Log:The Young and the Flightless
The Young and the Flightless
OOC Date: May 29, 2018
Location: Pilot's Pit Lounge, RAF Renegade
Participants: Jessika Pava, Dawn Antilles. Takes place directly before Playing The Game
When Jessika steps into the Pilot's Pit, just off the fighter bay, she looks like she's 'fresh' from patrol, which means she looks a little worn around the edges. She's not in a flightsuit, though, and her helmet isn't with her, which means it can all be chalked up to a lack of sleep. For anyone that knows her, that lack of sleep isn't surprising. The only thing she's 'fresh' from is the medical bay, where Tammin "Snap" Wexley is recovering from his near brush with death after a TIE/fo collided with his ARC-170 and left him stranded in the void. As she steps in, Jessika pauses by the Wall of the Fallen. She's not looking at it for the names that are on it, though. Right now, she's appreciating it for the names that aren't.
"Too many.." She murmurs it to herself, and lifts a hand to sweep up and along her forehead, so the errant tresses of hair that aren't pulled back in a ponytail are brought along before they cascade back into place. Jessika allows herself a long blink that, if it carried on any longer, might signal that she's fallen asleep on her feet. She opens her eyes, though, and directs them towards a nearby empty table. There aren't that many. The lounge is always busy, because the ship's operations are always in swing. Nudging out a seat with the tip of her boot, Jessika slips into it more heavily than she might normally, and gestures for Late to make way towards her when there's a chance.
In the mean time, she leans back into the worn cushion of the chair and crosses her arms. What she doesn't do is succumb to the urge to let her chin dip in her slouched posture. She's determined not to sleep here. The last thing she needs to do is further ruin her cycle by succumbing to an afternoon nap. She stayed up to visit Wexley, and now she's paying the price for it. It's a worthy price. Besides, having stayed up as she has just might be the catalyst she needs to make it through a whole night of sleep rather than struggling through it.
---
Jessika Pava would find, eventually, that she is not alone, though the person who shares her space would not be noticeable at first. The figure sits at the very back-end of the bartender's counter that dominates the lounge which functions as a secondary home for the Resistance's hardy pilots, in a position that often implies a certain reluctance to socialize. A relative newcomer to the ranks, at first glance, she wouldn't be all too familiar either.
She is a slip of a thing - delicate to the point of painful fragility, and rendered all the more youthful for it. Dark chocolate waves have been swept away from her face in a careless twist, large green eyes diverted onto the datapad she holds in her hands. Her chosen drink for the day is nothing alcoholic; steam rises from a mug placed in front of her, though from Jessika's vantage point, it is impossible to determine whether it is coffee or tea. Absent gestures reflect the machinations of a restless mind; slender fingers trace the worn surface in front of her in random circular patterns, and occasionally she will remember that her mug is there, taking small sips from it as she continues to read. Her face is expressive, speaking of one presently engaged in the clear, diamond-hard focus on whatever it is that she is studying, but she is at the very least not completely unaware of her surroundings. She lifts her head at the sound of another body dropping on a chair.
The smile that flits over her lips is faint and the rest of her face follows eagerly into the look. The brunette inclines her head slightly at the pilot.
"Rough day?" the newcomer wonders, her data pad lowering so she could see the other woman better. She can't be any more than her early twenties, perhaps even younger. A sympathetic look simmers over her pale mien.
---
A disembodied voice floats over her shoulder and Jessika, whose eyes are already drifting between closed and open, raises her gaze from where it was fixed on the table to search for the owner. When it's not readily apparent, since no one is in front of her, she's craning her head and turning her chin towards her shoulder to find the culprit not too far away. In neutral, Jessika's face could be considered intense. Her brows are naturally expressive above her dark gaze, and contorted as her features are, there's an edge to them that some might even register as hostility. Some of that goes hand-in-hand with the stress that's represented by her state of exhaustion, but a lot of it has to do with her state of mind. Certainly to someone she doesn't know, Jessika looks irate.
The face that's looking back at her is none of those things. It bears a degree of serenity, and as Jessika's gaze passes visibly over the features presented, notably lingering on the lips that are pulled up into a smile, some of that annoyance eases. Not much, but some. Enough that her brows aren't closely knitted together anymore and the wrinkle at the bridge of her nose is smoothed out. If it were anyone else, like one of the fighter pilots, Jessika would have given them a look of incredulity. All the other pilots know she's in a sour mood because of Red Leader's recent injuries, but the woman she's looking at is not a pilot. One look at the uniform is all it takes to know. Jessika's lips gently peel apart.
For a few moments, it doesn't look like she's going to answer, because her face turns back away. Why becomes readily apparent, as the droid that she's caught out of her peripheral vision wheels up to her. "Caf. And not the weak stuff that's all watered down and half cold." There's only so much indignation she'd be able to take in moments like this. As Late wheels away, Jessika's arms uncross and she grunts under her breath when she forces herself from a position she could totally fall asleep in. There's a lingering trace of her fingertips across the surface of the table as she turns to face the bar and its lone occupant on this side of things. So turned, it's easier to see the puffyness of her lower lids that's a blatant sign of lack of sleep. That and her distant eyes.
Crossing the distance, Jessika makes it to the stool that's first in line to a long row. There's only one stool on the end of the bar, and it's occupied, which also means there's a curve of counterspace between them. "I've never met you before." She chooses not to answer the question asked, and instead starts with the facts. "Lieutenant...?" It's an open-ended invitation to fill in the blank.
---
Signs of fatigue are evident on the other woman and as always a perceptive creature, those green eyes take note of them, from the way Jessika slumps on her seat to the way she rises to cross the distance to give her a better look. But she gives none of these observations much of a voice save for the comment that she has already dispensed earlier. While there are certainly misgivings there, to engage someone who looks so obviously tired to a conversation, it also seemed rude to her to just ignore her. Besides, eventually, she will have to get to know every single person who flies for the Resistance and she was never one to be idle when such information could benefit all of them in the future, especially one who has months worth of catch-up ahead of her.
Her smile remains easy and faint, and when told that they haven't met, there's a small laugh - muted by the woman's state, but unfettered regardless. "I think so," she affirms, lifting a slender, warm hand in offerance of a shake towards the female pilot. "Otherwise, I would have remembered you. I've a knack for names and faces, especially when I'm bound to work with them in some capacity. I do apologize if I am being a bother, though. It just didn't seem right to just ignore another person when the two of us are sharing the same space."
When prompted for her name, that smile eases up slightly higher. "Dawn," she supplies. "Dawn Antilles. You're Lieutenant JG Jessika Pava, aren't you? I've been studying the files since I arrived - I'm the new Operations Officer. I haven't been here for too long, just started a month ago or so. It would have been sooner, but there were complications."
Inclining her head slightly, and giving the pilot another once over, her expression softens. "Are you alright?"
---
There's another long moment after the woman introduces herself, and Jessika spends it staring. The proffered hand goes untaken, the question of her identity goes unanswered, and the inquisition regarding her current well-being, whether it's official or otherwise, is unaddressed. "I don't think I've ever met an Antilles who knew who I was before I knew who they were." Under other circumstances, Jessika might have assaulted her in the typical fashion any other stick jockey would at learning she's part of the famed Antilles family. Not today, though. Not when she's this tired. "It's.. just Jessika," she dances with the words to say before they slip off her tongue. Finally, Jessika takes Dawn's hand. Hers is warm and slightly rough from a life of work, but not calloused.
"So, you're Fleet." Every person in this room is, but there's always that distinction: the separation of the starfighter pilots from the other officers aboard the vessel. They may all be Navy, but they're not all the same, necessarily. It's an arrogance that doesn't seem present in Jessika's statement. Just an acknowledgment. And justification for the question that follows. "Are you asking as an Operations Officer, or..?" Another fill in the blank scenario. Jessika's fingers have tightened around Dawn's by that time, but counterpoint to their natural texture, there's a gentleness to the gesture. They linger for a few moments longer than a handshake dictates before gliding away so her hand can reacquaint itself with the bar. While Dawn ruminates on the question..
A whirring bleep comes from her side, and Jessika turns outwards to find Late with a mug balanced on a tray. There's steam rising from it, which means that at least one part of Jessika's request has been fulfilled. "Thanks." It's lifted, then set almost quietly onto the countertop next to her, where it's heat can radiate up and it's smell can make her nostrils lightly flare. Jessika's attention immediately shifts back to Dawn, and as the cup of caf is lifted, her dark eyes fix on the woman in emphasis of her own line of questioning. It's an encouragement to continue, even as she plays the game of getting a sip of caf without scalding herself too badly.
---
With her hand held in mid-air, the lack of a reaction has that young, expressive face shift into a look of overt befuddlement; was it something she said? Had she offended the other pilot in some way? But Jessika is quick to put those apprehensions to rest at the very least, and the reason provided earns her a brief, flashfire grin. It is as if her entire being leans into it, the look of her eager to take it up and the color of those eyes brightening. "I'm the only Antilles who can't fly," she confides, and while her words sound self-deprecating, she is actually anything but, having long since accepted her deficiencies in that arena. "That might be why. Besides, I'm the curious sort and I'm never one to slack when it comes to studying. Besides, the faster I get up to speed, the better off I'll be, I think."
Her fingers finally gripped by the other woman, Dawn squeezes warmly. "Yeah," she confirms, at the question as to whether she's fleet. "I figured I could be useful in other ways despite being utterly flightless. I told Lieutenant JG Apollyon just the other day that probably the only way I'll be able to fly on my own is if I pissed off a Wookiee enough to fling me to the atmosphere. But no, I'm not asking as an operations officer...I'm asking as a concerned human being towards another human being." Her grin gentles in its bent. "If it helps, I'm off the clock....as much as I can be anyway." Her spare set of fingers lift, to tap lightly on the side of her temple. "I can't turn /this/ off, for the life of me."
She releases Jessika's hand gently; both sets of fingers cradle her mug of tea. She, too, takes a sip, lashes falling closed as she savors the scent of fresh herbs and the taste of it steeped in hot water, her face mirroring nothing but absolute bliss at the moment; signs of a budding connoisseur, at least when it comes to the leaf.
---
When Dawn opens her eyes again, it'll be to the sight of one of Jessika's brows hiked higher than its twin at the sudden deluge of information. It's a lot to process. Of course, that expression doesn't remain long. The sip finally happens--in that slow-building way where the line of liquid steadily rises towards the rim to finally touch her lips--and Jessika winces as a result. Still, heat floods her tongue and it's a strong wake up call. Not just because of the heat, but because it almost tastes as if the caf in her cup was brewed without a filter. She gives it a questionable look as she sets it down, but her eyes never seem to stray long from the woman in front of her, no matter the predicament. Folding her lips in briefly, they slowly swell into fullness after.
"Well, first of all, that's not true. You couldn't have gotten here if you couldn't fly. You may not have been steering the flying, but you flew. Second, it's just Lieutenant. You don't have to attach the initials that signify junior grade. That's only on paper. So, like me. I'm Lieutenant Pava. Third, Ektor is a Flight Officer, not a Lieutenant. I'd.. normally say he'd appreciate the promotion, but Ektor's kind of allergic to higher ranks. He doesn't want the paper work or the responsibility. Fourth.." Jessika takes a breath and dips her chin in a nod. "Yeah, it helps. I'm fine." Did it really help, though? Or does Jessika not like sharing personal issues, even to someone who isn't an Operations Officer and could make a call that might get her grounded.
"Long night." Well, that's something, even if the irony is that most people in the room know why it was. How it helps, truly, is that Jessika continues the conversation rather than becoming tight-lipped. She's not a fountain ready to burst with information, per se, but she doesn't take her leave. "So, did you marry into the Antilles name, or were you born into it?"
---
"That's why I said 'on my own', regarding flight or lack thereof," Dawn reminds lightly with a laugh. "If it's just the question of being a passenger, then sure, I fly all the time. But I'm an Antilles, I've been born in a family where that almost doesn't count." She takes another sip of her tea. "But I most definitely appreciate the reassurance that I'm not completely flightless. That would be a kick in the ass, wouldn't it? How am I going to be effective otherwise if I can't get to where I need to be?"
The comments are rhetorical at best, though when Jessika turns the conversation towards the other pilots of the Resistance, her grin turns somewhat sheepish, taking the corrections in good stride. "See? Thankfully I ran into you, then, so you can tell me what I'm getting wrong already. It's quite a bit of calculus, getting familiar with an entirely different roster with so many new names. It's probably going to take me at least another day or so to get the rank and file straight." She did just arrive to the Renegade a day or so ago, after all.
The reply to her /original/ query, despite the tangents, is one which she doesn't pry into any further - it had been an invitation to unload, and if the other person doesn't want to do so, it isn't in her to force or persuade. If nothing else, the roundabout way she gets to her question is indicative enough to her that Jessika isn't the sort to publicize or emphasize her vulnerabilities in the way that is typical of most hardened war veterans. It doesn't really surprise her.
Instead, there's a rueful tilt to her smile. "Born," she tells Jessika simply. "I learned on the first day that Uncle Wedge donated the frigate, I suppose it's destiny at work in a way that I ended up being assigned here, and ironic that I was the last to know he put his retirement aside to lead Rogue Squadron again. He probably already knew what I was going to say about it." About how he has sacrificed enough. That he had paid his dues a hundred times over.
But she knows her uncle, too, and that isn't the sort of man he is - to rest while others took up the fight. Not when he still had his wings.
---
"I wasn't asking about him in a roundabout way," Jessika offers after Dawn's expose on the irony of ending up where she is and Wedge's supposed activities. She'd filled the time between the explanation and her own comment with a sip from her caf, and takes another after. There's still a wince, but it's less prominent than before. Either her tastebuds and the roof of her mouth are numb enough from being burned, or the caf is cooling to the point that it's just hot rather than too hot. "I mean, I've never met the man and he's definitely a legend, but I've heard plenty about him. I was genuinely asking about you." Deciding the conversation has progressed far enough along that it seems like it's going to last more than a few seconds, Jessika sits.
It's a more complicated process of slipping a heel up onto the run of the stool and pushing herself up into the seat, but the motion is the same, in the end, and the position is the same: she maintains an angle that keeps her pointed at Dawn. She's also quick to carry the conversation away from heritage, perhaps just to prove it's the case. "When did you get in? Things have been kind of hectic the past few days, obviously, but I'd have remembered seeing you, too." They've come full circle in some ways, with Jessika touching on the initial question that brought her over in the first place.
---
There's a blink at Jessika's first reassurance there, and for a moment, Dawn says nothing, a different sort of assessing light entering those virid irises when she regards the other pilot. Not just the words the other woman offers, but rather just how /straightforward/ she is; the kind of personality that aims before she fires, and unerringly at that. The twist to her smile becomes overtly appreciative, propping her chin on one hand as she angles her face towards the other woman's way. "You're sweet," she tells her unabashedly. "I wouldn't have minded even if you were, people ask me about the family all the time and I love them, so I don't mind talking about them, but....honestly, I wasn't expecting anyone to just..." And she pantomimes a gesture, a thumb back and pointer finger extended, pretending to shoot. "Say what you did. It's rare, you know? Being able to sit with someone and know they'll always tell you what you think." What they /feel/ is obviously an entirely different animal, but unvarnished honesty in one's opinion is one that she clearly values.
As for when? "I'm a day and a half fresh," she replies. "Since then I've been going around on my own, getting to know people I come across, the facilities, maintenance schedules and the specs of the Renegade. Anyone could reach for a manual, but she's been around and like any vessel with a history, where she's been, how she got there and what she's survived makes her unique and I find those nuances can be integral to my line of work. I heard the observation dome got blown out recently before I even got to really see it, but hopefully it can be repaired. What about you? Have you always been with the Resistance?"
Her full file is in her datapad, somewhere, but she was never one to depend fully on paper, either; there are plenty of things words can miss, gaps which can only be filled when sitting face to face with someone.
---
She's been pretty steady with her gaze this whole time. Being called sweet sees them flicking away to the mug of caf in front of her. Have her cheeks darkened just a hair? Or is it a trick of the light when her chin tilts down a smidge. It's not a gesture that lasts any longer than a few heartbeats, and it is punctuated by the lifting of her mug so she can take a healthier drink from it. Could have been nothing at all but coincidence, then, because Jessika's eyes lift to re-establish contact with Dawn's. She waits for the woman to finish with everything before responding, though she hums at certain points to show that she's listening as she speaks. "You weren't expecting someone to acknowledge you're a person with your own goals and ambitions and not just a last name?"
It's a half rhetorical question, and maybe a difficult one to dissect the true meaning of. "You just described how I like to look at people. Everyone comes from somewhere, and all that they've been through culminates into who they are at the time that I meet them. As for me.. you totally nailed it. Soon as I was born, they put me in the seat of an X-Wing, strapped a helmet to my head, and I was shooting down TIEs before I learned how to walk." The seriousness with which she answers shows she's thrown all her weight into accepting the potentially silly side of the question asked, but she does so with some joviality lurking at the center, and not the mocking sarcasm that would make such an answer malevolent in nature. She's shifting gears shortly after.
"The Renegade took some damage, but nothing that can't be repaired. Blackrock has an observation dome, if you didn't know. It's pretty good, from what I hear. I've never been, myself."
---
/You weren't expecting someone to acknowledge you're a person with your own goals and ambitions and not just a last name?/
The brazen frankness of it pulls another laugh out of Dawn, and the sound of it is much more unfettered than before. Like crystal, it shatters delicately against the overall quiet of the Pilot's Pit; emerald irises with their hints of gold are practically luminescent when they fall on Jessika again at the throes of it. "Not /that/," she tells the pilot cheerfully. "Rather being able to just anticipate where the conversation might be going and addressing it as honestly as you did. I don't know anyone else who'd actually just flat out say it, especially with someone they just met."
If she notices the blush, the younger Antilles doesn't call it out - she's not the kind of terrible that Ektor Apollyon is, and she's not about to make the color worse by ribbing Jessika about it.
Instead: "That's how I look at people, also, though some part of me is playing catch up in that regard, also. I rarely have much of a chance to do it outside of work, so whenever I find it, I take it." And the obvious jest, the hint of joviality present in the other woman, earns her another one of those sheepish grins - broad enough this time to chase out an errant dimple from her left cheek. "You know, in your case, I'd probably believe that you were /born/ in an X-wing," she replies gamely. "Word on the fast lane says you're a hell of a pilot, so even if that wasn't true, I can totally see it. Besides, wouldn't that be cute? Wee little you, with a helmet too big, pew-pew-pewing at enemy combatants? What would your battle cry be at that age?"
She may have elected not to tease her about her blushing, but she enthusiastically falls into the fantasy of Jessika Pava having been born a piloting prodigy, complete with visuals.
Though when the conversation shifts towards the damage the Renegade took, she nods. "That's what I figured, though I haven't done much touring of Blackrock station. I will, though, once I get a breather. Rear Admiral Delede didn't waste any time throwing me into work, so that's where I've been and what I've been doing. I haven't seen much action from this side, yet, but I anticipate that won't be for long."
---
Jessika laughs, too, only hers is short and more an exhale of humor than a legitimate laugh. When she looks away again, it's in exasperation, and she considers the wall as Dawn goes through the 'cute' scenario and what it might be like were she actually born in a cockpit. It's embarrassing, to say the least, but Jessika's quick to shake her head. "I'm just a pilot. I'm no Poe Dameron. Or Wedge Antilles." Nevermind that it's on her record that she'd been handpicked by the Resistance's most famous pilot for important operations as part of a previously secret Squadron. "As far as a battle cry, I imagine it'd just be crying. Shooting down TIEs is hard work. Little me would probably want a nap." Despite the embarrassment, she does play along, if even for just a second.
Jessika does look back, though, and considers Dawn for a moment. She's not entirely sure what the woman means by what it is Jessika flat out said, but that's a topic she's well versed in. "I don't spend a lot of time skirting around what I'm trying to say. Time was never a luxury. It's even less of one now. You kind of learn to avoid taking forever to say something, because you never know when something unsaid is going to turn into a regret." That, in and of itself, is a decidedly serious moment, because humor isn't present in her voice when she speaks. It's pragmatism. A stoic outlook from someone who has experienced that regret a handful of times or more. It's the nature of being a starfighter pilot, and even more the nature of being in the Resistance.
"What would you call this, then?" Dawn mentions taking a tour of Blackrock once she gets a breather, and if she's off-duty as she says, then that seems like prime time. "I've never been, but I know where it is. I could show you, if you want. If you just wait for a lull in work to come along, it'll never happen. There's never an end to the work. You have to make your own time. That's not something they'd have told you in your arrival brief a day and a half ago."
---
"Aw, that's cute, too," Dawn says with a laugh. "A well-deserved nap after all of that, I think." There is, however, an angled look shot at the other woman when she remarks that she is just another pilot; she has her file, knows what to look for when it comes to separating the good from the exceptional. She doesn't call the woman on that either, but the expression she wears is laden with good humor and a degree of commiseration. "Well, you have more in common than my uncle than /I/ do with my uncle, and I've got his blood running through my veins," is all she says lightly, picking up her tea and taking a sip of her tea. Not the least of these commonalities being their humility - there are times when she can't help but think her uncle still considers himself as 'some guy who flew stuff around Corellia.'
The more serious comments Jessika tacks on, however, tempers that brilliant smile, and while a ghost of it lingers on her lips, the naval officer's green eyes tilt down to her half-empty tea mug. "Time is short, especially for those embroiled in war," she murmurs. But after a moment, her gaze lifts back up. "Well, this just means I can always count on you to tell it to me straight. That will always be valuable to me, as a person /and/ someone who coordinates operations."
/What would you call this then?/
A pointer finger lifts upwards. "An astute question!" the brunette replies. "You managed to catch me seizing a better opportunity - I'd honestly rather talk to someone than explore a station by myself. And remember what I said about not being able to turn it off?" She taps her datapad. "I've been studying, but you're right of course, I'd have to make the time. If you're serious about the offer, sure, I'd love to go see it. You'll manage to keep me from getting lost, too, and embarrass myself further to people I'll be working with." Another grin, this time one that is cheeky in its bent, flashes across her lips.
It is a chastisement that proves itself credible, in the end, when her communicator beeps. After a rueful glance at the bit of text scrolling across the screen, Dawn exhales a quiet breath and starts to ease from the barstool she has occupied. "And just like that, the dream fades away," she says dramatically, though in spite of responsibility cutting her social time short, she smiles over at Jessika's way. "I better take this, but it was really nice meeting you, Jessika. I think this might be the first conversation I've had around here where I'm not being ribbed for being a schoolgirl. I'll see you around, okay?"
