STELLAN MCLYNN.

He nodded sagely, replacing a hand over the poodle's head and bringing it closer to himself. A few strokes later and the little beast was satiated, panted and drooling in his palm.

"Good boy," Neon said, though whether he was complimenting Stellan's behaviour or the poodle was uncertain.

Contented to return to the ship, Neon turned his back to Stellan with confidence and began his stride back up the ramp only to be intercepted by another dog the colour of fresh bread. Neon paused in stride and stared down at the dog, suddenly caught in a staring contest.

He took a step to the side. The dog followed. Then he took a step to the other side, and again, it followed.

For a second, Neon contemplated whether he could heft another dog in his arms before deciding that the bread dog was slightly too big for him to be juggling.

"Came here for the show, buddy?" he asked, reaching down to scritch behind the bread dog's ear with his free hand. "Sorry to say that you just missed it."

Neon glanced over his shoulder at Stellan. "Don't worry, the clown will be back in ten."

He resumes typing, filling in the blanks with little enthusiasm. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Every new line reminds him he should’ve ignored Maverick’s calls. Finally, he reaches the bottom, scrawls his signature, and exhales. He’s living the wrong kind of life. In front of him, the landscape stretches out serenely. Packs of dogs run in the distance, their coats glinting in the sun, the rolling hills meet the tree line up ahead. For the tenth time since landing, Stellan wonders if they stepped into a mirage.

By the time he trudges back toward the ship, he’s in almost decent spirits, right up until he spots Neon cuddling yet another dog. Of course. Stellan digs out a pack of cigarettes. He lights one, takes a drag, and fixes Neon with a scrutinizing look. Then, after a beat, he offers the pack forward. 

“Don’t you find it odd that the dogs listen to you?” He questions, smoke curling lazily from his lips. “I’d expect that from a street feral. At least they’ve seen people before, but these things?” He nods towards the poodle dangling from Neon’s arms. “From what the reports said, I expected them to be territorial, or something. I don’t know, more aggressive.”

"Still thinking about that, huh? Funny, I've already forgotten how little you weighed," he pointed out casually, the little poodle nestled contentedly in his palm still. Neon kept petting the dog as if it were an extension of Stellan himself. Small, ineffective, and easily tamed. The little poodle's tail continued to wag happily so long as he was stroking it, beating softly against his forearm.

He let the silence breathe before speaking again in his lazy cadence as he approached Stellan in slow, measured steps until their shadows bled together. "You're right, though. Some things are hard for me. Like following orders that sound more like tantrums. Where I'm from, we call that bad manners."

Then, he lifted the poodle toward Stellan, holding it between them like a threat. The pup kicked its little legs, resuming it's barking from the absence of petting.

“How little I—” Stellan chuckles. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He shoots Neon a thin smile paired with an incredulous glare. “Really, how little I weighed?”

He considers letting it go, just as he originally planned—burying it for good, in case bringing it up risks someone else finding out and the humiliation spreads. But if this stays strictly between them, he might as well air his petty grievances.

“First of all, you’re lying. Second, I weigh a perfectly normal amount. You’re just out of touch.”

He shakes his head and turns back to the datapad. “Sad.” He doesn’t realize Neon is closing in until the damn poodle barks, making him nearly drop the device from the jolt of proximity. Stellan looks up, annoyed to find that, yes, Neon is fully capable of sneaking up on him. One more thing to stay alert about.

“Okay, okay!” He holds up both hands defensively. “Christ.” He grits his teeth, then takes a moment to collect himself. Straightening his jacket, running a hand through his hair, he exhales and fixes Neon with a look of barely restrained irritation.

“Please keep the dog away until I finish the report, dearest crew member. I know you’re extremely capable. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be asking you. I’ll go nowhere without your help.”

"Not a fan of your own medicine, huh?" he called out, voice dripping with amusement.

The dog yipped, darted in again and Stellan flinched like it had drawn blood. Neon finally abandoned the hatch control panel and approached the ramp, not to help, but to savor the view up close, like a man wandering toward a street act he'd already paid for.

When Stellan finally snapped and jabbed a finger at him, the poodle froze before bolting straight to Neon's boots. With lazy ease, Neon crouched, scooped it up one-handed like a football, and scratched under its chin. The little beast melted instantly, tail wagging with approval.

He gave the poodle a casual pat before glancing back at Stellan. "Can't handle half a man, can't handle half a mutt. What can you handle?"

“An apt comparison.” He looks between Neon and the dog. “It must be how alike you are that makes it hard to tolerate you.” Stellan purses his lips in displeasure. “You need a leash.” He declares, then turns away. The ten foot distance between them gives Stellan the confidence to voice the catty suggestion. This time, he won’t be caught off guard if he strikes Neon’s nerves and the man decides to come after him.

“Just keep it away while I finish this stupid thing,” Stellan calls back, looking from the datapad to Neon, then back to the datapad. “It shouldn’t be as hard a task as getting your picture taken.” He continues, sarcastically, while his fingers fly between tabs and digital numpads. “Unless any simple request moves you to violence.”

“Is this for the music business or world-saving business?” Irina eyed Stellan warily, weighing her options. If all it took was one photo to get out of socializing with the crew… Not a bad deal. Still, it wasn't like this was some press tour for the Supernova Girls where interviewers expected them to play stupid trivia games and act like they were best, best friends. This mission was serious. 

“Whose  idea even was this?” She rolled her eyes, arms crossing defensively. 

“I’m just the idiot in charge of it.” A plain but honest statement. Stellan fiddles with the camera. It’s turned off, for now, until he gets Irina to sit down with a plate and pretend to enjoy herself. 

“I’m not involved with your record label, alright? If I ever need something from you, it’s about the expedition." He pushes himself off the wall. "It's not walking the plank—it's a plate of cheesecake and a picture. You won't die.”

mira angled her body away from his and towards the screens she caught him looking at, sighing to herself. "this one's upside down," mira said as she tapped the bottom of the monitor twice and brought it right-side up. "it's running real-time system scans of the ship and compiling an error log should something appear." she pointed to the monitors as she spoke. "this one has to do with power distribution, so we know what levels the subsystem is working on. and this one detects atmospheric pressure and O2 levels, as well as any radiation." it was only a few of the numerous screens, but she didn't have time to run stellan through every single thing that made the supernova go.

mira simply needed to fill the silence between them with something she could grasp. "it's not that i don't trust you." she kept her eyes trained on the screen, her finger delicately tracing the edge. "i just don't have a reason to." better she be honest than to start the expedition off on a lie. "yet." mira finally looked back to the older man. "i will see you at dinner." it was her own quiet way of reclaiming her engine room from him, arms crossing over her chest.

“I knew that,” he says with a small, nonchalant shrug, as if the information is obvious to him, so it’s very telling when he remains completely silent as she carries on explaining a handful of the other displays. He listens, somewhat. Mostly, he’s focused on giving the impression of understanding with timely nods and an intellectually raised eyebrow. When she finishes, Stellan turns to her and offers a final nod that borders on appreciative. He’s preparing a dismissive remark when she beats him to it. 

Mira’s eyes remain on the screen, not on him. The shift in focus is subtle, but he catches it. She’s not waiting for his approval, or to gauge his reaction—that alone disarms him more than her words. At first he’s surprised, then amused. Pleased, even. Stellan goes through life putting on airs out of social obligation, because that’s what people expect—because it’s what he expects from others, too. He wears his unpleasantness like a tailored suit: well-fitted and socially acceptable, just to the degree he can get away with. But beneath it, he’s always hoping someone will just see through it and not care. Like Fang, like Maverick… and maybe like this strange girl, who he thinks gets it without knowing that much about him. It’s… refreshing, strangely enough. 

“I won’t argue with you on that,” Stellan says as he turns to leave, a small smile tugging on his lips. “See you at dinner.”

At the joke, no flicker of emotion crosses Fang's features but she does offer a gratifying huff - the exhale is the closest she'll get to laughing at that attempt at humor. "Ah, C like the note. How charming. All the pirates I've ever known have been space-faring so I'm afraid the joke is a bit antiquated."

She suddenly overtaken by the prospect of this ship being stopped and boarded by pirates. A plan of defense begins to unfurl in her mind. With a brisk nod, she moves to exit the room, pausing only to dim the lights and say, "I think I can handle everything. Rest well."

He plops down, sighs after a few seconds, then begins removing his tie and shrugging off his jacket with a displeased huff. He frowns when she calls his joke antiquated, even though she’s right. On his home planet, they did still have sea pirates… however long ago that was. And the movies were damn good, too. He briefly wonders how many more they made after he left.

“Okay, I guess I’ll also think of a better joke.” 

Once everything obstructing his comfort is peeled away, Stellan finally looks content as he snuggles into the pillow. When Fang dims the lights and walks off, he lets out a pleased grunt before eventually drifting off.

The whirring hum of machinery filled Irina’s ears as she opened the door to her sanctuary. It was easy to find solitude near the weaponry of the ship; at least, it was easy when they weren’t in active combat. People tended to avoid the areas of the ship they deemed unimportant outside of work, which left them open for Irina to skulk in. Typically, she spent her days in between the gym, her room, and here; avoiding as much human (or human enough) contact as often as she could.

Her smile grew as she ran her fingers across the console; her perfectly manicured nails tapping lightly on the glass screen as they went. She wasn’t much of a tech person herself, but she could appreciate a well-built set up. She had options here, from the types of shots she could fire, the ammunition type, even the option to deploy and control a small combat drone. There was a part of her that thrived on the idea of the destruction she could cause, and her pulse began to race slightly as she imagined it, her hands moving subconsciously towards the controls.

She was snapped out of it when she heard the door open behind her, and turned quickly in her chair. “I wasn’t actually going to use it!” She said quickly, her cheeks flushing.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, though his tone makes it clear he doesn’t buy it for a second—and doesn’t particularly care, either, beyond the fact that Irina would probably violate at least three minor protocols by using the weapons console off-duty, which would mean a stack of incident reports landing squarely on his lap. Worst case: more paperwork and another passive-aggressive memo from Maverick. Best case: Hyesung gets to show Lina some deep-breathing exercises.

“Let me guess—you’re hiding from group dinner?” He continues, pointing an accusatory finger at her. He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “I knew someone was missing from the camera roll. You did hear the announcement, right? At least show up for a picture?”

In the manner of a weary parent entertaining a babbling, incoherent toddler, Hyesung lets the manager chatter away to his heart's contents as he makes quick work of opening and filling a new assessment sheet on his desk, humming absently at the end of every other sentence as a show of politeness. His eyes keep straying, however, to the pinch of Stellan's eyes and mouth and the hand clutching at his own neck, with a considerating expression. It's rare, to look at the man and see something about him he can take at face value — but pain is always honest.

"If you're in pain, we can start with the physical assessment and see about the painkillers once we're done with it," he says with finality. Pushing slightly away from the desk, he reaches for the hand sterilizer, anticipating the need of a physical examination. "It's your neck, right? Is it only your neck or your shoulder, too? Can you point out to me where exactly does it hurt?"

“Between my neck and shoulder—whatever muscle group that is.” He mutters, waving a vague hand in the general direction like he’s shooing away a ghost that decided to set up camp on his shoulder. He tries to tilt his head to demonstrate the issue but he’s stopped halfway through the motion with a hiss. “Yeah. That. Fun surprise this morning. Afternoon. Whatever.” He shrugs. Only his good shoulder participates.

“Maybe it’s stress,” he adds, voice a little too casual. “You know, caused by the relentless pressure of command.” Stellan pauses and considers telling the truth for a few seconds, before finally admitting: “Or because the dining table doesn’t have good ergonomics.” Another pause. "To fall asleep on."

“I have no idea what’s on any of these screens, and I sort of… just…” Stellan motions vaguely. “Wandered down here with unclear intentions. But I can assure you that I will attending dinner, and that I will be having the cobb salad.”

Stellan’s shoulders rise then drop with a tiny exhale. He has a hazy idea of what he looks like from Mira’s perspective, and an even fuzzier notion about what he thinks about her. But one thing is evident: he’s wasting both of their time. With the ease of an actor, Stellan’s voice takes on a gentle, serious tone. 

“I understand that you might be stressed because I’m your new manager, and you don’t know me that well, but I just have a different way of doing things.” Which is finding ways to get out of work as often as possible, but Stellan looks as convincing as a Republic congressional leader right now. “And that's okay.”

"When it comes down to it, they are a gifted and hardworking group of individuals. They've already proved that many times over. So I don't think we'll have an difficulty motivating them. But I'd like to keep their energy occupied in the off-moments and ensure that morale stays high. People like them, so used to greatness, might not be able to take failure in stride."

"Noted. I'll speak to Lina and she can be my liaison to the crew," she agreed. Fang was glad to be given new responsibilities. Often, her jobs were so short that she never had time to be bored. There'd be a few days of feeling out her employer and coworkers. By the time she'd solved the puzzle of their psyches and dynamics, she'd move onto the next. This longer-term commitment wasn't her style, and she worried that she'd lose her mind from the monotony.

A preemptive chuckle escaped Fang at the obvious set up. She ran a hand over her tightly slicked back hair, smoothing the stray strands down. "Oh no. . .no I don't. Go on."

“Mm, yes, brilliant stuff.” Stellan tunes back in, not wanting to stop the momentum. “We’ll call it the emotional… balance… protocol.” He purses his lips. “Okay, we’ll workshop the name. But I like where your head’s at.” 

Stellan drags himself up the bed and leans back against the wall, crossing his arms. He smiles. “Because they love the high Cs.” Once the disgustingly corny joke is out of the way, he looks at Fang like unpacking a bottle of alcohol seeped the energy right out of him—and now he must rest. 

“I think I might take a late afternoon siesta. Do you mind making sure nothing falls apart in the meantime?”