Boys will be Boys

The Termagant's engineering bay doors parted with the screech of metal against rusting metal. The duranium alloy triple-layered faded-chrome doors had seen better days. They were well in need of repair. But the Termagants engineers had more exciting things to do for the time being. The buzz of cutting blades and the roar of kefropane torches filled the air. The walls flashed brightly as sparks flew beneath fighter bellies, casting long, stark shadows for a fraction of a second at a time. The low, vibrating hum of machinery provided a base tone for the higher, syncopated rhythm of the hammers and drills.

'Catch you guys later, I'm off duty.'

Tod threw his dirty hand-rag onto the worktop; it was littered with tools and plans and charts, with the odd assortment of nuts and bolts scattered about for good measure. He gave one of the engineers a thumbs up as he departed through the doors. They began to seal again behind him. A passing ensign managed to catch a glimpse of a large fighter in the background. It resembled a TIE Interceptor but it was much bigger. Her view quickly became a narrow slit before vanishing as the doors sealed tightly with a loud clang followed by a brief hiss of escaping gas from the closing mechanism.

A few minutes later, Tod was in the shower room. They weren't barracks; the comforts within were quite pleasant. Other officers of varying rank and experience came in and out, grabbing shower gel and towels as needed. A thick steam lingered everywhere, the overhead lights giving off the impression of search lamps in the fog. The humidity of the room accentuated just how cold the wet floor was. One ensign, a nugget from Hellfire squadron, slipped and fell backwards, landing on his ass. He discarded the saturated towel, but there were no fresh ones on the rack. He turned to grab his previous one, but someone had already swiped it and was using it to stand on, protecting his oh-so-delicate little feetsy-weetsies from the nasty wet-tiled floor. The ensign, somewhat embarrassed, bit the bullet and strolled out into the corridor, butt-naked, back to his dorm.

Five minutes later, Tod emerged form the shower room, feeling incredibly fresh, and incredibly horny.

'Gotta love unisex showers!' he remarked to a topless female ensign who was looking for another towel. Tod revealed himself and handed her his towel.

'Go ahead, you take it. It's cool. I can protect myself.' She laughed as she took it from him, am impressed smile sweeping over her mouth as he turned and started jumping down the corridor to his dorm as he sang, clapping his hands together with each footfall.

'She's got my towel, I've got my gun - Hhers is for fighting, mine is for fun!'

As he entered the dormitory, the occupying members of Shadow squadron exalted his arrival in such a splendid and Maniac-manner. He took a bow.

'Well what can I say - I take my work very seriously.' He proceeded to get dressed, pulling on his more casual-looking but still standard issue dark blue sweatpants and his personal preference of a baby-blue coloured t-shirt. The name Maniac was printed on the back in bold, black lettering.

The first week of Basic Flight was over and Kidd had survived. He was writing home to tell Ma Smix everything she needed to know; he played smashball with friends, his superiors looked after them, and the food was nice but not a scratch on her home-made Meat n' Beans Stew. Sat alone at a table in the corner of the mess hall, hunched over a datapad and a dictionary, the young ensign happily attracted no attention to himself.

Lost in his letter writing, the tip of his tongue poked tentatively out of the corner of his mouth, and in his ears swelled the cheerful honky-tonk sounds of home. On his smashball shirt clung the faint whiff of old sweat and his father's sour cologne had rendered his neck red and sore, to both clashing aromas he was oblvious. The long curtains of dark hair receded as he sat upright, he pulled out his earphones and twisted in his chair to call out to the congregation of off-duty pilots talking, playing, drinking all around.

"Hey fellas! How many Fs are there in catastrophic?"

The squadron were arguing. Nothing serious - a bet. Something about who could drink the most without passing out. Half of them were saying Bette. The other half were saying...

...well, whoever the frak he was, he'd have to have a lead gut to drink her under the table. A few of the guys had just started a game of sabacc over in the corner, and were beckoning Tod to join them. But he wasn't really in the mood to win a game of sabacc.

'I'm outta here guys, catch you later.'

He left the dorm and wandered for a bit. After a while he found himself at the Mess. Strange name, since it was always so neat and tidy. This was the mess hall on an Imperial Star Destroyer, not the Bridegroom Saloon on Nar Shaddaa. He spied one of the new guys from Hellfire Squadron. Tod thought back.

Oh yeah!

He was the kid who'd been asking all the questions in the induction briefing the other day. Tod figured anybody who could push Bette's buttons without even knowing it or trying had to be alright in his book. He went over and took a seat opposite him.

'You're Kidd Smix, right?' He extended an open palm, smiling.

"That ain't a bantha that's my woman, no sir, that ain't..."

Singing quietly along with his music, Kidd failed to notice he had company until his company spoke up. He looked up, his large brown eyes fell softly upon the man sat opposite, he had a mouth as wide as a crocolisk and tall rebellious locks of bright blonde hair. Kidd was stunned, his mouth hung agape then he sprung up out of his seat.

"Oh, Senior-Lieutenant Marr, sir!" he said with surprise, and took his hand giving it a firm shake, "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

He was still shaking his hand.

''Easy on the hand there, Kidd. And don't call me Senior-Lieutenant! The names Tod.'

His hand was released. He used it to wave at one of the guys by the counter, who consequently hurled two bottles of lum ale. He caught them and clipped the bottle caps off on the table edge. He offered one to Kidd while taking a swig of the other.

'Sit down dude. What's the skinny? Enjoyed your first week in Hellfire?'

"Oh, I don't-" he froze in his seat, staring with apprehension at the bottle of ale, he shook it off with a broad sheepish grin, took the drink and said, "Bottoms up!"

He took a hearty swig, and closed his eyes, swallowing hard. His satisfied sigh sounded pained. The bottle clinked on the table and he tucked away his datapad and dictionary to one side in case there was a spillage.

"The first week was a heck of a lot of fun, Tod sir, I don't know if Flight Instructor Davies intended it that way but," he paused, a happy smile crept across his face, "When I get in that cockpit, oh boy, it sure feels right!"

Instinctively, he took another swig from his bottle, forgetting it wasn't soda. His body went rigid.

"Hoowee! Good stuff," he said weakly, and cleared his throat to rid his voice of its higher pitch, "If I'm not mistaken now, I heard you will be taking Hellfire for a test run yourself soon."

He watched curiously as Kidd took the ale. He couldn't tell if what he was seeing was just an odd kind of behaviour, or if it was his first ever drink. It was funny.

'Yeah, that's right. I guess the brass want to see how I handle leadership. Or perhaps they're hoping I frak up and get one of you guys turned into vacuum soup so they can discharge my ass.'

He took a swig from the bottle, noticing a hint of alarm in Kidd's face.

'Ah no sweat - they're either bustin' my balls or they actually think I have what it takes to train you guys. Either way we'll find out tomorrow at oh-nine hundred hours. Cheers!'

He knocked the drink back all at once before slamming the bottle down hard.

'Yee-haw! O'Bannon - set us up, my good man.'

A dark-skinned, topless bald bruiser with tattoo's covering his arm, back and chest brought a bottle of liquor and two shot glasses. The outside of his trouser legs were labelled. One said 'Born to Fight' and the other 'Murder-Death-Kill'. He filled them both and sat the bottle down before returning to his book - 'So you want to learn embroidery?'.

Tod took a glass and, with it, pushed the other along the table towards his companion.

'Gentlemen...start your engines!'

"Why, I hear that!" he sung, taking his drink, then his laughter diminished as he muttered feebly into his glass, "Oh, sweet hezmana!"

Down went the shot. It felt like liquid fire in his throat and exploded in his chest, he coughed violently and as he pushed aside his heart attack fears he heard Tod give a cheer. There was a sloshing sound and Kidd looked down and found, to his horror, his glass was full again. His mind raced, he had to say something, anything to stave off the onslaught of alcohol.

"What's the game plan for tomorrow, s-Tod? If you don't mind me asking."

Bam! Another shot. Tod filled his glass once more, shaking his head at the sight of liquid in Kidd's glass still.

'Well now, that'd be telling - wouldn't it!?'

O'Bannon giggled gruffly, followed by a slightly higher-pitched (though still heterosexual-sounding) Ooooooh as he turned the page and saw a lovely advertisement page for a How to become a master at Crocheting in seve weeks. magazine. He folded the corner for later reference.

'I'll be taking you and one other lucky nugget out for some combat maneuvers. We'll be carrying out some fly-bys of a local moon, dodge, attack and feign maneuvers on her asteroid rings, as well as something I've cooked up extra-special - but that's a surprise you'll just have to wait for!'

He held the glass to his lips and threw his head back. The sharp taste discharged out from his throat and into his chest like an electrical power surge. He shook his head.

'Wham! Bam! Thank you ma'am! Come on Kidd - you're falling back - I ain't never left a man behind and I'm not about to start so drink up!'

"Kicks," Kidd spluttered, reeling from the second shot, his head sunk into his arms, "Kicks, sir. I understand Ma and Pa saw fit to name me as they have, and I'm not doubting they had their reasons, but my friend calls me Kicks."

"You know, like the beginning and ending of my name: Kidd Smix. Kicks. You see?"

Before he raised his head, he wiped the stinging tears from his eyes on his sleeve, and he noticed the lights seemed brighter. He pushed his glass to the centre of the table and Tod obliged, filling it up.

"You got yourself a nickname round these parts, sir? A callsign or somesuch?"

Once the two glasses were full again, Tod reached into his back pocket. Fumbling for a second, he eventually revealed a small clear plastic bag with what looked like dust. Gold-coloured flecks that gleamed brightly as the light caught them. He sprinkled a pinch of the substance into each glass. The flecks swarmed around in the liquid like a blinged-up snowglobe disco.

Next, Tod took a small pocket lighter and lit the liquid in each glass, producing a tall flame which quickly subdued to an orange simmer a few centimetres tall. He pressed one glass into Kicks' hand and grabbed the other.

'I'm Maniac.'

And down went the drink. Tod held his breathe.

Kidd gave his drink a curious glance, shrugged and knocked it back. He winced then surged forward, wheezing rapidly. The burning sensation evaporated and was replaced by a headrush. He grinned at Tod, drummed the table in rapid succession then poked his index fingers at him.

"Maniac," he said with a drowsy nod, "I'm beginning to see why. Back home we didn't drink any alcohol too much. Folks say it's bad for your system. My big brother said you can't manage a chubby when y'all tanked up like that, not even a good old half-stouter. No, sir."

Somehow, his flailing hands found his unfinished bottle of ale, from which he drank as soon as his fingers coiled around its sweaty neck.

"Well, I don't know about that," he said, sharing a conspiritorial glance Tod's way, "Some of these pilot fems are real pretty like, even Flight Instructor Shooter ma'am. Don't she got the cutest little butt?"

With his elbow on the table, Tod rested his forehead against the palm of his hand. He began to giggle cheekily. He blindly poured himself another drink with his free hand.

'Oh man! Don't tell me you got the hots for Shooter! Kicks, let me tell you man! She will eat you for breakfast and spit you back out again! I mean, she's one tough cookie! She's got balls of steel. I know I don't know you, you know. But I know I know you enough to say that she's not your type. Look all you like but trust me - steer clear...

The shotglass was up and down in less than two seconds.

'But yeah, Bette's got a...GREAT ASS!!!' he roared, wide-eyed and smiling.

"She sure does." A new voice popped up as a medium-sized man slipped into the seat next to Marr. "I'd make sure she didn't hear you say that Maniac. She'd use your balls for ping pong."

The man motioned for his own beer and a shot, then turned to the new guy and raised his bottle in greeting. "I'm Saul. Saul Karzai. Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine, sir," replied Kidd, losing the deflated look on his face. The Lieutenant Commander was out of uniform but the new ensign had a knack for remembering faces. He, in turn, raised his own drink in greeting before plunging it into his mouth.

"Two hot shot pilots from Shadow Squadron taking the time to sit with me," he said lazily, staring into his empty bottle, then looked up with a shy smile, "This is usually the part that precedes an old-fashioned swirlie."

'Two hot shot pilots! You're too kind my good buddy, too kind.'

Tod grabbed three more bottles of lum from the counter and returned to his seat. He passed them out before patting Saul on the shoulder.

'We're not two hotshot pilots, Kicks...'

He looked at Saul and pushed out his lower lip in a pout.

'Nope - just one hot shot pilot - me! Saul here is probably just as green as you. Cheers!

He clinked the bottles together before taking a triumphant gulp.

Karzai smiled as he took his own gulp from his bottle. "I wouldn't completely listen to Maniac. Smix. He's still high over the fact I owe him 20 creds for Sullust."

'Sithspit' pulled out 10 creds. "Of course, what he's forgetting is the fact Maniac owes me 25 creds for Ord Mantell." The three shared a laugh.

The laughter subsisded and the trio reached for their drinks. Kidd's co-ordination was sluggish, he drank from his bottle after nearly knocking it over and planted it heavily on the table, its contents frothed and foamed out of its mouth. The fledgling pilot was oblivious to the ale trickling over his fingers, he sat lopsidedly, propped up by his hand, and wearing a silly grin, muttered, "Ping pong balls..."

He chuckled to himself and sucked greedily from the bottle once more, ale dripping into his lap. A satisfied sigh escaped the moment the lip-lock was broken and he belched like a rancor. He eyed the pilots with dubious precision.

"Bet you boys have seen plenty of action. Sullust, Ord Mantell and so on. Those Rebel pilots... they any good?"

'Oh yeah, Kicks! They're real good. It's just as well you guys have me here to protect you!

'Hell yeah!' hissed O'Bannon, holding up an open palm. Tod high-fived him in response.

Tod sat back down. He took a few gulps from his bottle, followed by a long sigh.

'Ahhhhh - that hit the spot!'

He stood up again, and walked around to the other side of the table, sitting down next to Kicks. He put an arm around him, and held his cheeks with the other hand, squeezing slightly. Kicks looked like he was trying to kiss someone. Tod leaned in close, his voice low and serious.

'Those rebels - Rogue squadron specifically. They're good. They're [really[/i] good. If they weren't, then us Shadows wouldn't be needed. But we are. Why? 'Cos we're the best! I mean it - we're the best! We're the ultimate badasses, you do not wanna frak with us. And if you do...'

O'Bannon passed out another round of shotglasses, each one with a green liquid filled to the top. Tod grabbed his and held it close to his mouth.

'...then God help you!' He downed the shot, then slammed the glass down before banging the table with both hands rapidly.

'Woooooooo!!!'