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Pilot's License

“If I’m honest, I’m glad Spentfint’s gone. Old slave driver, he was.”

The morning of the changeover is functionally no different to any other morning in Northern Grid Outpost HO-32.

Spentflint – their old captain – gave up his post nearly a month prior. The official reason given was concern over health (and upon learning this Charge would say something about how ‘the old bastard’s gonna find a way to blame me for this’ ) but the more tuned-in consensus was far simpler; he simply got tired of the job and wanted to retire in peace. After weeks going back and forth with Grid administration, and of Burnout and Spotlight working in tandem to fill the position themselves, a replacement was sorely welcomed.

Still; the night shift changes hands, Charge oversleeps, and Contact brays on his door until she can hear him tripping into his jumpsuit and trying to smooth his hair into something that looks halfway decent.

“You’re always honest, Charge, whether we like it or not,” Spotlight starts, snapping him back to reality. She’s sitting at the command hub table and nursing a lukewarm mug of tea like she can't tell exactly what to do with it, “-anyway, I know you certainly had your differences, but that’s no way to talk about your superiors.”

Charge scoffs.

"My superiors, psh, right. It's easy for you to say that when you've not been on the recieving end of the namecalling and the patronising and the being worked into a corner and-”

Charge’s rambling is cut off by a clearing of a throat.

“They’re here.”

Burnout, the foreman, is the one to draw the group together. They stand in a loose line, as presentable as they possibly can be without making too much of a fuss. . The lift doors shutter open, re Two helmetted guards, the Brigadier, and behind them. The man that steps out of the lift is underwhelming. He’s on the tall side of average, prim and proper and lightly flushed a warm shade of pink, but the put-together-ness and the freshly-pressed uniform can do nothing to hide the way his nervous gait gives the impression of a baby deer learning to walk.

He looks toward the lineup and clasps his hands together.

“I- Hello,” He gives his best queasy smile,

“I’m Brightlight, your new captain – though I’m fairly confident you all knew that already.”

“Oh, did we? Nobody tells me anything…” Charge mumbles, never one to think in any situation that might call for it.

Brightlight exhales through his nose and continues with the same stilted delivery, purposefully ignoring the heckling.

“I, um, I haven’t exactly prepared a speech or anything, but it’s a pleasure to meet you all. I'm sure we're all going to get along just fine," He stresses the last syllable, and adds a practiced, "Efallai na fydd ein golau byth yn pylu.

He bows his head a little, hand resting on his chest and eyes never quite leaving Charge. His tone sounds more like he’s being held at gunpoint as time passes (in a sense he is – in that he can’t exactly check out of a mandated introduction with upper management near-literally breathing down his neck). Charge crosses his arms, shifts his weight from one leg to the other in a way that almost feels calculated.

“-and he hasn’t even prepared a speech, tch.” Charge's disruption is quiet but it still wins him a slap on the arm and a stern ‘Can you pack it in,’ from Burnout (the latter silently counts his blessings that the Brigadier's hearing isn't what it used to be).

"Don't cause too much trouble, would hate to see you [something something]."

The doors close, and the mechanical squeal of the capsule descending fades into a thud, and Brightlight finally lets out the breath he's been holding.

"Oh, thank the stars that's over," He sighs deeply and runs a hand through his hair, and continues, "I can't stand being around upper management for longer than a few hours. Now, um. If you'd allow me the to be brutally honest, I was given paperwork for this, profiles, you know what I mean, but I've barely had the chance to skim them; I guess I was hoping to learn more about you on the job, as it were."

He smiles apologetically. Contact notes how much less tense he looks now he can speak without being harangued by his superiors (admittedly, it's not much less than before, but she finds the visible shift in his posture mildly reassuring).

"Makes sense, I think," She offers, "You can only know so much from looking at a piece of paper."

Her contribution seems to be exactly what he's looking for

“We have files?”

"Uh, can I go now, or...?"

Charge says something joke flirting and | Brightlight freezes and Charge gives him a pat on the shoulder and laughs it off.

the brig slaps him on the back and says something vaguely condescending and after he leaves Spotlight is like oh don't you worry dear. you'll be fine. and glares at Charge the whole time.

"Not to worry I'll just, um..." He trails off. This was not supposed

The team, five strong, are stuck in the command hu

The backup lights throw the tunnels into a disconcertingly red mess of tubes and wires and

The extent of Brightlight’s knowledge could not have prepared him for 

“Why are you all looking at me like I spat on him, he literally offered .”

Contact makes a face like she’s never heard anything more braindead in her life.

“Because it’s your job, you complete arsehole.”

Spotlight looks as if she's about to remark on her language, and then thinks better of it. He had it coming in any case; better Contact tell him than upper management organise a disciplinary.

Brightlight trips over himself scrambling for his dropped communicator and the voice on the other end crackles out as a fear-tainted-whinge,

“Captain, I'm uh- we’re still stuck down here? Are you ok? Hello?”

Brightlight backsteps out of the way of another swipe. The roon is clearly disoriented by something or other. He's never seen anything like it.

“I, what? I’m- Charge, I don’t know if you can tell but I’m quite preoccupied right now,” He speaks sharply into the receiver, two muffled clangs on Charge's end putting pointed emphasis on 'quite' and 'preoccupied'. His own tone makes something in him clam up, and he can’t put a finger on why, though it doesn’t stop him from chewing his subordinate out.

“I will be down in a tick, if you can let me just-”

Brightlight clamps the communicator between his cheek and shoulder, finally steeling himself to make a swing at the errant Roon. He manages, miraculously, to crack it in the ribs, and immediately regrets his decision.

The roon yowls in pain and crumples, clutching at itself in some futile attempt to right the damage. Brightlight puts the fire extinguisher back on the rack with deliberation and gives a shaky exhale. He looks at the mess he’s made. He sidesteps the incapacitated creature – it's too busy wriggling and weeping to care that he's within arm's reach, but he wastes no time – and makes a beeline for the console, punching in the maintenance override for the generator. He is, for perhaps the first time in his life, incredibly grateful that he took the time to study the maintenance handbook in such meticulous detail.

“CAPTAIN!”

Brightlight whips his head around so fast he almost he maintenance officer barrels through the tunnel, sleeves rolled up, collar crooked, fear of the gods in him.

“I’m here, I’m helping, I’m- Oh.”

Charge stops abruptly and looks around, absorbing the scene. The roon on the floor has since passed out in a heap and his previously-presumed-helpless captain is looking at him.

“Do I detect a hint of disappointment?”

Brightlight deadpans the question, straight faced save for a single raised eyebrow. Charge’s eyes widen a fraction and he flushes indigo, shame taking him in the moment. The captain looks back at the console with a sigh and punches in the last few digits. A moment later, the red of the backup lights is replaced with the comfortable warmth and throwing the lift door wide.

"So, uh, what do we do about... this." Charge gestures to the passed-out roon. Brightlight stares at it blankly and then shifts focus to the hole in the wall, like he's trying to bring himself back to the present. What do they do? Now, there's a question. He supposes, in his head, that they might just leave the Roon outside and call for a patch job until someone can fix the wall for real, but it seems like such harsh treatment for something so involuntary (and is also, dare he think it, definitely against protocol). Brightlight leans his face on his hand in thought.

The ride down to the hub is tense. Charge leans leisurely on the lift wall, still not quite meeting Brightlight's eyes, and the captain is staring into the distance looking at best frazzled and at worst like the smallest thing might send him spiralling.

“You know, you’re a lot different to our last captain.” Charge shoots him a look and sucks his teeth a little, hands instinctively moving to his mouth.

“Truly, you know how to flatter a man," Brightlight replies in the most sarcastic voice he can muster, idly examining his nails. He can tell he looks worse for wear, but compared to everything else that’s happened, he couldn’t care less. He feels like his heart is fit to collapse. All this, and on his first day? His wings twitch under his jacket. He must be the victim of some cosmic joke; some cruel force hell bent on making his every moment the working definition of Sod’s Law.

Charge stays in his position, arms crossed and chewing on his thumbnail. To his own surprise, he can't think of a reply.

He doesn’t wait for the doors to close, nor for his team to recoup

Brightlight presses forward into him, and Charge is pinned in a moment to the wall. When Brightlight leans in to kiss him, his brain becomes a singularity.

The captain has vastly more experience – that much is clear even for someone so terminally oblivious – and Charge

What Charge lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm

He doesn’t know where to put his hands.

The light rings his head like a halo and in that moment Charge knows he can only make worse and worse decisions.