Rhone Meets a Pilot
Business hadn’t been great.
For almost a month, Elizander Rhone had been leading a meager crew of lowlifes and thugs through meager jobs of deliveries and boredom. His normal fare tended more toward mercenary work, a perfect fit for the types of criminals and near-criminals that had become his standard employee, but work had been scarce as of late. Sometimes, being a captain of a ragtag bunch of misfits was a ‘feast or famine’ business—and right now, famine had descended upon them.
Rhone, his crew, and his ship (the Claymore) had found a nice little corner of a dusty planet on which they could park. The planet sat rotating on the furthest orbit of an outer galaxy, and this particular planetoid hadn’t taken its terraforming very well, leaving it barren and all but deserted. Naturally, being small and deserted and out-of-the-way, it had soon become a haven for debauchery. Little bars and brothels and pawnbrokers had sprung up like weeds sprouting from the cracked ground. Rhone had visited a few times, not caring for it but knowing his crew ate it up. The crew of the Claymore was happy to spend the scant amount of credits in their dirty pockets in a place like this.
As for Captain Elizander himself, he was content to sit in one of the run-down bars and have a few drinks. Though aliens were just as welcome as any other outcast of polite society here on this planet, Rhone had no interest in partaking of what it had to offer. He was a calm man, a stoic man, but much warmer than his job or his crew or even his appearance would have conveyed.
Turians were rather slim but quite tall, and Rhone fit the bill of the species; the dark blue and silver armor he wore made him seem broader as well, making for a formidable appearance. His anatomy was standard, two legs and two arms, though the arms ended in large, almost claw-like hands that only had two large fingers and a thumb on each. His skin was a bluish-gray, and though humanoid, his face was entirely alien. Sharp planes arched over his long head, extending back almost like a stiff ponytail. His eyes were black, save for silver centers. His nose was but two slits above his mouth, which itself was sharp and had two thin strips of stiff flesh that extended down from either corner of his mouth. His face bore a large scar in a jagged starburst, one of his many scars from his many travels, though this scar was easily the most visible.
Despite the foreign appearance, he always somehow looked vaguely mirthful, like he had just listened to a somewhat humorous anecdote. Turians lived a long time; in his nearly hundred-and-fifty years, Rhone had learned the importance of being serious but not actually taking things too seriously. Still, especially given the roughness of his crew, a firm hand was needed, and the skilled captain was adept at that as well (even if, occasionally, he wished he could have the type of crew that saw him as a father figure rather than just the mercenary calling the shots). He commanded, he was charismatic, and if need be, he was deadly.
Not now, though. Now, he was relaxing.
He sat in an uncomfortable little corner booth in the dimly-lit bar, his three fingers around a dirty glass filled with liquid that was apparently very strongly alcoholic; he could smell it even when he wasn’t drinking it. There was a song playing somewhere across the room, but the din of rowdy conversations and raucous laughter from the other patrons (only a couple of which were his crewmembers) drowned out the ambient music. Overall, while not a classy place, it at least provided enough isolation that Rhone could drink—and ponder—in peace.
Until someone joined him in the booth.
Rhone glanced up, thinking he had seen movement in the periphery of his vision, and sure enough, there was a young woman sitting across the table from him. He hadn’t even heard her approach, and who sat at someone’s booth without saying a word? It was different, but once he scrutinized her for a few moments, he decided that ‘different’ was maybe just her way of being. She was young for a Terran, very young, maybe fifteen if Rhone had to guess. It was odd enough that someone as young as she would be in a filthy place like this, especially alone, but it was even odder the way she held herself. Her clothes were plain, her posture was straight but not in a tense manner, more a controlled manner, and her face was emotionless, like someone had cut her open and drained from her any sentiment. It looked like she hadn’t slept in a while, but the bags under her eyes were trivial compared to the eyes themselves. Her irises were a deep, intense amber, practically the color of fire, and the piercing gaze of them was locked on Rhone.
After a few minutes in which the captain and the girl simply studied each other, she finally spoke: “Are you the captain of that dreadnought interceptor out there.” Her voice was high because of her youth but low because of her manner.
It should have been a question, but it was not. She said it like she already knew the answer. Indeed, the Claymore was a mid-sized dreadnought interceptor, an older model. The fact that she knew that made him frown at her in a way that was less puzzled than it was intrigued. Was this some kind of trick? “I am,” he said simply. His voice was quite deep and laced with a buzzing, like the words came from a swarm of insects deep in his chest. “And you are?”
She watched him for a moment with her intense eyes, the pause stretching just a millisecond too long before she finally said, “Someone who needs a place on your ship.”
Rhone arched the planes that acted as his eyebrows. “A place on my ship?” he repeated, practically laughing. “Little one, if you know I’m the captain, you must have seen me arrive.” That was the only explanation for her assumption; when standing with the rough, unkempt men who made up his crew, Rhone stuck out as the leader easily. The girl had been watching him. “If so, you also saw the others who make up my crew. That’s not a crowd for a kid to be around.”
Annoyance flashed briefly in the girl’s eyes at being called a child, but she didn’t correct him. “I can handle myself,” she asserted, voice toneless in contrast with the way she looked at him.
Inky eyes with silvery pupils narrowed in suspicion as the scarred captain eyed the girl. Short, skinny, young… but determined. The determination was there in her piercing gaze, the amber eyes set into a face that was too stony for her youth. “How old are you?” the captain asked quietly.
“Eighteen,” said the fourteen-year-old girl. Her mouth moved, but the rest of her face stayed totally, eerily still. Like she was wearing a mask.
Something was unsettling about this young lady. Maybe it was the way her eyes seemed old even set in a youthful face, maybe it was the way her skinny limbs were tensed like she was ready (and able) to fight her way out of anything, maybe it was the way her intense eyes contrasted so starkly with her emotionless face. Where had this girl come from?
Moments passed before Rhone spoke, his hoarse, buzzing voice dropped low: “You are not eighteen, little one. Now why don’t you—”
“So dump me on the next planet. I’ll fly your ship in the meantime.”
It was a request that caused Rhone to visibly blanche. Fly his ship? Asking to be a part of it was bold enough, but asking to fly it? This girl was either delusional, desperate, or trying to pull a very unfunny joke. “Fly my ship? You’re a child.”
Her gaze did not shift. Her face did not twitch. Her posture did not change. All that moved was her mouth when she said, “You won’t regret it.”
Rhone paused, weighing his options, weighing her with his eyes. He could continue to refuse, but he got the impression she would continue to ask. Trying another tactic, trying to dissuade her, he said, “You don’t even know how much the pay is.” And neither did he, really.
“Pay doesn’t matter,” she replied simply. She wasn’t looking for a job; she was looking for a lift. The ship she already had wouldn’t work. Not anymore.
A long few moments passed, the two at the booth utterly silent as they stared each other down. There was no way Rhone was going to put his trust in a young girl, a stranger, to fly his ship. However, after a moment of pause, he tore his eyes away from her and glanced across the bar to where a few of his crew were making a ruckus, one holding back the other so the big oaf wouldn’t slug the guy next to him. Rhone easily admitted something to himself: he didn’t trust any of his crew to fly his ship. Thugs and cons and murderers and thieves. Until now, he himself acted as the pilot… and he was pretty terrible at it. The captain could kill a man from a thousand yards given a good gun and adequate scope, but flying his own ship? The skill had always eluded him.
He looked back at the girl across the table, who was still looking at him expectantly with those cutting eyes of hers. A sigh left Rhone’s slitted nostrils. “Until the next planet,” he said and vowed to himself to keep her away from the rest of the crew. Perhaps the best way to do that would be to keep her on the bridge with him, while he flew the ship… and perhaps, if she was there anyway, he would give her a chance. Just to see what she could do. Something in his gut told him she could fly a ship. Maybe it was the way she held herself or the way she offered to pilot, so calm and assured, but he had a hunch about this kid.
As soon as the words left him, something in the girl’s eyes changed. For a brief moment, she seemed… surprised. She had honestly expected more of a fight before he agreed. Still, she composed herself quickly and gave a quick, tight nod. “Okay,” was all she said, voice still cool but with an underlying, stilting awkwardness to the words. She did not thank him.
Rhone smirked a bit and held out his gloved, three-fingered hand. “Captain Elizander Rhone,” he introduced himself.
She glanced at his hand before connecting eyes once more, only pausing a moment before reaching to accept the handshake. Her small hand was swallowed by his. A long moment passed before she finally returned the introduction: “Alexa Sinclair.”
