no further questions.

“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?”

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."

esme’s grin widened until it practically split her face. “ohhh, i like the way you think. soup spoon diplomacy. dessert alliances. fang, you’ve got a warrior’s heart.”

the clone still holding the spoon twirled it dramatically like a sword, esme didn’t bother hiding her giggle.

“okay, okay, let’s see.” she tapped her chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness, tray wobbling dangerously in her other hand. “for brownies, i’d have to pick someone fast someone who can dodge a fork-stab and still grab the prize.” she leaned closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “but if i’m smart? i pick you. you’ve already got the perfect poker face. nobody would even see you coming until the last brownie mysteriously vanished.”

her voice dropped into mock-gravity, like she was announcing something sacred. “together, we’d be unstoppable. a dessert dynasty.”

then, with a quick tilt of her head and a sly grin, “of course… you could always betray me at the last second. classic twist ending. but then my clones and i would have to avenge myself. ”

if there was one thing fang appreciated, it was someone who could go a long with a bit. a lot of her job required to think on her toes. though she hated to admit it, she could be considered an improv actor as much as a brawler. it was nice to find someone with equal ability to accept the terms of a jest and add to it.

she held out a hand, hesitating only for a moment to consider whether she'd offer the same gesture to each of the clones. "i'd be honored to form an informal alliance with you. together we'll preside over our sweet kingdom with a ice cream fist."

"as much as i like a twist ending, i know better than to set myself against a team that easily outnumbers me," she grins, "but to be certain i don't step on any toes are there any other non-dessert related stipulations or rules you'd like to amend to our pact?"

“Yes!” He’s been wondering how to entertain a group of lab children and their equally strange bandmates without completely sidetracking the expedition. He considered hiring an intergalactic clown troupe to bring onboard, but ping pong and karaoke are probably going to work for a while. He'll save the clown idea for a rainy day.

After the thrill of Fang’s great suggestion, Stellan realizes that he didn't come up with it. That means he can leave the details and logistics up to Fang, and: “You should get Lina to work on this with you.” 

It’s not that he doesn’t care about the crew having a good—and maybe even normal time—on the ship before they land on blighted worlds. Stellan thinks this particular group of people could use some horribly average experiences, such as dumb mini-games you'd play at camp. It’s not the same, but it’s close enough.

However… he’d rather show up and be some kind of announcer than put it all together himself. 

He watches her get up with a shrug. He might’ve mixed up two genres unintentionally, but they all exist somewhere in the universe. “Okay, but do you know why pirates love listening to opera?”

"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."

Aware that he had to wait until the pictures were taken before he could retreat to his chambers, he picked an innocuous, ice cold water bottle from among the beverages before walking past her to lean his back on the wall against which the buffet table had been lined. It gave him an ample view of the common room, which was mostly empty this early in the evening.

"I don't believe the buffet table needs to be guarded, but I can stand in for you if you'd like to step away for a moment and grab yourself something to eat," he offered with a small, encouraging nod. Keeping their strength was important now, with the unknown challenges Argos presented only a few hours away, and that was especially true for Fang, given her role on the expedition.

"ah, i suppose you're right. i'm afraid that's a habit from my youth," she admitted, a faint, bashful smiles flickering over her lips. growing up, often her family and her neighbors would have communal potlucks where they'd scrape together their resources to make a meal to be shared. after the first few times seeing certain selfish members of the community take more than their share, fang got into the practice of eating last and ensuring that everyone had their fill. "i'm quite alright, thank you for offering though."

"go ahead and sit down, i'll join you, if that's alright."

"Neither," he said as he stepped forward, sliding sideways between Fang and the dessert table with the casual authority of someone who always made space for himself. He was close enough now that the quiet whirr of machinery inside him could be heard, steady as a second heartbeat.

"The human brain only needs 130 grams of glucose to perform optimally," he explained simply, reaching for a custard, then another, and another, stacking them neatly onto his plate with a gentle clattering of glass on ceramics. Five servings in total. "It doesn't care about which vehicle delivers it, only that it provides."

He finally glanced back at her and lifted the tower of yellow custard like he was presenting evidence. The look on his face said the rest: What's your excuse?

"Noted," she gulps, her attempt at 'hazing' the new kids with some gentle teasing a resounding failure. However, if she viewed the interaction a litmus test she'd gather all the information necessary. Neon was not to be questioned and not to be disturbed. If any of the other crew members reported issues with him, it would require very little explanation.

"Your lesson in nutrition is appreciated," she replied and took a step back so that her back was flush with the wall, providing him ample space to leave.

He snorts softly at Fang’s assertion. He opts to remain ignorant about whether she’s teasing him again because the sentiment makes him feel nice despite being undeserving, and generally unwilling to rise up to his position the way he might’ve done when he was a younger man. It’s been decades since he obtained a sense of pride from leading others—now all he wants is to be left alone; to be ignored. But her encouragement doesn’t go unnoticed, if she really is being encouraging. “Focus on that trio, the two who threatened to blow up the ship if they couldn’t be roommates, and Victor. They might need it the most.” 

Stellan palms at his face and considers his mustache. He nods. “Rock, country, disco…” he lists off genres for a solid three minutes until they become so niche and obscure that only some populations on certain planets would’ve heard of them. “Neo permanent wave romantic, green noise, hyperslap… Oh, and post-vomitcore.”

While her words of deference towards her were an overly-formal exaggeration, truth lay underneath. Fang would not be addressing him using an formalities nor would she fetter her opinions behind closed doors should Stellan make a call she disagreed with. After all, they were sharing quarters. If he was going to see her sleep in her skivvies, he'd also have to tolerate some insubordination. It was a balance. Still, Fang had every intention of setting a standard for the others. Fang had always valued Stellan's insights and di her best to ensure he felt valued. Maybe that was why he always came to her rescue and vise versa.

"Understood. From what I've gathered so far we have quite a few unruly crew members, not surprising for their age. I think it would be best for us to arrange outlets for any surplus energy whenever we feel the energy begin to crescendo. Ping pong tournaments, karaoke nights, and the like. I'd like to channel their anxiety into something manageable while we have the chance."

Fang nods along with his list, her posture still as stone, drinking in every genre with scrutiny. Once he finishes the absurd roll call, she responds with a flat tone, "I like opera." After the words fall like a rock between them she shakes out her body and gets to her feet, "I'm fairly certain you made at least one of those up, but I'm not sure which."

which is to say: he doesn't squeak at the unexpected question, but it's a near thing.

"i, um—" no. the answer is no. damian feels the distinct urge to stand up straighter. "are you sure the gauntlet is proverbial? you're not making it sound very proverbial."

a smile graces her features, a she places a gentle, placating on his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

"relax," the words are sharp and sure, but laced with generous affection. "if the gauntlet proves to be literal, i will assist you in enduring it. that is my job after all."

"allow me to make proper introductions," she glances down at the stacked plate, "sans a handshake, for your sake. i'm xiao fang, i'll be keeping you safe over the duration of this mission."

“Yeah, sometimes. When I’m tired,” Stellan responds honestly, looking at Fang a little wounded. “It’s not that bad. You could probably sleep through it.” 

He gets up and carries the bottle to his bedside table. Now, sitting across from Fang from his end of the room, he kicks his shoes off and pulls his tie loose. “What should I write in your first weekly report, then? ‘Crewmember screams during sleep, kicks crewmates’?” 

Stellan shrugs. He supposes that he should get to know the Supernova Girls and the band better. He’s only familiar with them through Maverick; that and the fact that their fame seems to have permeated across every corner of the galaxy, so even if he was tuned out, he’d know of them. “I probably should. You know,” He looks thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment, as if contemplating something for the first time. “They’re not that bad. The music's catchy.”

Fang swallowed down the embarrassment and proceeded, "Understood. I do not mind snoring so long as the rhythm is consistent."

A well of relief gathers in her chest at his continued levity. While the two could talk seriously to each other, she preferred when such conversations were not about themselves. "Do not forget to specify that the kicks are 'very hard'. I do not want Maverick to think I do anything weakly, even if it is in my sleep."

Fang knew it would be best for her to keep a comfortable distance from the performers, as she did with all of her clientele. It was best to be impartial in these matters, but Fang had a tendency to choose favorites. A soft-hearted habit, but one she could not resist. "I will be attending, if only to set an example of what it looks like to obey the orders of our unquestionable manager and co-captain."

"I agree. It's not my typical genre but it is easy to dance to and the messaging is hopeful," she concurred. "I understand the appeal. Is it your usual thing? I've always considered you a rock and roll or country type of guy. The mustache, I think, gives the impression."

esme froze mid-step, tray balanced in one hand while two of her clones loitered behind her, whispering exaggerated commentary like a bad sports cast.

“the gauntlet, huh?” she tilted her head, flashing fang a grin that was half-challenge, half-charm. “depends. are we talking, like, proper fork placement and polite little nibbles… or more of a last-one-standing-in-the-dessert-line kind of gauntlet? because i should warn you…” she snapped her fingers, and one of the clones held up a spoon like it was a dagger. “i don’t play fair with desserts.”

she leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice with mock-seriousness. “between us… i always pass tests with flying colors.” that was very much a lie.

she does not flinch at the wielding of the spoon, her eyes flicker to the glint of metal on instinct but otherwise her statuesque posture maintains.

"i think i should place my bet on you," she adds with a grin. "if you are being truthful about your perchance for 'flying colors'. plus, i prefer to align myself with the people who follow the rules when it suits them, but know not to play fair when it comes to the important things. . .like desserts."

"who will you be choosing to fight alongside your should the brawl for brownies begin? besides, of course," she gestures vaguely at the clones, "yourself."

"Try me."

"A large appetite, I see," she said, a laugh dancing on her breath. "I imagine you are either attempting malicious compliance by neither engaging in the meal nor defying its rules, which I commend. Or you deem this spread unsuitable, in which case this trip will be very trying for you."

As he cracks open a bottle of vodka and begins pouring it into his flask, he purses his lips and gives a lazy trill. “Yeah, sure.” He doesn’t want to think about what he’ll do if he runs out in the bumfuck middle of nowhere. “See, this is why I brought you—you always have so much foresight. I kept telling Maverick.”

She nods, adding the task to her mental to-do list. Fang preferred to keep as busy as possible, even if that meant micro-managing the mundane. "While I appreciate the sentiment, I would prefer if you sung my praise a little less to Maverick. I don't want him to find me too valuable."

She sits on the edge of what she assumes will be her bed, seeing as Stellan's test fit of the other one rumpled its sheets. With a sigh, her hands smooth out the already crisp edges of the comforter beneath her, "I suppose we'll have to arrive at the dinner separately. I don't want anyone thinking I'm your shadow. Are you going to stay to socialize at the event?"

“You can leave that there, thanks,” he motions, watching Fang carry half of his luggage with unsurprising ease. He plops down onto his mattress, trying it out, and bitterly admires its ideal balance between softness and firmness. Since he boarded the ship, Stellan keeps trying to find small, petty things to fault Maverick over, but the Supernova is designed with so much care and consideration that it’s starting to piss him off. With a huff, he sits up and turns his mind to other matters. 

“It’s been a while since we shared a space…” he trails off, searching his memory. It suddenly occurs to him that they were in a jail cell last time they were roommates. “Huh. Well, anyway,” he gets up and walks over to one of his bags. Stellan begins pulling out bottles of expensive alcohol. “I could already use one of these.”

"I'm uncertain if I have ever fallen asleep in your presence. I must say I'm sorry for your poor luck in drawing my name. As a fair warning, I tend to scream in my sleep," she says, her tone flat. She recalls the time they spent together in a cell, and how she made certain to never nod off. "Do not try to wake or comfort me. I will kick you. Very hard."

Her sharp gaze follows him as he reaches for the bottle. If her glare was judgmental, it would be difficult to tell, since her stare was always judgmental. "Will there be sufficient opportunity to restock your supply? Or would you like me to help you ration out your servings?"

#fighting with your anxiety like

AND THE CONSTELLATIONS SANG:  “I'll take your word like a good friend should.”

SKELETON: Starry

Role: Security guard.

Age: 39

Gender: Woman.

Associated color & motif: Brass knuckles.

Availability: Closed. Portrayed by Xiao Feng with Christina Chong as a faceclaim.