Two-man-crew crafts aren't very large by nature, no matter whether they're transport shuttles or cargo tubs like this one. Rex stays at the controls, flight helmet on and visor pulled low to conceal the top half of his face, but the conversation in the hold carries nice and clear.
She plays it perfect, businesslike with just the right dash of hired gun devilmaycare. The cover story she feeds the inspector may have more than a kernel of truth; maybe they have just hired her on for this run.
Rex sits quietly as they unlatch crates and shuffle through the contents. He slips into that almost meditative state that used to dominate LAAT/i drops - loose limbed, steady heart rate, blasters poised to teleport into his palms at the slightest hint of violence.
Through that clarity comes the merc's voice, in an eerily familiar tone: You've probably checked enough.
And then the inspector, his own voice vague and hollow in a way that sets Rex's fingers itching: I think I've seen enough.
The Imps file out, their heavy bootsteps echoing the sudden thudding of his heart. Was that--? No. No, if the Rebellion had a jetii filed away somewhere, they wouldn't be wasting them on pickups. They wouldn't pair one with a clone.
They hadn't hesitated to pair a clone with a Mando who wears a lightsaber like a trophy. Neither possibility speaks well of Command's powers of observation or grasp of recent historical context.
The woman's voice rings from the hold, a signal to compartmentalize and move forward. Rex resettles his hands on the controls and fires up the sublight engines, remotely resealing the entry hatch. It's not until they're safely away and descending to the planet's surface that he breaks the silence.
no subject
She plays it perfect, businesslike with just the right dash of hired gun devilmaycare. The cover story she feeds the inspector may have more than a kernel of truth; maybe they have just hired her on for this run.
Rex sits quietly as they unlatch crates and shuffle through the contents. He slips into that almost meditative state that used to dominate LAAT/i drops - loose limbed, steady heart rate, blasters poised to teleport into his palms at the slightest hint of violence.
Through that clarity comes the merc's voice, in an eerily familiar tone: You've probably checked enough.
And then the inspector, his own voice vague and hollow in a way that sets Rex's fingers itching: I think I've seen enough.
The Imps file out, their heavy bootsteps echoing the sudden thudding of his heart. Was that--? No. No, if the Rebellion had a jetii filed away somewhere, they wouldn't be wasting them on pickups. They wouldn't pair one with a clone.
They hadn't hesitated to pair a clone with a Mando who wears a lightsaber like a trophy. Neither possibility speaks well of Command's powers of observation or grasp of recent historical context.
The woman's voice rings from the hold, a signal to compartmentalize and move forward. Rex resettles his hands on the controls and fires up the sublight engines, remotely resealing the entry hatch. It's not until they're safely away and descending to the planet's surface that he breaks the silence.
"That went well."