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Call to Battle - Trevis

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The creature paces next to one of the navigation consoles, testing the seals on a vacuum-rated combat suit. It fits snugly over his eight limbs, though the faceplate is open. They’re not in combat. Yet. Still, he’s uncomfortable. Not simply from the pre-combat jitters, but the ship is currently flying through an area of altered space-time, allowing it to move faster than the normal speed of causality in the universe. A nifty loophole someone had discovered hundreds of years ago. It had been made more comfortable in that time… but not quite comfortable enough. His limbs felt as though they were being stretched out, and everything - the air, the suit, his entire body - felt as though it was charged with static electricity. It was very unnerving, even for the reasonably seasoned crew.

He looks to a console and manipulates the controls, getting data about the ship’s course and speed. The ship had a name; were it to be translated into human English it’d be called the “Screaming Firehawk”. The creature, too, had a name that could be somewhat translated to English as “Trevis Preston”. Trevis, however, had not met a human, nor had he heard of them. Yet.

Currently Trevis’ problem was a bit of overwork. He was in charge of the ship’s navigation department. Normally, this would be staffed by eight people while in flight. These, however, were not normal times, and the rebellion had acquired more ships than it could adequately staff. And thus Trevis stood alone in the navigation room of the Firehawk, expected to do the work of eight people. More than that, even; currently the helm on the bridge was unmanned. Trevis was also the ship’s pilot. Fortunately the ship could fly itself for the most part, but during combat, or whenever manual maneuvering was needed, Trevis had to plan on being the one at the helm. This meant, also, that he had to pre-plan any escape routes the ship might need.

He leaned against the console, using it to support a lot of his weight. He was *tired*. The war had gone on for a few years now. When he ran off to join the rebellion his parents had told him not to go. That he’d get himself killed out there. Maybe so, but as he thought, he’d rather die trying to fight for people to get freedom rather than die as effectively a slave to the King.

An alarm chirpped. Trevis sighed. The ship was nearing the end of the FTL route he’d planned. Slamming his faceplate shut, he began to head forward to the bridge.

The bridge itself was just one compartment forward of navigation; there were a handful of manned stations there - communications along the forward bulkhead, sensors, off to the sides, then the helm. Weapons were controlled via other stations in the ship’s combat room, in the compartment aft of navigation. To the front of the bridge was another door. Technically, this lead to a cargobay, though this was usually used as storage for torpedoes used in the launchers in the next, and final, compartment forward - so the crew usually referred to these next two compartments as the torpedo room. Aside from torpedoes, the ship had a small array of railguns and coherent gamma ray weapons. And then finally, Trevis’ speciality, oversized engines. The Firehawk was designed for speedy hit and run attacks and couldn’t take much punishment, but if all went right she could punch a few holes in a battleship and maybe even kill it before running away. If all went right being the operative phrase. Several similar ships had been lost in the war, and this is partially why the rebellion didn’t see fit to adequately staff them. With too few to fill the ranks, it was better to put them on ships that could actually survive.

Trevis didn’t mind this too much. Really, he would rather be on a ship that was likely to be destroyed rather than boarded. He’d seen brutal hand to hand combat when they originally stormed and stolen their small fleet of ships, and he wasn’t too thrilled at the idea of repeating it.

Part of it, too, was he really wasn’t sure what he *wanted* to do, if they won. He’d been trained as a farmer. He didn’t want to do that again. But what would he do? He wasn’t sure, and the thought that he’d probably die anyways meant he didn’t really have to think about it. He could enjoy life now, as a freedom fighter. And eventually as a martyr. He wasn’t under the delusion that he’d be famous, but maybe one of those really dry, really specific history books would mention him, and that’s about as close to immortality as he’d get. Besides, he would eventually die anyway. Better to do it to make the world better than doing it in bed.

He took his spot at the helm, plugging his suit into the ship’s life support systems and pressing a button to signal readiness. In a few minutes they’d be in combat. And whether today was the day he gave his life for freedom or not, today was definitely going to ruin a few royalist’s day.

And wasn’t that really what was important?
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