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Some days it is good to be the (almost) boss. Imp butt gets kicked, a few more planets are freed, people actually shut up and listen when you talk - good times.

Some days it is horrible to be the (almost) boss. Pilots die, missions get scrapped, and someone's glued your helmet blast shield down.

Some days...

Some days all he wants is a re-take.

Like today.

Sadly, the universe doesn't give re-takes.

That's why there's a Corellian running full-tilt into the bar, yelling at the top of his lung a strange mix of something that sounds like English and something that really doesn't, being chased by three determined targeting drone droids. Figures he should have taken his blaster to the gym.

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"I am X-23."

Beat.

"I do not know Rogue Squadron."

The sad thing about his 'verse is... that name doesn't seem terribly strange at all.
"Like I said, it really doesn't matter here. No Empire, no snubfighters, thus, no need for a Rogue Squadron. Serves up good Whyrens, though." Wedge likes to focus on the important things, yes.

"Okay."

X looks blank.

"I do not know what that is."

She does not know what any of that is, not really.

"..." He feels a little like he's explaining things to a child. A very dangerous child with sharp knives hidden somewhere.
"Could you be a little more specific?"

"Snubfighters."

Beat.

"And Whyren's."

And, you know, the Empire he is talking about.

"Snubfighters..." Where's a protocol droid when you need one? "They're ships, one-man or two-man starships, built for fighting." He hopes that works, because otherwise he's down to trying to draw one. "And Whyren's is only the best alcohol in the universe."

"Oh."

Beat.

"I do not like alcohol."

This next pause is a little longer.

"You are a pilot?"

"I am indeed." She's only known him for a few minutes, but that sums him up pretty well.

"That is good."

That part kind of sounds like a question.

X does not really know pilots.

Well, pilots that do not fly helicopters for her missions.

Or the X-men.

"It really is. It really really is. There isn't much else I'm good for, except flying." It's in the blood. If he wasn't flying, he simply wouldn't be the same man.

"Okay."

Beat.

Beat.

"I am a weapon."

"You and my eleven pilots. We are what life makes us." Sure, Wes can be a lunatic five-year-old, but only the very suicidal get in front of him when he goes on a rampage.

X pauses, studying him.

Then--

"You are not like me."

Usually she can tell.

But it is okay.

"Perhaps not." There are levels, but still. "But we are still pointed at an enemy and expected to walk away after that enemy is dead."

Or to not come away at all. Sometimes he wonders if the powers that be care which one happens.

X thinks about that.

Then--

"I am learning to work in a team."

It is hard.

"Definitely better than trying to go it alone. Lots of people can be good alone, but it takes special talent to work well in a team, and a well-working team is nearly invincible."

There's a reason Rogue Squadron is feared.

X considers this, too.

Then--

"My teammates are not very good."

Yet.

Maybe one day . . .

Wedge laughs into his drink. And how often has he heard that one?

"Every team's got a hotshot."

X frowns a little.

"I do not know what that is."

"Someone who says to anyone who'll listen that their teammates are not very good." He informs her, grinning crookedly. "Mostly they turn out to be Corellians."

Maybe X can be an honorary one.

X looks blank.

"I am from New York."

Possibly New York by way of Canada.

Who knows?

"... Never mind. That bit wasn't important."

Unless you're a snubfighter pilot, but she's not. So.

"Oh."

X looks slightly perplexed.

Beat.

"Okay."

Sigh.

"So what do you like, if you don't like alcohol?"

"I like spaghetti."

Her reply is prompt.

"And milk."

Beat.

"And sparring."

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rogue-wraith.livejournal.com - 2008-05-22 06:04 (UTC) - Expand

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cutting_edgex23 - 2008-05-22 06:10 (UTC) - Expand

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