#tasarbasal

@tasarbasal

“What?!”

The words that left Garce’s mouth-- combined with the jerk and tussle of the Viper-- instilled quite the spark of rage within Rathteu, leaning harshly over on his seat to look over to the cockpit ahead.

“I ‘neva lie to you, lovey! Ship’s not fit for goin furth’er. Gotta land or else we gonna add to th’ pile of rubbish out ‘ere,” she responds.

The Grayhorn pilot lifts her shades and pivots a look over her shoulder back at Teu, who scoffs and shares a dumbfounded look with his mate beside him.

“Land?!” He shouts.

Garce grimaces-- hard to tell on a Thrall, but it was there.

“I ain’t happy ‘either, love. Gotta do it.”

With a frustrated slap to his legs, Rathteu leans back into his seat with a harsh thud, getting jarred around once more by the continuous debris smacking the ship from all sides. That important diplomatic conference doesn’t happen often-- and the first time he’d have to attend with Rathrey, under their Warmaster titles, they can’t even get there on time.

“..going to be late,” he growls, resting his face on his hands as Rey rubs over his back reassuringly. Garce frowns, but rolls her eyes, shifting her attention back ahead. The Detritus Ring was rightfully named; it was causing a lot of interference with... just about everything. Driving through the dumpster of space on their way to this formal get together surely didn’t help.

After a bit of rough driving and not-so-strategic planning, the Viper finally finds itself clumsily docked in a heavily packed bay, the stench of sweat, rust and cabbage stinging the air.

Rogues called this home. Maybe this wasn’t the reason. Either way, Teu found this place the exact opposite of pleasant.

Quite the stark contrast walking out from his ship in his clean, vibrant robes among those who didn’t give two shits about their presentation, he kept his head up, frantically looking around for someone who could help. There’s an echo of a kick resounding behind him as Garce pops the hood open on his Viper, smoke billowing out of it at an unhealthy rate. A groan leaves him, but he presses on; they needed to get this done, fast, then get out. That is all.

His trek leads him to a rather larger vessel a few slots down, carefully lifting his robes to step over cords and large wires. The telltale sign of feet sticking out from under this vessel catches his eye, and that only meant one thing.

His ears go back in determination. Climbing the platform and approaching the grimy pair of boots sticking out from under the ship, he leans down, knocking gently on the hull-- though it was easily drowned out by the sounds of metal and welding, steam and chatter.