#weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Lokane! Lokane alert!

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"You're—?"

"Loki. You may have heard of me."

"That was for New York!"

Every morning, Jane drinks her first cup of coffee in the cockpit, curled in the pilot's chair, manually verifying Amy's flawless course, speed, and system calibrations. It's a routine she's fallen into, comforting as the milk and sugar she measures into her latte every morning, courtesy of NASA's zero-g espresso maker. It assures her that things are fine, that she's alone. That everything is going according to what threadbare plan she has.

When she steps into the cockpit that morning and sees his long legs stretched across the navigational panel, she isn't surprised, not really. She squeals as boiling coffee slops over the back of her hand at her involuntary start. It hurts. The heat, that is.

He grins. She grins too, with a somewhat sharper edge, and wipes her dripping hand on his quilted tunic, enjoying how his smile wilts into disgust.

I’ve had a cup of coffee and three shots of espresso. How YOU doin’?!