality. "Tallie. Please. Leave the bridge. Last call."

"You mean you haven't dressed like you can't make up your mind whether you want all the men in the fleet or the women? OH LA DARLING. Oops," she stifles a hiccup and sits down abruptly in the vacant chair she had been standing in front of.

"Leave me alone. Just be...offishish...officioshous over there." A hand flutters toward some unspecified place on the bridge away from her. "Thas an order."

A deep breath, and he leans down and whispers in her ear. "Remember, when you've sobered up and at some point finished hating me, that anyone else would have put you in the brig." He steps back, then, and gestures to one of the guards posted by the bridge hatch. "Chief Glaak," he announces, "Captain Lintra is ill. You and Petty Officer Kalitara are to take her to the Medbay immediately, under restraint if necessary. She is not herself." A glance to Tallie and back. "I take full responsibility."

"Finish hating you?" Tallie replies topping his whisper in a loud voice. "I'm not ill...I'm over it all. Over you, over them...over it." Tears stand in her blue eyes, she is just self aware enough not to scream and scare the techs. "I don' need help. Don' want help. Don' want you in my face. I can go be myself." She makes a good try at standing and holds the back of the chair to keep herself steady, not quite ready to make the step down from the bridge.

And yet he nods to the Chief, who has the good sense to unseal the hatch and wait for Tallie to go - and he'll follow when she goes, good Navy man that he is, even if he gives her a break on the way down.

"Then you'd better go," Callax replies, his voice soft, but never breaking in its sternness. "I'll be here."

The ace pilot has lost some of her natural grace, her top half and bottom half don't seem to belong to the same person. Head high, knees wobbly she makes the step down off the bridge and towards the lift, mumbling under her breath, "He's not...he's not...pssssh."

Callax stands by the chair, hand upon the corner, keeping himself steady in another fashion - watching her go, the soldier following her, until the hatch has sealed behind them both. Deep breath, then, and his eyes, those lovely, all-seeing, genetically-engineered eyes, flutter closed for a moment.

But only a moment.

Then Callax turns, regarding the crew at their stations, and says, simply, "If you're looking up from your stations, you are not doing your duties. We must all do our duties, ladies and gentlemen, lest we invite what must not be allowed in." Death. Despair. Obliteration of the self. He straightens himself a bit as he sits. "I'll want reports, then, by top of the hour. Begin."

For all that engineering, he never saw that coming.