I've also changed how data is loaded when the sheet opens.
ISSUE FIXED. PLEASE REPORT ANY ISSUES IN SITE DISCUSSION
"No. No. Absolutely not." Ralat shakes his head. "That's final."
"But Ralat, if you're flying the ship, you can't fly your fighter at the same time." D-PFA's vocabulator rendered her tone as patient; it's hard to out-patient a machine. "It will therefore go unused."
"So what? No one else flies the Longscout. No one."
"So you intend for it to be entirely disused?"
"If I ain't flying it."
"But you acknowledge that it needs regular flights in order to remain in working condition."
"You are aware that the subspace actuators will deteriorate, then?"
Ralat growls. "Yes."
"And that the ion engines will fall into poor calibration?"
"And that the tibanna injectors will eventually need to be replaced entirely?"
"All right! All right." Ralat throws his hands up in the air. "You can fly it. But only you, understand? And if you get it so much as nicked, I am going to take it out of your golden hide! Understand?"
"Perfectly, Ralat! Thank you so much!" D-PFA runs off, joy in her robot voice. If she had been organic, she might have hugged him.
In one of the crew quarters, Sil Vasten was settled half-naked on his bunk. The halo-lamp nearby cast tall shadows on the walls as the Devaronian vehemently focused on the task at hand. He rubbed furiously at the large, arm-long, black, bulge anchored tightly between his legs. The metallic room door groaned, and the startled Devaronian's head shot around, baring sharpened teeth and setting tired eyes on the door. There was no-one there, just the ship settling.
He turned back to the dark deed. The gun's barrel had never looked so clean, yet Vasten continued to polish furiously, until his reflection appeared on the black metal. Finally satisfied, he loosed a long sigh of relief, and carefully settled the weapon on the rack hidden behind a flabby curtain near his bunk. He stared at it's majesty for a moment, before closing in and laying a small, soft, kiss on the weapon. Beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, Sil lay back in the bed, one leg atop the other. He'd have killed for a smoke just then.
OOC: Charsheet is still not finished. I'll make sure it is before rolling/doing anything important.
Zelina, in human form, reclines in a chair in the rec room, reading something intently on a datapad. "Hmm," she mutters quietly to herself, "the liquor to juice ratio in a sonic screwdriver is a lot higher than I expected." She then looks up and stares off into space, as if pondering something.
After some time, she finds herself simply looking around the rec room, when she sees their golden protocol droid and quartermaster, D-PFA, approach Ralat, the old veteran. She watches as the droid extracts permission from the man to fly his starfighter, and begins to smile. That droid sure is one persuasive mechanical, she thinks to herself, I had better be careful that she doesn't get me to agree to something I don't want to do!
As the two separate, Zelina can't help but comment out loud, "Fei, you really want do fly, don't you?"
Fei turns to Zelina and cocks her head, 3PO-style. "Oh, yes, Zelina. I have always wanted to fly. In fact, as a general personal assistant, it is one of my secondary functions. Though of course my primary programming is for protocol, not for combat." Fei sounds oddly worried about the combat aspect.
As was often the case, Lupus was spending his evening in the cargo hold kneeling amidst the remnants and debris of a rather dramatically disassembled speeder bike. The tangle of parts and wiring hadn't flown under its own power in quite some time and it was hard to tell if Lupus' work took it closer or farther away from ever seeing flight again, but the work calmed his mind and passed the time.
"Ccccc-rackers!" repeats the Devaronian eerily, following up with a sheepish grin and a chuckle. Vasten didn't seem to be all there, probably flying high on spice. He raises his hand up to ask a question, but seems to have some trouble keeping it steady.
"Just a quick one, Captain," he begins, scratching his bald scalp with the large nail at the end of his pinky. "What are these dollar things? Worth any credits?"