The Lining is Silver, attn; Conner

[Lucifer Vice]

Son of a dirty kriffing bitch. That one thought repeated itself many times in Lucifer's head. He grew somewhat less articulate—even just in his head—when he was legitimately drunk. That term certainly applied now; he'd been sitting there—in that same damn military lounge in which he'd inadvertently met Corporal Caldwen not two weeks prior—for nearly three hours. And in all that time he'd managed to drown himself in four whole drinks. As furious as he was at the galaxy and most everything in it, enough to say “kriff it” to his typical aversion to imbibing enough to lose some of his constant restraint, he still couldn't bring himself to slam back drinks. It just seemed wrong. Though his drinks were quite stiff, still he drained the glasses slowly. In that way it had actually taken him some time to get to the point of being more than merely tipsy, but he was there now.

At this point he was having serious doubts about this whole military career plan. He'd known from the start it was merely a means to an end and would likely involve having to follow many paths he didn't much care to tread before it would finally lead him in the direction he wanted, but thus far he felt he'd made no progress. True, despite how much bullshit he'd had to wade through in that first mission, he'd come out smelling like a rose to the Renegades' leader. Or so he'd thought. Then followed the series of hellish assignments during which he heard no word on the matter. What the kriff had happened? He though perhaps he knew. Wing Commander Bravil had likely done a full background check, discovered the massive stain his father Marius had left on him, and decided he was too great a risk. He nearly threw the empty glass he was toying with against the back of the bar in enraged frustration at that thought. Instead he slid it away from him, calling for another round. Son of a dirty kriffing bitch.

[Constance Bravil]

Conner hated bureaucracy. She loathed politics. Neither unfortunate aspect of civilization possessed any redeeming qualities. All either of them ever did was slow things down and muck matters up. Paperwork and record keeping had their place, but it seemed that inevitably the sentients put in charge of processing such things turned into insufferably arrogant prats who couldn't find the word 'efficiency' in the dictionary if their lives depended on it. What had started out as a relatively simple request for the transfer of a junior officer to her command had soon become a full-blown official kerfluffle, much to Constance's displeasure.

That Flight Cadet Vice would turn out to be something of a hot commodity as far as other fleet commands who wanted to recruit him went wasn't all that surprising. Conner would've had to lower her opinions regarding the competency of her fellow squadron leaders in the Corps even further if no one else had tried to lay a claim on the talented rookie. At least someone else out there isn't blind as well as deaf and dumb. These kinds of obstacle to her plans she could deal with, even respect in a way. That wasn't the part of the problem she found so frustrating.

No... that distinction came from the rapid descent of their overlapping official communiques into the sucking mire of political aspirations. One of the other contenders to play Vice's CO had nebulous 'friends' in the theoretical 'right places', and a big fuss had to be made as to the potential damage to the careers of all involved should he be denied his first draft pick to fill in the newest hole on Vortex Squadron. Big talk, and most of it nothing more meaningful than vented plasma, but in the game of politics you had to take that kind of shavit seriously--or so everyone else involved seemed to believe.

In Conner's mind, no amount of connections could make you a better pilot or a more competent commanding officer. Those facts, combined with the performance of those already under your authority should be the sole determining factors used to best place a green but skilled recruit. There you go with your logic again. Haven't you accepted by now it's something of a lost art in the Confederate hierarchy. Understood, yes, but accept? Never. She found it far too effective a tool, despite many a fellow officer's near allergic resistance to her using it.

And then there'd been the sudden eruption of security concerns on the part of her Group Captain that next blocked her path. On this, Constance found his worries almost laughable. Did he really think the Confederate Spook Squad would've ever let him out of their dungeons if they'd had the slightest suspicions left that he might be working for the other side? Really now, their methods of interrogation may be brutal and degrading in a multitude of ways, but they also tended to be rather effective when used on 'soft' targets like the young Doctor Vice.

With a mental effort, Conner shunted her private irritations aside. They were all in the past now. In the end, Corellian stubbornness had stood her well throughout the process, and she'd achieved exactly what she'd wanted out of the mess. Now all that remained was delivering the good news. Or at least I hope it's good news. Sure would be rather anticlimactic if I'd fought such an administrative battle over someone who wanted no part in the Renegades!

Commander Bravil wasn't truly worried about the possibility of such a reaction though. The relaxed pace at which she approached the entrance to a certain military lounge showed that well enough. Military IDs were a beautiful thing sometimes, what with how easy they made it to track someone of interest when they were on base. Vice had walked through easily a dozen ident scanners on his way to the lounge, each of which had registered his name, rank, serial number, and timecode of his passing. From the data she'd retrieved, he'd been here for about three hours now. Unusual for his habits, from what information she'd gathered about him thus far.

The double doors hissed apart as Conner approached them, giving her a clear view of the interior. Lady Luck was smiling on her for lunch, as she found her quarry easy to locate at the bar. While she couldn't see the full of his face at this angle, the cut of his hair and the way he filled out his conformist black uniform made his identity plain. She was a woman who paid attention to detail when it came to people who intrigued her.

Ignoring the interested stares and inviting looks some of the bolder--and more inebriated--patrons at the bar aimed her way, Constance sidled up behind the subject of her scrutiny. "Mind if I join you?" she quipped in a light-hearted fashion. Without waiting for the younger man's response, she soon staked her claim to the unoccupied stool on the doctor's left. Seeing a bartender sliding her way, the brunette lifted a finger to snag his attention. "One Antakarian Fire Dancer, please. And put whatever my friend here's had so far on my tab."

[Lucifer Vice]

Wallowing in his own angry brand of self pity, Lucifer paid no heed to anything going on behind him. While he's been involved in quite the brawl the last time he'd been here, no one seemed to care, even the bartender who'd been there that night. Of course that man was likely the only one who remembered the events clearly and that the cadet had in no way been at fault. Even so he'd have been more wary of imbecilic reprisals from behind had he not been too irate and inebriated to care. The mood he was in, any bastard who tried to start something would likely find himself with a sonic blast colliding with his face.

He really hadn't expected the feminine voice that sounded behind him requesting his company. Thus far he'd not done a superb job of ingratiating himself with any of the females he now worked with, though there weren't any he'd really set his eye on in that manner either. If he'd thought about it rationally for a moment, the opportunity for a rigorous night of violent passion really could be quite good for him; there wasn't an overwhelming amount of rational thought floating about his head at the moment however.

Not even bothering to look, he merely began formulating his acerbic reply as the woman took the seat beside him, though he further friendly words interrupted him before he'd started and only stoked the fires of his rage. “I'm not your friend and I don't need your kriffing charity. Just because you get lubed up over some big-city do-” He'd turned to face her as he began delivering his venom, but his voice caught in his throat when his eyes registered just who it was he was speaking to. His mind tried valiantly to form some sort of eloquent speech to smooth over his affront, but nothing came through the thick haze of alcohol. Finally he just settled for whatever came out. “Ah, kriff me. I beg your pardon Miss Bravil. I thought... Kriff, I don't know what I thought. Sorry. I've had a hell of a kriffing week. I'll have another of the same.” The final comment was aimed at the barman before he got too far away. Chandrilan brandy wasn't cheap and he couldn't really taste his drinks anymore anyway, but the thought of coming up with another option was just too much trouble.

Planting the heel of his right palm squarely into the corresponding eye socket, he leaned into his hand and groaned. It was uncommon for him to indulge in more than one drink a night, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much. The morning was going to kill. Still, while his words flowed a bit more freely and his usage of vulgarities was noticeably more liberal, he could still articulate what words he used well, no slurring evident. That was good. It helped him not feel quite so pathetic. “Was there something I can do for you Miss Bravil?” He also kept to his formal means of address. At least with her. Even though it seemed unlikely she would be of much use to him at this point, after having seen her in action both in and out of her flightsuit, she had certainly earned a level of respect he'd not bestowed on anyone since his life had crashed into the dirt, possibly even before that. The fact that he actually apologized to her was evidence of that.

[Constance Bravil]

“I'm not your friend and I don't need your kriffing charity. Just because you get lubed up over some big-city do-”

Both brows lifted in mild surprise at the rancor of Vice's response. Seemed like the junior pilot was in a rather choice mood this evening. Not to mention a well-lubricated one. Either the doctor was about as bad at holding his liquor as Shaine used to be, or he'd pounded back quite a few drinks since arriving at the lounge. Conner didn't know the guy well enough yet to narrow down which it was. Either way, this was the first time she'd witnessed Vice lose his cool.

Whatever his reasons were for snapping at her, they weren't personal in nature. That much was evident from the speed at which he proceeded to swallow the rest of the venom on his tongue. Commander Bravil hid her dark amusement at watching the Flight Cadet struggle through his chagrin. Part of her felt bad for the kid; it's not like Vice would've expected one of his superior officers to pay him a visit when he'd set out to get tanked tonight.

“Ah, kriff me. I beg your pardon Miss Bravil. I thought... Kriff, I don't know what I thought. Sorry. I've had a hell of a kriffing week."

Now there's a form of address I haven't heard in a while. Conner was accustomed by now to either being called by her first name or her rank. Calling her 'Miss Bravil' like that made the Dolomarian sound like a civilian. Which she supposed made sense, given what she knew now of his record. The military hadn't exactly been his first choice of career.

As for his concerns, the veteran pilot swept them aside with a casual wave of her hand. "Don't sweat it, Vice. We've all had weeks like that." Leaning one elbow against the bar, Conner swiveled on her stool to face him. "Besides, we're both off-duty. Mouthing off to me right now doesn't constitute insubordination." The way the right side of her mouth quirked up as she spoke would make it clear even through the physician's haze of inebriation that the Wing Commander was joking.

"I'll have another of the same.”

For a moment Constance contemplated whether she should move to cut the rookie off. He'd obviously passed through happy buzz territory some time back. Nothing good lay further along his course. Quick as the thought came, the Corellian dismissed it. She was a big believer in the right to self-determination. Everyone should be allowed to dig their own grave--or schedule their own hangover, as the case may be--if that's what it took to get them to know better next time.

“Was there something I can do for you Miss Bravil?”

Angler found herself impressed with whoever in the doctor's life had impressed such manners into his psyche from a young age. Hanging on to common courtesy while drunk wasn't a skill most people possessed. "Well, sort of." That (no doubt irritatingly vague) statement hung in the air as the bartender came over with their ordered drinks. The Corellian tossed back a healthy swallow of Fire Dancer before she continued. "I wanted to have a talk with you. About joining my squadron." Even if she didn't believe in shooting straight over dancing around a topic, playing mind games with a sloshed subordinate often backfired. "If this is a bad time, though, we can chat later..."

[Lucifer Vice]

"Besides, we're both off-duty. Mouthing off to me right now doesn't constitute insubordination."

Perceptive even in a drunken state—at least when he decided to pay attention to something—Vice knew Constance wasn't being serious. Inebriated as he was his typical reserve was broken down enough that he might have returned the amused smile were he not in far too rotten a mood to even consider such an uncharacteristic act. He settled for a little shrug and nod. He was glad this wasn't counted as insubordination. The woman didn't seem to carry much patience for that, given the events following the mission they'd partaken of together.

"Well, sort of."

Well that was irritatingly vague. Patience was not the young doctor's strongest asset at his best and he was far below that at this point. Still, because of who he was speaking to he kept the barrage of bitter retorts that sprang to mind as pure soliloquy. Funny, inhibited in this way he had a very difficult time being quite as eloquent as he'd typically like and had had to seriously struggle to find the words for his grudging apology. Yet while the terms used were perhaps somewhat less creative, he had no trouble rapidly thinking up quite the array of insults and belittlements to hurl about. That probably wasn't saying anything good about his character. Oh well.

Despite keeping his verbal venom contained, Lucifer still snatched his drink from the bartender, offering the man only a glower in return, and sipped it impatiently as Constance took an apparently eager swig of her own. Given how things had been going, he imagined she had likely come to tell him in person why she couldn't admit him into her squadron. Courteous of her, and because of that and—more importantly—the respect she'd earned he'd put a sincere effort into not throwing his drink in her face once the bad news was delivered.

"I wanted to have a talk with you. About joining my squadron. If this is a bad time, though, we can chat later..."

Indeed, sounded like she was trying to soften the blow, but the end result would be the same. You worthless kriffbag bastard Marius. You've ruined me in the eyes of everyone. I swear I'll find a way to reach you and pull your vertebrae out one at a time! The hateful thoughts at his father only fueled the snort he made in reply to his companion's words. Gesturing about with his drink (and spilling a bit of it, his manual dexterity severely hindered) he replied with a bitter edge of irony. “Oh indeed Miss Bravil, because I am clearly much engaged at present with this coterie of fine gentlemen you see around me, close, personal friends, all.”

Even as the words were uttered he seemed to take some regret from them. She was trying at least. He should too. Taking a deep sip from his brandy (as if that would help) as he rested both elbows on the bar, he turned his eyes away from her before resting his glass in one hand against his temple. Yes, because osmosis will help you get the alcohol into your brain faster. Kriffing imbecile. He sighed and apologized once more, likely making a personal record for him; two in one night. “Forgive me. This... is as good a time as any.”

[Constance Bravil]

“Oh indeed Miss Bravil, because I am clearly much engaged at present with this coterie of fine gentlemen you see around me, close, personal friends, all.”

Note to self: Vice makes an angry drunk. This tidbit of information was an important one, given most of the main forms of Renegade socialization involved alcohol. The veterans in the squadron weren't exactly what you'd call party animals, but they all appreciated a good buzz. Sometimes it just wasn't worth it to stay stone cold sober. Sometimes taking the edge off for a while was what it took to keep you sharp the rest of the time.

That said, the doctor didn't strike her as one to overindulge on general principle. He seemed a big fan of self-control, a trait Conner could appreciate. Which meant whatever had gotten the guy riled up in the first place must be pretty important to him, to drive him to compromise his haughty exterior like this. The Wing Commander was tempted to pry, but she thought it best to get the 'official business' out of the way first. There would be time for interrogations later.

“Forgive me. This... is as good a time as any.”

Gray eyes narrowed a fraction in evaluation as Conner pondered whether to take the rookie at his word. Whatever was eating at him had a nasty bite. "Alright, if you say so. Just try to remember we're on the same side here, okay?" The Corellian offered her companion another lopsided smile, this one kinder than the last. Not my style to kick a man when he's down. Figuratively speaking, anyways... The last seconds of Sorn's life played out on the holoscreen in her brain before she shut it down.

Setting her lovely beverage down on the bar, Constance withdrew a standard issue Confederate datapad from an inner jacket pocket. "By the regs, this is already a done deal, but I don't believe in forced conscription." Setting the smooth rectangle of plastic and metal on the wood countertop, she slid the display device towards her inebriated companion. "I haven't filed my official acknowledgment accepting your transfer to my command yet. If you'd rather opt out, this is your one opportunity to wield veto power over me."

Allowing Vice a few minutes to read over the contents of the 'pad himself, Conner returned to paying attention to her drink. What she was pulling right now was a bit unusual, sure, but the good doctor was an unusual individual. Unlike the other green pilots she'd chosen to pull into the fold in recent weeks, the Flight Cadet hadn't actually requested an assignment in Renegade Squadron. Most hopefuls made a point of doing so, through correspondence if not in person. There was a significant waiting list of potentials who'd expressed an interest in serving alongside some of the most decorated and infamous pilots in the Confederation. And no doubt just as many pilots who think we're all insane and want nothing to do with us.

[Lucifer Vice]

"Alright, if you say so. Just try to remember we're on the same side here, okay?"

It was often said that persistence paid off. While the cynical cadet generally paid little heed to whatever droll little phrases the masses found trendy, it seemed in this case the saying applied, at least so long as the wing commander saw it as a pay off. Anything resembling laughter that went beyond a derisive snort was not often witnessed sneaking out of the near perpetual scowl Vice wore, but at Bravil's second little attempt at levity and that damnably charming cockeyed smile she gave—which he saw only out of the corner of his eye, still facing the bar with his drink held to his head—the man couldn't keep from letting a quiet exhale of a chuckle escape his momentarily upturned lips.

Letting his eyes slide shut, he didn't allow them to rest for long. The light clink of his acquaintance's glass being set on the bar had him looking back toward her and letting his own stiff beverage rest on the counter-top as well, though he kept his fingers securely wrapped about it. He doubted very much whether he was done for the night just yet.

"By the regs, this is already a done deal, but I don't believe in forced conscription. I haven't filed my official acknowledgment accepting your transfer to my command yet. If you'd rather opt out, this is your one opportunity to wield veto power over me."

The kriff was she going on about? Most of what she'd said was open to interpretation, but the part about him being transferred to her command didn't seem to lead but one place. Glancing from her slightly blurry face to the reading material she'd passed him and back once or twice, a sort of redeeming hope began to bloom inside the physician. Had he been at his typical level of reservedness no sign would've been given, and as it was he tried to avoid showing any eager optimism, though it was unlikely he'd be able to keep his features from lightening at least a teensy bit, faulty control that he now had over his fine motor skills. But he would not allow himself to become overcome with excitement. From what he knew of Constance Bravil she wasn't one to pull childish and damaging pranks, but one couldn't be too careful. He'd thought the same of some seemingly friendly fellow interns once, his focus on studies and science over the society of his peers and coworkers having made him vulnerably naive to the sort of cruelty people were capable of. Well, lesson learned.

Slowly lifting the datapad from the bar, more because he didn't want to accidentally drop it than because there was great apprehension over what it held—though a degree of the latter applied as well—Lucifer tried vainly to skim through it before giving up on that venture. His vision was too hazy, his mind too indolent to grasp the overarching meaning of the entire document. Starting over at the beginning he focused on each word singularly, trying only to link it with the word that followed. Progress was slow, especially since he was hesitant to believe the message the verbose transcript of orders was attempting to convey. Getting maybe a third of the way through before he completely lost himself in the overabundance of technical terms which he oddly would've rather appreciated while sober, he finally dropped it back to the bar with a frustrated grimace. From what he gathered it too implied he'd been accepted as a Renegade, but it wasn't enough. The scientist in him wanted certain, irrefutable proof. Typically a verbal testimony wouldn't qualify, but he was desperate enough to accept as much if it came from the squadron's commander.

“Perhaps I was mistaken in my assessment of the amicability of the moment Miss Bravil. I can't seem to concentrate enough to read through this entire report. Also I think your datapad may be damaged; the text is very fuzzy. Regardless, what I was able to comprehend implied, as did your own words, that I am to be transferred into Renegade Squadron under your direct command. Is this so?” It was likely a bit hysterical to hear such well put together speech coming from the numb lips of a wiry man who was now swaying slightly in his bar stool, one hand still gripping the glass of brandy that looked as though it might be the death of him. At least he seemed to have the good sense not to attempt to take another drink. Not yet anyway. Kriff, but it was hitting him hard all of a sudden.

[Constance Bravil]

Vice was taking longer with reading the 'pad than Conner had anticipated. Apparently the good doctor was even more tanked than he looked or sounded. The Wing Commander gave the rookie points for being able to speak straight this far into a bout of intoxication. Not wanting to draw attention towards the man's compromised state, Constance simply sat and finished off her own drink in silence. Everyone deserved some small amount of dignity in her opinion, even after they'd gone out of their way to chuck it out the nearest airlock.

Hearing the datapad dropped brought her full focus back to the figure seated besides her. The Flight Cadet's face clearly displayed his frustration, along with a hearty helping of confusion. That combined with the subtle swaying she detected in Vice's posture made her start to worry about how long the younger man would remain conscious. Just how much had he imbibed before she'd shown up, anyways?

“Perhaps I was mistaken in my assessment of the amicability of the moment Miss Bravil. I can't seem to concentrate enough to read through this entire report. Also I think your datapad may be damaged; the text is very fuzzy."

Sure it is, kid. Man, but was he lit right now. Out of kindness, Conner elected against correcting him. After all, it's not like getting into an argument with someone this wasted was a good idea anyways. Even if you won, you lost.

From Vice's reactions, she was starting to wonder if he'd even been drunk before. He didn't seem all that familiar with the consequences of overindulgence. A little unusual for a guy his age, but not out of character from what she'd seen.

"Regardless, what I was able to comprehend implied, as did your own words, that I am to be transferred into Renegade Squadron under your direct command. Is this so?”

So that's what he was confused about? Commander Bravil thought she'd been pretty straightforward as to her reason for being here. She guessed the nuances of her statements had been lost in the convoluted mass of synapses alcohol had made of his brain. "Yes, that's so," she replied, one brow quirked upwards. "I filed the transfer request after that mess on Alderaan, but due to various inconvenient obstacles presenting themselves in the form of bureaucrats the orders weren't cut until yesterday."

Canting her head to one side, Conner fixed the other pilot with a discerning stare. "You're not looking so good, Vice. I wouldn't finish that drink if I were you." A self-depreciating smirk took shape on her lips. "Trust me, I've got way too much experience with getting plastered. Maybe you ought to consider heading home. I can hail you a cab if need be." Part of her wanted to offer to go with him to make sure he actually made it back to the barracks instead of ending up faceplanted onto the sidewalk, but she didn't want him to get the wrong impression.

[Lucifer Vice]

"Yes, that's so. […] the orders weren't cut until yesterday.”

Son of a dirty kriffing bitch. Why the hell hadn't she said so from that start? This was it! Not only had she deemed him worthy of joining the ranks of her elite (and notoriously independent) pilots, but it hadn't even been her fault that he'd been stewing in misery for so long. Kriffing bureaucracy; that really shouldn't have surprised him. Why hadn't he thought of that possibility? Well, he had, but had dismissed it as foolish hopeful fantasy. Ever since the whole mess that destroyed his life had begun Lucifer had grown hesitant in trusting optimistic ideas or in putting faith in anybody to not kriff him over at any opportunity. Now though, with his conscious mind so hazy, the recognition of that paranoia floated to the top.

The fingers that gripped his glass had begun rapping against the hard substance as he registered her words and ran over their meaning again and again. It was going his way! Things were progressing and he didn't need to be so hopeless! Constance Bravil had come through for him when he'd not even asked her to, and excitement built in the young cadet. How long now until he could meet his goals, put them behind him, and maybe see what sort of life he could have? Possibly as soon as a week! He'd no idea what sort of crazy missions he'd be sent on, deep into Alliance territory. There was always the chance of meeting his father and concluding their business. Sure it wasn't a great chance, and the cynic in him never would have let him hope for such a quick resolution. But the combination of alcohol and fantastic news had the cynic in him conspicuously silent. While his one hand danced along his brandy, the other came up to his face, fingertips taping his lips pensively as he tried to contain his excitement.

“I can hail you a cab if need be.”

Kriff, had she been talking more? He'd stopped paying attention. What was this about a cab? Was she suggesting he call it a night? Perhaps he had consumed more alcohol tonight than ever before, but how could he simply head back to the barracks now? “What? No, no, no. We must celebrate Miss Bravil! Yes! We must! Bartender!” Lucifer realized he hadn't a clue of the man's name, never having bothered to ask as he'd not much cared. Oh well. “Another round!” The exclamation was punctuated by the raising of his still more than halfway full glass, a condition he noticed as soon as he lifted it. “Oh, apologies my good man. Perhaps succeeding this one then, yes?”

Turning his attention back to Constance, he wore the oddest look; a broad, gleaming, sincere grin. Had casual physical contact been something he hadn't been brought up to not engage in, he might have clapped the commander on the shoulder. It was just as well as he'd likely have missed anyway. While all signs of anger or depression had flown from him, he remained a bit wobbly as he took another sip of brandy. To say it was unusual behavior for him would have been a gross understatement, and there was little doubt that he'd be the same cold grouch in the morning, probably even more so given the inevitable hangover. Tonight though had become a very good night and along with a good deal of his physical dexterity, the alcohol had lifted away his reserved self control.

“You know what I like about you, Miss Bravil? You're not one of those bureaucrats you so recently mentioned. An approximation of your attitude would be I believe, 'This is the way it is; kriffing deal with it.' You're direct, not a politician, and yet you go about it with a cool and confident civility. I admire that, I do.” He raised his glass once more, giving a private toast before taking another sip. “To you, Miss Bravil.” Nodding as if to himself, he set his glass back on the bar and tapped his fingertips together a few times, trying to bring his mind back to whatever it was he'd planned on saying next. After a brief pause and flash of confusion on his face, he nodded again. “So then, when shall I report to the Renegade barracks? The Renegade barracks!” The final enthusiastic exclamation seemed to distract him from his question and the train of thought he'd been following. In the morning he'd be surly as hell and probably hate himself for his drunken antics, but none of that entered his thoughts. It was a good night, indeed.

[Constance Bravil]

“What? No, no, no. We must celebrate Miss Bravil! Yes! We must!"

Apparently Conner's warning came too late; Vice had passed well beyond the borders of reason's domain already tonight. She considered arguing with him, flexing her superior officer muscles. No doubt he'd hate himself in the morning, even if he didn't recall his behavior. That said, Constance was a big believer in self-determination. If he wanted to kill his liver, so be it. Her intervention would only come into play if he did something truly stupid, like feeling up another pilot or starting a brawl.

“Another round! Oh, apologies my good man. Perhaps succeeding this one then, yes?”

Commander Bravil found it interesting his highborn patterns of speech survived inebriation so well. Even while his balance leaned towards the precarious, the good doctor never slurred his words. That said, he'd gotten drunk enough to overcome his normal cold, arrogant reserve. The wide smile Vice wore now looked almost out of character for him, thanks to her previous observations. At the same time, it hinted towards the person he may have been once, before accusations of treason had torn his life apart. Being something of an expert as to how dramatically people could change through suffering, Conner wondered what the old Lucifer Vice had been like.

Before the bartender's attention was diverted away from the pair of pilots, the Corellian signaled for a refill of her glass. Thanks to many a leave spent drinking with Algernon, Conner's alcohol tolerance was quite impressive. She wouldn't start feeling it until the third drink at least. At the rate the Flight Cadet was wobbling, Angler was pretty sure he'd zonk out for the night before she had the chance to get that far.

“You know what I like about you, Miss Bravil? ... I admire that, I do. To you, Miss Bravil.”

Compliments also seemed out of character for Vice, but that was no reason for Constance to not accept them with grace. "Thank you," she demurred with a faint smile. "I'm glad that's what you got out of that mess on Alderaan, rather than me being something of a bully." She'd discovered some men tended to be threatened by the behavior of a woman who competed with them on their own terms. Misha had certainly fallen into that particular category. You'd think that sort of view would be several thousand years outdated by now, but Conner supposed biology was a bitch that way.

Again amusement toyed with the corners of the woman's mouth. "I have to ask though, Vice... is it going to be 'Miss Bravil' this and 'Miss Bravil' that your whole tour of duty?" The prompt arrival of her second Fire Dancer made her pause for a sip. "Not that I mind the show of respect." That's what she guessed his manner of address meant anyways. "But I'm not going to space you for being informal."

“So then, when shall I report to the Renegade barracks? The Renegade barracks!”

Conner hid her grin behind her glass as she watched Vice wobble in his enthusiasm. The temptation to mess with him in such a compromised state was high, but she managed to resist it for now. There'd be plenty of time for hazing later. "Three days from now. That'll give you plenty of time to move out of your current bunk space. Not to mention recover from your hangover." Okay, she mostly managed to resist teasing him. She'd never claimed to be a saint.

[Lucifer Vice]

"Thank you. I'm glad that's what you got out of that mess on Alderaan, rather than me being something of a bully."

Air was blown through the physician's lips dismissively as he waved his hand at that nonsensical crap. “Nonsense! You could have delivered far more vicious blows to Captain Testicless and the former Flight Lieutenant... Michelle? Whatever his name was. It's not the point anyway. The point is... Hmm, I seem to have forgotten what it was. How perturbing.” He seemed to get over it admirably enough however, taking another drink and grinning like a fool.

"I have to ask though, Vice […] But I'm not going to space you for being informal."

Lucifer blinked and stared at Conner for several long seconds. Confusion contorted his face and he squinted as if the key to his comprehension were somewhere on her face, written in very tiny text. Finally he voiced his perplexity. “But Miss Bravil, I am being informal. Given our relationship and the boundaries thereof it seemed the proper form of address.” His eyes widened as if a great epiphany had struck him.

“Unless you mean for us to be more than merely comrades in arms. Are you suggesting a friendship Miss Bravil? Yes, of course you are. Of course, of course. Then yes, 'Miss Bravil' must sound prodigiously stodgy, mustn't it? Then 'Constance' shall do, yes. Or mayhaps 'Connie,' if we're going for exceedingly informal. Wing Commander Connie, yes. Or no, rather 'W C Connie!' Yes, yes! From now henceforth I pledge to always refer to you as W C Connie!” A fist was thrust sloppily into the air as he shouted the final proclamation as if it were a great triumph, his voice a bit louder than it really should be and his face the very picture of glee. Almost immediately however his hand dropped with a thud back to the bar, his face going crestfallen. “No, no, that would never do. Some might infer the W C stood for 'Water Closet.' That wouldn't do at all. I'll not have them thinking such derisive piddle about my Wing Commander. Not about my Connie!”

"Three days from now. That'll give you plenty of time to move out of your current bunk space. Not to mention recover from your hangover."

The intoxicated cadet calmed some to discuss his transfer to the Renegade barracks, nodding pensively as he considered her words. It was difficult to actually organize any thoughts however. He felt he was much better at doing so at the moment if he verbalized them. “Three days... Hmm, this means I shall have to endure the imbecilic antics of my current bunkmates for a while longer. Unfortunate. Still, I've resisted the striking temptation to slit their throats if only to cease their maddening snores thus far. What's another couple nights? Good enough Connie. My thanks. Now what was that about a hangover?” He seemed confounded again, not so much by the concept of a hangover, but rather by her belief that he'd have one. He was feeling mighty fine at the moment. Taking another sip, he found his glass empty and frowned down at it.

[Constance Bravil]

“Nonsense! You could have delivered far more vicious blows to Captain Testicless and the former Flight Lieutenant... Michelle? Whatever his name was."

"Misha," Conner corrected on automatic. "Though I like your names for them better." The young doctor was right; she could've inflicted much more damage to both men. Going further in either case might've wrecked her balance on the precarious path she walked, though. She already toed the line of proper military behavior as much as she could without going over it. Commander Bravil had a reputation to maintain, after all. Failing to show restraint wasn't an option.

"It's not the point anyway. The point is... Hmm, I seem to have forgotten what it was. How perturbing.”

But not at all surprising. The Corellian started paying more careful attention to Vice at this point, waiting for the warning signs of impending unconsciousness. If the guy was about to take a pratfall off his barstool, she intended to try catching him before he gave himself a concussion to go along with the hangover. "Don't worry about it. Won't mortally wound my ego to miss out on a compliment or two." Another smirk marked her sense of humor's turn towards the self-deprecating. Sure, Conner had her fair share of pride, but she liked to think it hadn't entered the overweening category.

“Unless you mean for us to be more than merely comrades in arms... No, no, that would never do. Some might infer the W C stood for 'Water Closet.' That wouldn't do at all. I'll not have them thinking such derisive piddle about my Wing Commander. Not about my Connie!”

It took every ounce of self-control the spy possessed to not bust a gut laughing at the spectacle the Cadet made of himself. Thanks to her prodigious store of willpower, she managed to limit herself to a small chuckle. I hope the kid doesn't remember any of this in the morning. Can't have him hating himself in my presence the whole tour of duty. "Nope, definitely wouldn't do," she agreed with the tanked physician amiably enough, taking another swallow of her drink to help silence her mirth. "Either Constance or Connie will work, I answer to both."

"...Hmm, this means I shall have to endure the imbecilic antics of my current bunkmates for a while longer. Unfortunate. Still, I've resisted the striking temptation to slit their throats if only to cease their maddening snores thus far. What's another couple nights?"

Constance empathized with the man there. One of her most beloved perks associated with the rank of Wing Commander was the right to live off base in a private dwelling. Barracks living had always grated on her nerves. "Well, if you're bound and determined to commit homicide on a fellow pilot, get it out of your system before you move into your new quarters." Conner was mostly joking about that... but only mostly. Some Confederates definitely needed killing, after all. "I don't think any of the other Renegades snore... well, at least none of the vets do. Can't say for certain about you new kids yet. That'll have to wait for our first ground mission."

"Good enough Connie. My thanks. Now what was that about a hangover?”

Her smile went all lopsided again as she watched Vice blink at her in drunken confusion. "It's what you're going to have in the morning. And probably into the next, the way you're looking." Yeah, the good doctor was wobbling an awful lot in his seat. Not enough to take him to the floor, but Conner anticipated getting him out the door on his feet would be something of a challenge. "Speaking of which, you're officially cut off as of now." Polishing off the rest of her lovely beverage, the brunette waved over the bartender to cash out her tab. "We need to get you somewhere to sleep it off before you faceplant on me."

[Lucifer Vice]

"Nope, definitely wouldn't do. Either Constance or Connie will work, I answer to both. "

The chuckle and simple agreement drew a small nod of affirmation from Lucifer. The hilarity of his antics was lost on him, state he was in. With her blessing though, he settled on Connie. Of course whether he would ever again use the term aloud was greatly uncertain given the likelihood that he'd not even remember this conversation clearly come morning and his own punctilious nature. His inexperience with the effects of overindulgence had him truly believing he would refer to her as Connie from then on, thinking he'd gotten over whatever psychological quirk had him referring to everyone so formally, even whilst being mockingly derisive.

"Well, if you're bound and determined to commit homicide on a fellow pilot, [...] That'll have to wait for our first ground mission."

Again the doctor's head bobbed up and down, this time accompanied by a supremely clumsy salute. “Yes Ma'am, Connie, Ma'am.” He'd taken her words seriously, or at least as seriously as he took anything at the moment. It made perfect sense to him that she would disapprove of his killing other Renegades, but after seeing her in battle, both against enemy ships in space and idiotic Confederates in a debriefing room, he knew well enough she held little regard for those she deemed useless and that she was discerning enough to recognize just how many Confederates fit neatly into that category.

"It's what you're going to have in the morning. And probably into the next, the way you're looking. Speaking of which, you're officially cut off as of now. We need to get you somewhere to sleep it off before you faceplant on me."

A skeptical eyebrow quirked up at Connie's claims, even as Lucifer's mouth twisted into an indignant grimace at being cut off. Under the best of conditions he didn't overly like being told what to do due to his pride, though he followed orders well enough while on duty. Now though was his time and he didn't appreciate anyone placing limits on what he could do with it. Planting his feet on the ground, he began to rise in order to protest from a more powerful stance. The severe instability the ground had apparently adopted however had him dropping immediately back to his seat and grabbing the bar with one hand. Rethinking how inaccurate his CO's statements had been, he merely nodded yet again.

“I... seem to be having some issues with my agility, Connie. It's quite abnormally hampered. There may be a scant possibility that I've overindulged. I think you may be right about how best to proceed.” His face had grown slightly ashamed, definitely not something the doctor showed (or felt) often, but after a moment it softened into an appreciative yet equally uncommon expression. “Even off-duty you're looking to ensure the safety of your subordinates. And it seems your friends. You, Connie, are a wonderful human being, and that's not the sort of thing I say to just anyone.” The ridiculous drunk nodded seriously and leaned far forward, dropping one arm over Constance's shoulder as the other slipped beneath her other arm. It was a clumsy hug, Lucifer all but falling onto the woman. “Thank... you...” Those words came out slowly and quietly, the last thing to cross the man's mind before he quite suddenly lapsed into unconsciousness.

--Later--

With some effort his eyes fluttered open, taking in... nothing but a painfully bright light. In truth the room was very mildly illuminated but every electrical signal the cadet's brain received seemed amplified at least five times. Closing his eyes with an annoyed groan he tried to sit up, finding a frightfully painful ache shot from his head down through the rest of his body at the movement. A more pitiful groan was then followed by the drowsy words “The kriff? Where am... What happ... The kriff?” He wanted nothing but to slip back into sweet oblivion, but the dull pain pounding at his head made him too uncomfortable for that to be an option. A third groan issued from the doctor. This was not going to be a particularly wonderful day.

[Constance Bravil]

Some people meditated to clear their head. Conner did sit-ups. Nothing dismissed extraneous thoughts faster than the burn of lactic acid in your muscles. Pressing against the limits of her body's endurance never failed to pull her out of a funk. Lost on the path of sweat and sinew and strain, the spy forgot about the rest of the galaxy for a while. Every fighter in a so-called lost cause needed the occasional quality time spent pursuing personal goals that (for once) weren't nigh insurmountable.

As passive forms of stress relief did nothing for her, exercise remained one of her three favorite methods to burn off steam. Coincidentally, it was the only method she could afford to indulge in while on-duty, so it tended to see the most use. Not that Constance was strictly on duty at the moment, but the insensate presence of one of her subordinates sprawled across her living room couch made her mindful of her obligations. Pity he's not in a position to appreciate just how mindful.

Every break in her routine, she'd step out of the exercise room and check in on her unexpected houseguest. So far Vice had remained solidly unconscious, taking no notice of her movements about the apartment or her attempts to awaken him. Not surprising, considering he'd been solid gone since she'd managed to half-drag, half-walk the good doctor up to her apartment. While that had worried her some, he hadn't shown any of the well known signs of alcohol poisoning. No spontaneous sleeping vomits, thank the stars. That kind of smell takes forever to get out of the carpet.

Since he didn't appear to be in any immediate medical danger, Conner was more than happy to let the rookie pilot sleep off his overindulgence somewhere he wouldn't add fodder to the barracks rumor mill. Considering the sort of guy he played at on his best days, she had no doubt there'd be several standard issue brainwashed Confederate cadets who'd just adore seeing the high and mighty Lucifer Vice in such a compromised state. After all, she'd already accumulated a fair amount of potential blackmail material--not to mention a not-insignificant personal debt the good doctor owed her for looking after his dignity--from this night alone. What are commanding officers for?

“The kriff? Where am... What happ... The kriff?”

Vice's groaning complaints were somewhat muffled by the time they arrived at Constance's ears, due to the walls and door separating the exercise room from the living area. While the precise words were incomprehensible, the sentiment came through crystal clear. Smirking a bit to herself, Conner levered her body off the inclined sit-up bench and maneuvered around until her stockinged feet rested on the short gray carpet. Snatching up a towel and a water bottle from a nearby workstation, the Wing Commander made for the exit.

"Goooood morning, sunshine!" was the (just a bit overly) cheery greeting Vice had the misfortune to feel inflicted on his eardrums. The source of the voice followed soon after the words rang out. Commander Bravil's exercise outfit was composed of tight black shorts of a slick-looking, highly flexible fabric, topped with a cropped gray cotton t-shirt with the Renegade star-and-double-chevron insignia imprinted in black and green, front and back. While enough was covered to meet the standard requirements of decency, enough was shown to prove Constance had no reason to be ashamed of the rest.

"I was wondering when you'd decide to rejoin the land of the living." Conner swiped one end of the blue hand towel at the moisture collected at the back of her neck, beneath her thick brown ponytail. "Want some water?" She extended the bottle towards him in her other hand, wiggling it tantalizingly. "And maybe something for the headache?"

[Lucifer Vice]

"Goooood morning, sunshine!"

Lying back on the couch, both hands came up to cover Lucifer’s face, his thumbs plugging his ear canals as the resounding pain of the mystery greeting pounded through his skull. Predictably he groaned again as Constance entered the room, peeking out at her between his fingers. For a moment he simply stared, not having expected to see her so attired. His muddled, newly conscious mind immediately began constructing scenarios under which her revealing dress could be properly exploited. Such thoughts were quickly dismissed with a shake of his head—which also sent further waves of frustrating agony through him and elicited another groan—the cadet reminding himself that it was against regulations, likely a terrible idea if he wanted to maintain his recent promotion of sorts, and honestly beyond his ability to enjoy in his current state anyway.

"I was wondering when you'd decide to rejoin the land of the living."

Such wonderful little colloquialisms the commander used. Vice was far too disoriented to come up with a suitably eloquent and grouchy response, merely groaning at her once more. It was distressingly unlike him to be at a loss for words, but then it was distressingly unlike him to be waking up with a savage hangover in an unknown locale with absolutely no recollection how he’d gotten there. While he felt no shame for the lewd thoughts he’d momentarily had, there was quite a bit at discovering his current predicament. The man’s pride was not likely to forgive him anytime soon.

"Want some water? And maybe something for the headache?"

Dropping his hands from his face and planting them on the cushions to help lift his torso, his expression twisted into a pained grimace as he fought through the increased headache. Reaching for the water bottle with one hand, he sadly miscalculated his ability to support his balance in such an inhibited state and promptly tumbled sideways off the couch, thudding onto the carpeted floor with (surprise, surprise) another groan and lying there on his side for a moment. He did manage to mumble out, “Just kriffing kill me.”

Pushing himself up once more into a sitting position, he reached for his medkit, conveniently sitting just beyond him on the coffee table. Slowly opening it up without explanation, he retrieved a miniature pill bottle. It was the same drug he’d offered to Corporal Caldwen after her night of thrilling excitement, though he’d never expected he’d need it for the same reason she had. Symoxin wasn’t uncommon, but he likely had a more concentrated variant than would be found in Conner’s medicine cabinet. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to let him walk without wincing.

The safety lid on the bottle gave him some trouble, and after struggling with it for a moment he turned a rueful eye on the woman standing over him and held out the bottle to her. How he hated asking for help. “Miss Bravil, if you would be so kind… I’ve my own painkiller, but the water I’ll take.” He looked around the room slowly, trying to discern where he was and squinting in the painfully bright illumination. “I take it this is your abode; it’s clearly not mine. How did I get here?” No comment on her clothing was made, the doctor having put it out of his mind. With his former profession he’d seen more than a few naked bodies after all and had now determinedly placed her form into the same sort of clinical view he’d used on them.