Alison Sky
Rebel Scum
The rec room sat deep in the bones of the hidden Alliance base on Odesen, far from the echoing hangars and the hum of shield generators. Here, the durasteel walls were softer with scuffed couches dragged together into uneven clusters, a battered dejarik table humming in the corner, the low glow of holo-panels casting lazy light across the room. Someone had dimmed the overheads to "comfortable," which in Striker Squadron terms meant almost cozy.
Pilots lounged wherever there was space: boots up on tables, jackets tossed over chair backs, helmets abandoned like shed skins. The smell of caf—real caf, somehow—mixed with recycled air and whatever someone had smuggled in from the mess hall. Laughter rose and fell in bursts as stories traded hands: near-misses in asteroid fields, improbable shots that somehow hit, the eternal debate over which starfighter handled like a dream and which one actively hated its pilot.
At the dejarik table, a game was already underway, pieces flickering as someone loudly accused someone else of cheating. Nearby, a couple of Strikers nursed drinks and argued over callsigns, insisting theirs had a story and not an embarrassing origin involving a bad landing and a worse audience. Others just sat back, boots crossed, listening, just content to let the noise wash over them after days of tension and silence in the cockpit.
For once, there were no alarms. No scrambled launch orders. No incoming fire lighting up sensor boards. Just the rare quiet between fights, where wingmates became friends and friends became something closer to family.
Striker Squadron was off the clock.
And for now, the galaxy could wait.
