Plourr Estillo (
fighting_mad) wrote2006-06-11 10:41 pm
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[OOM] Simulator Room
Juke left, juke right, juke left, juke right; lure your opponent into a false sense of security, make him think he knows exactly what you're going to do.
Lasers flash by on the screen.
One last juke to the right, and there's the light-up of a targeting lock; she yanks the stick back and to the left, throwing the sim fighter into a tight roll that should press her back against the seat with its force. Of course, this machine isn't nearly complex enough for that.
She's got to find some way to throw the Priamsta off guard like that. To catch the rebels--the ones who say they're lead by Harran but they're not they can't be--off guard and--
The flash of an explosion and the screen goes dark.
"Sithspit!" Plourr slams an open palm against the overhead frame of the simulator, then lets her hand rest there, hooked on the frame.
She runs her other hand over her head in an unconscious motion; auburn stubble still foreign to the touch, too rough and scratchy. Hell, her whole body feels foreign; her tunic is smooth and skintight, eggshell-colored with deep purple, allowing every cord of muscle to show. She's not used to anything so fine, and she's definitely not used to the matching skirt, to seeing her legs bare in anything but athletic shorts. High heels. She'd drawn whistles from the Rogues that afternoon; joking whistles, yes, and ones that had earned several of them glares and thwappings, but she had caught admiring looks from not a few men at court, too. From the nobles at dinner.
Dinner.
"The tyranny of the nobles is at an end, Laabann. I will see to that. If you wish a place in the future of Eiattu, either stand with the throne-- or fall."
The crash of a breaking wineglass.
"The choice is yours."
Plourr hits the top of the simulator again.
Lasers flash by on the screen.
One last juke to the right, and there's the light-up of a targeting lock; she yanks the stick back and to the left, throwing the sim fighter into a tight roll that should press her back against the seat with its force. Of course, this machine isn't nearly complex enough for that.
She's got to find some way to throw the Priamsta off guard like that. To catch the rebels--the ones who say they're lead by Harran but they're not they can't be--off guard and--
The flash of an explosion and the screen goes dark.
"Sithspit!" Plourr slams an open palm against the overhead frame of the simulator, then lets her hand rest there, hooked on the frame.
She runs her other hand over her head in an unconscious motion; auburn stubble still foreign to the touch, too rough and scratchy. Hell, her whole body feels foreign; her tunic is smooth and skintight, eggshell-colored with deep purple, allowing every cord of muscle to show. She's not used to anything so fine, and she's definitely not used to the matching skirt, to seeing her legs bare in anything but athletic shorts. High heels. She'd drawn whistles from the Rogues that afternoon; joking whistles, yes, and ones that had earned several of them glares and thwappings, but she had caught admiring looks from not a few men at court, too. From the nobles at dinner.
Dinner.
"The tyranny of the nobles is at an end, Laabann. I will see to that. If you wish a place in the future of Eiattu, either stand with the throne-- or fall."
The crash of a breaking wineglass.
"The choice is yours."
Plourr hits the top of the simulator again.
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Then without announcement, accord, or anything at all really Aeryn walked in and took a seat at the other simulator. She hadn't expected Plourr to be here and after the conversation with Jaina it almost seemed like fate was tempting her.
Uncomfortable, when all Aeryn wanted to do was blast the dren out of some ships and insist she was handling everything perfectly.
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Aeryn lowered her head, tapping buttons haphazardly. Anything to look like she was doing something.
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Flat look. "Am I going to have to dodge more flying alcoholic beverages?"
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At least, not about Plourr. Her hands tightened on the console. That was the last thing she needed to be reminded of.
She had practically accused Plourr of being a tralk, called her a mistake.
"I just want some sims time. Didn't think anyone would be here so late."
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Aeryn wasn't exactly broadcasting her reasons. She didn't say anything but the sound of very loud blasting was emanating from her sim.
Out there she can say she'll get closure, she can say the vision was good thing, she can even say Plourr is uncomplicated.
In here, she just wants to kill something.
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Aeryn may or may not realize it, but there's now a TIE Interceptor in the sim that isn't quite as automated as the rest.
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But Plourr could. Plourr could beat her easily, she had the advantage, she was familiar with the machines much more than Aeryn was. That didn't mean she was going to make it easy.
She dodged a series of attacks, loosening her fingers, keeping sharp, pressing the annoyance down where it couldn't get to her.
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Have we mentioned yet that she hates them?
Still, it's a ship, and she's a pilot. She stops the curses before they come out as the screen moves impossibly fast in front of her, and it's a moment before she brings it somewhat under control. Once she's got it, though, she's checking the rudimentary sensor board for Aeryn's craft, and she's starting on a loop that will bring her in that direction, all the while juking and dancing, firing off potshots here and there at A-wings and X-wings. Her primary focus, though is trying to stay alive. Kriffing Empire.
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Frelling X-Wing sensors.
Aeryn scraped a turn just in time, clipping off the edge of Plourr's wing.
"If that's you, I'd advise you to stop. I didn't come here for a showdown with you."
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"No, you came here to blow shavit up," she says once the spinning has stopped and she's gotten the battered TIE turned around and headed back toward Aeryn's ship, lasers flashing. "And that's why I'm here, too. So just fucking fly, Sun."
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"No. I refuse your challenge." She slipped out past the console and leaned against the wall of the machine.
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Aeryn folded her arms, staring the floor; speaking quietly. There was none of her usual bite in the sarcasm.
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In the back of her mind, Jaina's words echoed. 'Just stay on your guard, Aeryn.'
"Some sort of Jedi mind thing, with Kira...the Exile."
She didn't volunteer anymore information, just picked at a small cut on her palm.
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"Because I was tired of feeling this way."
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How could anybody be so arrogant?
"It was supposed to show me what I wanted. Which path to take."
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"Oh, right. Sorry." She just avoids an eyeroll to go with the sarcasm. "It didn't?"
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"No. It did."
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She wanted to pace, to run, to scratch an itch she couldn't reach. Her feet only took her a short distance, right to the wall. This place, Milliways, was a cage.
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