Alasdair Sitra
Galactic Waste of Space
“You’re the pilot?”
Alasdair Sitra looked up from the ever moving traffic he’d been staring at for way too long. In fact how long had he been staring? He had no idea, but by the disgruntled look on the Gran’s face he had outstayed his welcome.
“Well?”
It was a good question, Alasdair was sure he probably didn’t look the part. His hair was a disheveled mess and not in the carefree, charming way he had wanted. His shirt, which had been white when it was first put on, now had saveral purple and bluish stains on it, stains that weren’t going anywhere…Ithorian blood? Or it was something nastier and not worth thinking of. Still, at least he had his smile and charming good looks to get by.
“Yes.” He answered finally, brandishing his smirk like he had never brandished before. “I am the pilot.” In truth he probably was the pilot, unless the other was? He wished he knew but the second allocation for the job had not been made available to him by the contract, instead it merely stated that a secondary was allocated.
“Get outta here.” The Gran pushed him hard on the shoulder and Alasdair was knocked back several paces, behind the Gran the door remained closed to the port-dock and for now he remained unable to obtain what should have been the simplest of fetch and return jobs.
“I am, see I have…” He shuffled through his pockets, where the hell had he put it? “Hold on a minute. I swear…” Finally the touch of something metal. “There.” He flipped a coin which the Gran caught haphazardly in his big fists. The eyes narrowed, clearly taking in the insignia on the coin.
“Oh. They actually hired you?” He burst into laughter. “Poor sods. No wonder this galaxy is going the way it is.” He waved his hand and the blast door began to open. “Good luck pilot.”
Having ignored the overly loud laughter of the Gran as he had left him to enter the dock, Alasdair had found himself face to face with what was probably the most beaten, rusty falling apart ship he’d ever seen. The thing was huge, sitting upright like a great sail and appeared to be bolted together from several old chassis and cockpits. At the base was a small creature, about half Alasdair’s height and sporting the oddest trunk like nose.
“You the pilot?”
“Why do people always ask that question?” Alasdair scoffed. “Don’t I look like one?”
“No.” The alien shook his head. “You look like a spice addict. Is that it, is it spice?” He peered at Alasdair with little eyes.
“No!” Offended or not Alasdair turned away to look at the ship. “I’m the pilot…I think.”
[member="Kalyn Shif"]
Alasdair Sitra looked up from the ever moving traffic he’d been staring at for way too long. In fact how long had he been staring? He had no idea, but by the disgruntled look on the Gran’s face he had outstayed his welcome.
“Well?”
It was a good question, Alasdair was sure he probably didn’t look the part. His hair was a disheveled mess and not in the carefree, charming way he had wanted. His shirt, which had been white when it was first put on, now had saveral purple and bluish stains on it, stains that weren’t going anywhere…Ithorian blood? Or it was something nastier and not worth thinking of. Still, at least he had his smile and charming good looks to get by.
“Yes.” He answered finally, brandishing his smirk like he had never brandished before. “I am the pilot.” In truth he probably was the pilot, unless the other was? He wished he knew but the second allocation for the job had not been made available to him by the contract, instead it merely stated that a secondary was allocated.
“Get outta here.” The Gran pushed him hard on the shoulder and Alasdair was knocked back several paces, behind the Gran the door remained closed to the port-dock and for now he remained unable to obtain what should have been the simplest of fetch and return jobs.
“I am, see I have…” He shuffled through his pockets, where the hell had he put it? “Hold on a minute. I swear…” Finally the touch of something metal. “There.” He flipped a coin which the Gran caught haphazardly in his big fists. The eyes narrowed, clearly taking in the insignia on the coin.
“Oh. They actually hired you?” He burst into laughter. “Poor sods. No wonder this galaxy is going the way it is.” He waved his hand and the blast door began to open. “Good luck pilot.”
Having ignored the overly loud laughter of the Gran as he had left him to enter the dock, Alasdair had found himself face to face with what was probably the most beaten, rusty falling apart ship he’d ever seen. The thing was huge, sitting upright like a great sail and appeared to be bolted together from several old chassis and cockpits. At the base was a small creature, about half Alasdair’s height and sporting the oddest trunk like nose.
“You the pilot?”
“Why do people always ask that question?” Alasdair scoffed. “Don’t I look like one?”
“No.” The alien shook his head. “You look like a spice addict. Is that it, is it spice?” He peered at Alasdair with little eyes.
“No!” Offended or not Alasdair turned away to look at the ship. “I’m the pilot…I think.”
[member="Kalyn Shif"]