Kaptain Panty - Black
Highland Sniper -
red with black

Zyaust-Jecant listened to the instructions in silence. The screen on the coms panel switched to a map of the planet below them – Zyaust-Jecant paid little attention to it. That was a concern for the pilot. Muting the out-going communication, with a few more button press's they were broadcasting over the Falcor's speaker system. Nothing but a low static hiss seeped from the speakers as Zyaust-Jecant briefly forgot what they were doing before their synthetic voice began talking.
'[MILD AGITATION/TIRED] We're about to head down planet-side. Get ready to run through the motions. I'd like to say that we could find something pleasant to do here after the Tek Haxxar business is done, but we've got a schedule to keep. Skylar, keep our new friend out of the way.'
They went to cancel the broadcast, but something made them pause. They'd forgotten something. Something about...019? Was that their name? That was a designation, not a name. But how did a name differ from a designation? And a designation was numbers, numbers were symbols, drifting...
They metaphorically shook their head. With clarity restored, they remembered what they had forgotten – they hadn't actually mentioned the presence of the other survivor in the transmission. And now they were thinking about it, they were inclined to keep the other survivors' status a secret. They had no idea who this 019 person was, and most importantly, what they wanted. A communications barrier, being high, and having any moment of lucidity occupied by legal preparations didn't let Zyaust-Jecant inquire or consider about such things. Oh, whatever. They'd just have to ask now and figure something out quickly. Now where was 019? Bah, they'd just broadcast over the entire ship, it didn't matter if the crew had an idea of what they were planning.
'[SERIOUS/CALM] 019, this might be painful for you to recall, but I haven't actually mentioned that you were a survivor on board the wreckage. Do you want this mentioned? You are liable to be questioned, and as we don't know what species you are or where you're from, you are also liable to be put into protective custody. They'll try to find out where your home is and send you back there, or try to find a new home for you.'


019 listened as her number came up. It was all she knew, but she wanted to be rid of it. She listened to that mechanical voice only made more so by the ship's internal comms, only understanding a few words and had only a glimmer of an idea what the rest meant.
She looked over at Skylar and broadcasted with some hint of concern in her face and the message she sent. Her ears and tail twitched irritably at still not being able to understand everything.

What’s he asking me? She asked him, trying to get more information about what was going on.
She still only knew a little trade after all. She only had a few weeks to learn what she had at this point. Half of it was gibberish to her, but she still understood that it was a question concerning what she wanted and what the outcomes might be. She just didn’t understand enough to make out what.

Receiving the translation, 019 reached out with her mind, to try and reach that odd machine man, sending him the broken message of no. Hidden.


Zyaust-jecant wasn’t quite ready for the intrusion upon their thoughts. They probably never would. It spurred an intense revulsion in them that they were quick to try smother with such thoughts as “019’s means no harm by it,” “019 seems like a fine sort of person,” “019 doesn’t deserve hate.” But the sickening feeling lingered. On the horizons of their subconscious, the instinctual segments of their brain screeched for the mind violating things death. Eradication. Cessation of everything and anything like it. The drug still lingering in their system wasn’t helping keep such a hateful thing quiet in the thought council of their mind.

Oh boy. This was going to be a long day.

‘[SERIOUS/MILD-AGITATION] As you desire, 019. Stay in the ship and behind closed doors until we’re back up in space. Skylar, you help with that. We can discuss what we can do for you later.’

They went to switch to broadcasting over the entire ship again, and remembered that they were already doing that. Seems being lazy had made things quicker this one time.

[SERIOUS/MILD-AGITATION] Alright crew, I want no mentioning of 019, the survivor who isn’t the Tek Haxxar, to the Federation authorities. They should be with Skylar, so point any Feds away from their room if you can. Otherwise, let’s get this over with.’

Zyaust-jecant turned off the intercom and gathered the necessaries and put them in a courier style bag that they slung around the plating of their neck-guard. And then there was nothing to do but wait for planet-fall. A free hand opened a draw full of personal items, and hovered above it’s contents. They didn’t need to look to know what was in it and where to put their hands, they just needed to follow the outline of the drawer, which the pressure sensors could at least pick up. After a few moments of thought, they pulled out a technical manual for the ABMaS. Such dull things tended to steady their minds and thoughts.


Only really understanding a few words still, 'stay, ship, doors, Skylar,' and 'you' were the easiest to understand.
It sounded like she wouldn't be able to go out with everyone else, but she would be staying on the ship with Skylar, so it wasn't all bad. Still, her ears dipped ever so slightly with disappointment when hearing the man speak to everyone else and included 'room'.

She waited on Skylar and then went to their room to see what they could do. She wondered if she could make music like he did.


An inexact amount of time passed. Zyaust-jecant could have lived an entire life-time in their mind-space, but they were doubtful that they were adept enough at mental delving to do something like that just yet. Wherever their mind had went, and whatever time had transgressed, it was all nothing now, the memory of it having leaked into oblivion, if the memory even existed in the first place. Something was in their hand. The technical manual. They slid it back into their draw full of personal memories and entertainments, and felt for the documents bag that should be around their ‘neck.’ It was still there.

A voice rang out. From where? No one else was in the room. The coms panel was dormant. A pulsing nerve and a flashing heads-up display informed them that the voice was coming from their internal radio. It was Pedro. Inquiring about the Tek Haxxar.

‘[CALM] I think it best to let Federation security take the Tek Haxxar from their holding cell. They will be better armed then us, more of them than us, and trust themselves to escort a potentially dangerous captive more than us. I also trust a security force to be a better escort than myself and the doctor.’

They spurned their host-bodys servos into whirring motion. They stomped out of their office. They stomped through the Falcor’s halls. And then they stomped until they got to the airlock. Zyaust-jecant paid no heed to most of the crew already being outside when they had finally trundled up - such a matter of dignity was not to be addressed now.

As they left the ship, they noticed the thick trees. With a few nerve twitches, they brought up the humidity level readings. Their three heads extended out from their alcove; the middle one pointed towards the security force, whilst the other two extended to either side, taking the sight of the planet in. If only they were in the organic simulacrum now. They would be able to feel the moisture on their skin. Smell the water-heavy air. Breath in something that reminded them of home.

But they were in the unfeeling and tireless shell built for sleepless days of work. And their work had yet to end. Their middle head focused on the armed beings in front of them.

‘[FORMAL/CALM] I presume you are the armed escort for the prisoner. They are in a makeshift holding cell upon the ship, in the locked door in the living quarters. I would prefer, and I’m sure you would prefer as well, for armed soldiers to escort the Tek Haxxar from the very beginning. There’s no need for amateurish hand-offs.’