Populate N-1 Racing League | Race 1 | Mon Gazza | Populate of Secundus Ando

[Voli Cholrass]

Current Outfit


Voli never thought she would be back at Mon Gazza again but with the High Republic setting up shop on the spice planet it meant that many of the shady activities that went on the planet ended quickly. Officials arrested spice barons, placed taxes on businesses, required pilots to have licenses, and started to rid the atmosphere of the red hue that took over the skies. Many of the inhabitants grumbled with some leaving the planet or moved underground probably plotting armed rebellion. As much as Voli was happy to see the planet's rot starting to wither away, she had to admit Mon Gazza had charm. Erasing a planet's identity felt like it was getting neutered. "But the people are free from the spice companies." Voli thought. "It's best to think about them."

With her Holopods pressed firmly in her ears, Voli munched on some Popcorn while sipping on some soda her gaze focusing on the racetrack. They weren't Podracers but rather N1 Starfighters each plastered with so many advertisements that it made Voli want to roll her eyes. "Leave it to the corporations to always mess things up." Voli thought. "They see a well made speeder and say to themselves: 'how do we make it as ugly as possible?'"

But Voli decided to participate in the festivities. Starfighter racing wasn't her favorite as she preferred Podracing but it was entertaining so far. "Popcorn is great too," Voli thought.

She craned her head, wondering if there's anyone her age who came to watch the races. Maybe she's the only one who likes racing.

Aileni Ifor Xeraic

 

[Tintinallë Nyxara]

Objective: The Vertical Crucible
Location: Refinery Trenches, Mon Gazza
Outfit:Racing Flightsuit
Monitored by: Hyartë Vaelune

Tintinallë stepped into the prep hangar. She had barely found out about the race in time to pay her entrance fee and find a dealer who had an N-1 starfighter that she could put into the race. There wasn't enough time for her to go over the systems and make any of the allowable modifications to the stock fighter. She was however able to demand a new aesthetic to her own starfighter. Demand meaning pay expedited charges to have it ready by the time she arrived.

The diminutive pilot gave a whistle when she saw her fighter for the first time. Metallic purple with blessings to the Siren of Flesh, Lyshara, detailed into the wings in brilliant gold. Tintinallë blushed slightly hoping that only a select few spectators would be able to read Quendeshi as the blessing written might be seen as obscene to some. Tintinallë smirked in the end however and ran a hand lovingly along the bottom of the ship as she approached the ladder to climb inside the cockpit.

Quickly the excited nymph almost leaped up the latter and she settled into the seat of the fighter. Her face instantly smushed in concern. She could not see through the viewport as well as she could in her own captain's chair aboard her Luminary-class Explorer. "Hey you! Droid!" she called out and a pit droid turned and approached her ship. "Don't suppose there is a cushion around the hangar that would give me a bit more height in the chair is there?"

The pit droid turned slowly pausing every ninety degrees of the full turn. "I do not think that children were approved for this race. But I suppose the race monitors know what they are doing better than me." The droid stomped off to the left and returned with a spare seat cushion. "Incoming girl," it said throwing it nonchalantly up into the cockpit.

Tintinallë gave an "oof" as the cushion landed in her lap. "Thanks. And I'm no kid. I'm probably older than you are," she giggled gleefully as she shifted in the cockpit to put the extra cushion under her backside. "Much better," she said to herself as she started to familiarize herself with the controls. Another vehicle latched onto her ship and maneuvered her towards the starting line.

"Are you sure this is a good idea Tin? You've never flown a ship like that. People invested money in your entry. I'm not entirely sure you thought this through," Hyartë's voice echoed in the helmet that Tintinallë had just strapped onto her head.

"You are always trying to keep me from having fun Hy. You think this is too dangerous don't watch. As for the sponsors, their money was not solicited. They are big beings in the galaxy, they made their decision to put money into this event. Not my problem if they have regrets when they learn I'm just a cute little elf with no fighter experience," Tintinallë responded back. "Besides you know what happens when I am at the control of any ship. Their money hasn't been thrown away."

The race was started and Tintinallë maxed out the acceleration on her new ship. She didn't know what it would be able to take, but she was one for taking chances not doing things the cautious way. To her delight the motion pressed her back into her seat and she giggled as the purple fighter blasted off the starting line.

"Tin you need to slow down. The first section is the most tenuous section of the race from what I am hearing. Visibility…"

"Hy relax. You know I can fly blindfolded. I don't need visibility to fly," as she said that however some of the thick air caused a bit of turbulence and her fighter started to wobble just a bit. A nervous giggle came from Tintinallë as she reached out and eased the acceleration. "A little caution won't hurt though…"

"Thank you!" Hyartë responded in a firm tone. "Now, coming up soon you'll have to negotiate a couple obstacles, a bank of exhaust vents with superheated gas and a maintenance bridge. Rumor says that the bridge is fine to go over but under can be a problem."

"Thanks for the update Hy," Tintinallë responded in a joyful voice. "You know that the warnings don't really amount to much though. I'm going straight through that gas. Might want to look into paint vendors to get the ship retouched after the race. As for the bridge. The turbulence is hell in these trenches, over isn't an option. Hope the Siren sees me through to the other side. Now no more talking. You've given me the warnings. I need to fly now."

Spoiler: Roll - Sabotage!

Sabotage aimed at the top of the leader board – Sorry Bettany Sal-Soren

 

[Aselia Verd]

Wearing: [X]

The durasteel runway vibrated beneath Aselia’s boots as another engine spooled up somewhere down the line, the sound echoing through the refinery canyon like distant thunder. Mon Gazza loomed around the starting platform in layers stacked foundries, refinery spires, and pipe-laced superstructures climbing endlessly upward into smog and floodlight glare. Hazard beacons pulsed red against the haze, painting the industrial canyon in warning tones.

Aselia stood beside her N-1, one gloved hand resting lightly against the polished hull.

The fighter was standard in every way that mattered sleek Naboo lines, narrow profile, tuned for speed and responsiveness but the paint told a different story. Red and black panels cut sharply across the frame, gone were the gold and silver color instead she used her favored color scheme., Aggressive and deliberate rather than ornamental. It wasn’t meant to impress sponsors or crowds. It was meant to be seen once, then disappear ahead of the pack.

She moved with calm efficiency, starting her pre-checks from nose to engine cowling.

Intake vents: clear.
Repulsor balance: green.
Control vanes: responsive.

Her tan flight suit was functional, worn-in rather than pristine, reinforced at the shoulders and thighs. No armor plates, no beskar this wasn’t a battlefield. Her long hair was pulled tight into a ponytail that fell straight down her back.

Aselia circled the starfighter, crouching briefly to inspect the starboard thruster housing. Heat bleed vents glowed faintly as she ran diagnostics, eyes flicking between physical components and the data scrolling across her wrist display. Mon Gazza’s air was thick with refinery exhaust; the Vertical Crucible would punish any pilot who underestimated thermal stress in the trenches.

She didn’t.

A gloved hand rapped once against the hull habit more than anything else before she climbed the ladder and slipped into the cockpit. The canopy remained open as she settled into the seat, boots finding the pedals without looking, hands resting easily on the controls.

Power up.

The N-1 answered smoothly, systems lighting in sequence. She ran through her final checks in silence, expression focused, breathing steady as the engines settled into a low, eager whine.

Flight controls: responsive.
Nav limits: locked.
Weapons safe, for now.
Throttle curve: aggressive.

Aselia lowered the canopy, sealing herself inside the cockpit as the noise muted to a controlled roar. The world narrowed to readouts, trajectory lines, and the long industrial corridor stretching ahead.

She wrapped her hands around the controls, posture relaxed but coiled, every sense tuned forward.

Ready.

TAG: Adelle Bastiel + OPEN

Dice Roll: [X]

​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Spectating
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Humor laced the elder Mandalorian’s words, something Adelle hadn’t often heard from him. Shle looked around, taking in her surroundings. Large holoscreens captured every angle of the racing route, embellished solid wood made up the bar, and liquors older than her parents sat on the shelves behind the bartenders. They had some of the ‘cheaper’ ales and beers but Adelle wasn’t sure if Itzhal would like them.

The pint of Corellian ale alone cost three times as much as it would normally. She was going to enjoy it slowly.

“Maybe,” Adelle said thoughtfully. Then she gestured at the floor-to-ceiling viewports next to them, overlooking the last stretch of the race planetside. “But you can’t beat the view.”

On the holoscreens, a familiar redhead in a tan flightsuit walked towards a red and black N-1 starfighter. Adelle nodded her head at the screen.

“They got Verd on cams,” she said. She’d had the privilege to spar with and fight beside Aselia Verd a couple times. The Mandalorian woman was fierce and Adelle couldn’t help but admire it. They cycled through the other racers, other N-1 starfighters painted in various shades but all of them gleaming and brilliant. It took a few more minutes before the race seemed to begin in earnest.

Adelle nearly choked on her ale when she saw the name of who jumped out into the lead immediately. Bastila Sal-Soren ? Bastila was racing? Adelle wondered how many hidden skills the Handmaiden had if she was racing. Aselia herself wasn’t far behind, leading the pack. A couple of the racers trailed behind as they navigated some hazards.

“Vod’s doing well,” she muttered, impressed. “Let’s hope Sal-Soren’s luck runs out sooner rather than later, if the jousts were anything to go by.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mon Gazza, Mid Rim Territories
| Objective | Spectate

Itzhal's eyes flickered to the mentioned holoscreen and the confident woman who stalked the runway, her hair pulled back into a functional ponytail that nonetheless flared like a braizer of fire. She wore her lack of Mandalorian Iron like a challenge, the fierceness that lurked beneath, unveiled to a world that would have otherwise only seen the cold reflection as she streaked past their favourites. It was about time that Mandalore had a victory at one of these events.

He hummed in agreement, glancing over Bastilla Sal-Solren's N-1 Starfighter and the racers that trailed in her wake. Handmaiden, Jedi, Basilisk rider and now racer; she was filled with plenty of surprises, especially for one so young. He wondered how she even had the time to acquire so many skills.

It really was a shame that he didn't have a drink, it would have hid the faint smile that crept across his lips, "I really can't tell, are you admiring the scenery or the racers?"

He couldn't fault her eitherway; fortune had gifted them a stunning vista of the finish line, framed by the burning backdrop of smokestacks and the twin towers that marked the finish line. Beyond that, an array of alluring women and striking men in tight jumpsuits had gathered, all daring to risk their lives for the exhilarating thrill of the race, and whatever glory they could capture as they streaked across the finish line. Yet, despite that, he found himself frowning at the sight of so many younger racers, their faces still fresh with enthusiasm and the foolhardiness of those who believed themselves invulnerable.

Ice crept along his veins, settling deep in his chest, his voice remarkably steady as he changed the subject, "You know, you never did mention how you got tickets."

Direct: Adelle Bastiel
Indirect: Aselia Verd​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Spectating
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

The ghost of a smile hovered on his face as Itzhal asked his question and Adelle returned it with a mischievous smirk.

“Why not both?” She took a sip of her drink. “But also, rude. Don’t call me out like that.”

Something shifted in his posture and she felt it in his presence, the emotions around him: annoyance sharp like a papercut and frustration that crept in like cryoburn. They settled around him in well-worn patterns, neatly fitting like tailored clothes. Adelle considered her options as he asked his question, moving away from the topic of racers and scenery.

“I seem to have lucked into some kind of favor with the King of Naboo and his Voice,” she said, leaning back in her chair. She kept her posture relaxed and hooked an arm over the back of the chair, but her awareness in the Force sharpened. For all that she had invited him to come here with her, she knew precious little about the elder Mandalorian.

“He—or his office at least, sent me a heads-up about the league and some VIP tickets and— osik, I completely forgot.” Adelle leaned back and started to dig through her jacket pockets and then her pants pockets. She finally retrieved what she was after and held up a holopuck with two fingers. “Here. Drink voucher. Can’t get the good stuff with it, but the ale selection’s not bad.”

Adelle slid it across the table to Itzhal’s side. She had been wondering why she’d been the only one with a drink.

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Tags: Gavin Restur

Aurelian leaned against the polished rail of the executive barge, a glass of something expensive and smoky balanced easily in his hand. Below him, the starting grid of the Vertical Crucible glowed with restrained violence, engines snarling like caged animals. He smiled despite himself. Credits well spent. Very well spent.

He watched Maëlys deliver her speech with the practiced ease of someone who knew the crowd loved her. Smart woman. Visionary, even. Mon Gazza had teeth now, and it showed. Aurelian took a slow sip and let his eyes drift over the dignitaries, the sponsors, the Republic officials pretending not to calculate profit margins in their heads. He was doing the same, just more honestly.

When the countdown hit ten, the barge seemed to hold its breath. The crowd's roar bled through the hull as one voice. The lights flashed green. Engines detonated into motion. The race tore forward, down into the industrial canyons, and the barge erupted with applause and shouted bets.

He laughed, sharp and delighted, then turned away from the rail as the initial chaos settled into streamed telemetry on the massive screens inside. The real work began now.

Aurelian drifted into the lounge, already greeted by a cluster of corporate representatives he had personally invited. Refinery magnates. Shipwrights. A communications syndicate that smelled faintly of espionage. Perfect.

"To surviving the first launch," he said, raising his glass. "Statistically the most dangerous part of any venture."

They laughed. Drinks flowed. He listened more than he spoke at first, letting egos burn themselves out. He made promises without making commitments, planted ideas like seeds, watered with charm and just enough mystery. The league would need sponsors for future circuits. Different worlds. Different politics. He was already racing ahead.

​

 

[Gavin Restur]

TAGS: Aurelian Veruna , Seris Travin-Avaron , OPEN

Oh, upper-class gatherings. Fake smiles, facades of personality...and the food is normally pretty good.
​

With steps leading him over, the man entered into the main lounge area of the barge. Full of people in fancy attire, laughing and drinking away. As per usual, the man was not matching with the dress code.

As a matter of fact, did he even have an invitation to be in here?

With an adjustment of his hat, he would step inside more into the lounge. He was here for a pretty specific purpose, after all: if you're going to look for a job, why not go to one of the most important people in the Republic and ask for one? Sure, he wasn't a very important person himself, but given his skillset, there's bound to be some level of opportunity that is available to him.

And speaking of, the person he's looking for is right there...

He weaved through people in the way, being cautious to not bump into anyone. Plucking a small pastry and filled shot-glass from a hostess he passed by, and popping the pastry in his mouth. Munching, as he approached Aurelian Veruna .

At least he had the curtesy to swallow his food, first.

"Mister Veruna!" However, the formal aspect of talking to royalty, is something he did not have. Likely interrupting whatever conversation the man was having, and rather loudly at that. "If you happen to have the time, I would certainly like to have a conversation of the..." Tilting his head, in thought. "...employment, kind." He basically just walked up, and asked for a job.

Let's see how well that plays out.

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris arrived aboard the executive barge without fanfare and without needing it.

Where many of the assembled guests announced themselves through extravagant fashion, loud laughter, or carefully cultivated entourages, she moved through the lounge with quiet assurance. Her attire balanced noble elegance with practical restraint: finely tailored, subtly expensive, and deliberately understated. No excessive ornamentation. No unnecessary display. Everything about her presence suggested intention rather than indulgence.

She paused first near the panoramic viewport, watching as the racers vanished into the refinery trenches below. Telemetry flared across the display walls in violent bursts of color and motion. The roar of the crowd filtered faintly through the hull, distant and distorted, like thunder heard from deep underwater.

Her green eyes followed the patterns rather than the spectacle.

Who pushed too hard, too early. Who conserved power. Who trusted instinct over instrumentation. Who was already burning themselves out.

Only when she had taken in enough did she turn from the window and move toward the heart of the lounge.

Toward Aurelian.

Men like Veruna gathered attention without trying. Investors, executives, and opportunists orbited him in loose clusters, laughing a little too loudly, leaning a little too close, hoping proximity might translate into relevance. He wore influence as naturally as others wore clothing.

Seris approached at an angle that did not interrupt, did not hesitate, and did not apologize. She waited for a natural lull in the conversation. When it came, she stepped in smoothly.

"You have orchestrated something remarkably ambitious here," she said calmly, her voice carrying without competing, measured and composed. "Transforming industrial infrastructure into public theatre requires not only capital, but vision, patience, and a willingness to accept real risk. Most people possess only one of those."

A polite inclination of her head.

"Aurelian."

Then her gaze shifted, briefly but deliberately, toward the other newcomer who had just barreled into the conversation with a pastry, a hat, and admirable disregard for social protocol.

Gavin.

A faint curve touched her lips.

"Your timing is…impressive," she observed dryly, without cruelty. "Most people wait until after the champagne before attempting career negotiations. You chose honesty over comfort."

She shifted her stance slightly, opening the conversational circle rather than closing it, making clear that neither man was being dismissed.

To Aurelian first:

"The opening trench is exceptionally punishing," Seris continued, her tone thoughtful rather than critical.
"If adjustments are not made, you will lose pilots there before the season ends. However, you will also gain something far more valuable: a reputation for seriousness. For refusing to dilute the difficulty for spectacle. In this industry, that reputation lasts longer than any single race."

Then to Gavin, evenly and without condescension:

"And you," she added, studying him with calm curiosity, "are operating on either exceptional confidence or exceptional necessity. Possibly both. That combination tends to produce interesting results."

A brief pause.

"I respect either," she said quietly, "when it is honest."

She accepted a slender glass from a passing attendant without looking, fingers closing around it with practiced ease.

"Seris Avaron," she introduced herself simply, as though titles were optional. "I am here as an observer, a sponsor of stability, and, on occasion, as someone who asks questions that make powerful people uncomfortable."

Her gaze returned briefly to the screens as a racer clipped a refinery plume and barely recovered, engines screaming in protest.

"Which," she finished softly, her eyes returning to both men, "makes this a particularly interesting place for all three of us to be standing at the same moment."

She took a small sip of her drink, posture relaxed, presence steady.

Not seeking attention.
Not avoiding it either.

Simply prepared to see where the conversation and the race would truly lead.

Aurelian Veruna Gavin Restur

 

[Casaana]

Spectating
Public Stands
Tags: Open!

Arms full of snacks, a drink, and information flyers, Casaana awkwardly sidles past the other beings already filling up the audience stands. She was quick to offer good-natured apologies as she brushed by a Nikto who took it in the festival spirit and good-natured understanding one needs when a large group of people are pushed in together. Finding her seat, a number between two lines painted on the bleachers, she took it and began the process of settling her sustenance around her. Bag of bang-corn and bubblezap drink went between her feet to prevent them from getting knocked over, and various other snack packets were disappeared into her pockets or tucked into the front of her tunic, though a fritzle fry found its way into her mouth.

Then the young Padawan was onto the important task of figuring out who to cheer for. On learning of the series of races to be held, she had almost regretted not making a N1 of her own. They'd been available to Jedi in the Republic for a while and she almost had, but instead she'd chosen to repair and modify her Zephyr, a ship she absolutely loved. Besides, the racing rules would have meant returning the ship to near stock, which she didn't have the time, credits, nor inclination to do. That also meant the race was on a near even footing, piloting skill and luck would be the determining factors today.

Perusing the race flyers, she soon spotted Michael. Hey, she knew him! Early on after joining the Shirayan Order, she and him had a mock dog fight. He'd flown a pretty souped up x-wing then and had shown her just how far she had to go. But it'd been fun. Not recognizing anyone else, Casaana went on to look over the pictures of the pilots and their craft. Some of them had absolutely gorgeous machines! Like Tintinallë and Phy, with great colors or lines accenting the graceful curves of the historic fighter. Finally she settled on cheering for Nami Runda if for no other reason than she liked her hair. Picking up her bag of bang-corn, Casaana shouted "Go Nami!" Free hand pumping into the air as the race started before shoving a handful of the popped kernels into her mouth.

 

[Priesse Namada]

Location: Mon Gazza Starting Line, Vertical Crucible Circuit - Mon Gazza
Objective: Race
Racer: Rosé Nebula
Attire: FAE/A-09 Anti-G Suit
Tag: Dani Stellaris Bettany Sal-Soren Rojuhr Pouihl Michael Angellus Osira Perris Phy Feng Huang Nami Runda Tintinallë Nyxara Aselia Verd

Priesse took a deep breath as her hands settled around the dual flight control yokes. After all of the time and effort she had devoted towards preparing for the N-1 Racing League, the moment which everything had been leading up to had finally arrived. She had secured sponsors, commissioned Naboo engineer-artisans to create a fully functional reproduction of an ancient variant N-1 starfighter, fine-tuned its competitive modifications, and finally, put the craft through its paces during various test runs.

All this, of course, while balancing her studies at the Imperial academy and her duties with Titan Squadron.

The countdown started, and Priesse in turn started her N-1’s—the Rosé Nebula’s—engines. She had chosen the Nubian 221s over the J-type pulse engines for their superior reliability, heat tolerance, and performance in particulate-rich air. She knew that the J-types offered better short-duration thrust and burst performance, but that came at the expense of more demanding maintenance and increased sensitivity to micro-debris. The J-types also needed advanced maintenance from technicians familiar with ancient Naboo starship engineering practices, who she didn’t quite have reliable access to even with her five sponsorships.

As the countdown ticked down to ten, Priesse initiated the launch procedures. The Nubians 221s gave a velvety hum that swelled when she pulsed the throttle. The Seseli drew one last breath, before holding it unconsciously as the start timer ticked down to three, two, one...

The lights turned green and the clamps released. Priesse slammed the throttle forward. The engines answered with a resonant surge, their hum thickening into a thunderous roar as power flooded through the conduits. It was a sound that rolled through the air like a rising tide, a smooth and unbroken cord of thrust that hurtled the starfighter forward.

All the while, the durasteel runway beneath rushed past in a blur as wind howled over the canopy. The Rosé Nebula surged ahead as if carried on rails, its engines singing a rising hymn as the tight industrial corridor below rushed up to meet her!

 

[Pillar of Faith]

​

SECTION II – THE VERTICAL ASCENT

Racers hit the Ascent Gate at the base of Mon Gazza's central pylons, where the course tilts straight up and the city drops away beneath them. Navigation lights climb the length of the pylons like a ladder into the sky, marking the route as engines strain and the N-1s pitch nose-up. The air thins fast, winds shear unpredictably around the structures, and the roar of the lower refineries fades into a hollow, echoing climb.

This leg is about controlled power. Cargo haulers crawl along preset lanes, traffic drones drift into the race corridor, and sudden gusts slam into the pylons, shoving racers sideways at the worst moments. Push too hard and your engines risk overheating or losing efficiency; play it too safe and rivals will rocket past you on the climb.

By the end of the Vertical Ascent, pilots who managed their throttle well will be climbing clean. Those who didn't will feel it in their engines as the race starts to open up.

Racer Challenges (choose one or both):

• Traffic Snarl: A slow-moving cargo hauler drifts closer to the racing line than expected. Do you cut inside and risk turbulence, or swing wide and sacrifice momentum?
• Crosswind Shear: A sudden gust slams you toward a pylon. Do you correct hard and stress the engines, or ride it out and hope you don't lose altitude or position.

STANDINGS:

Tie P1 - Dani Stellaris & Bettany Sal-Soren (19)
P3 - Aselia Verd (18)
P4 Rojuhr Pouihl (17)
Tie P5 - Phy & Osira Perris (16)
P7 - Nami Runda (15)
P8 - Feng Huang (14)
P9 - Priesse Namada (13)
P10 - Tintinallë Nyxara (7)
P11 - Michael Angellus (3)
P12 - Devin Virell (0)


Dice Rolls:

• Roll a 1: Immediate crash. You are out of the race.
• Roll a 20: You cannot crash on your next post, regardless of roll.
• Roll a 7 or 11: You may sabotage one racer of your choice.
  
  • Target receives -1 to their next roll

Next section - Sunday Feb, 8th
​

 

[Rojuhr Pouihl]

​

FLIGHT LOG – Entry #
Location: –
Assigned Craft: Normally Mine, For this race Denon Model: N-1 Racer "Danger Zone"
Astromech Partner: R8-D0 (Radio) - What can I say? I like them old school.
Current Mood: A Bit Nervous
Background Noise: Crowds, Engines

[Where’m’I’at?!]

[“P-4”]

Rojuhr was mistakenly thinking about his position and not racing the track as he hit the Ascent Gate at the base of Mon Gazza's central pylons. Everything started to run straight up and the city dropped away beneath. Navigation lights climbed like a ladder and it was a good thing, it was hard to see the route as engines strained as he pitched the nose up.

The air went from superheated to thin fast, winds sheared unpredictably around the structures, and the roar of the lower refineries faded into a hollow, echoing climb.

Rojuhr was working on controlling the power of the fighter. Cargo haulers crawled along preset lanes, traffic drones drift into the race corridor, and sudden gusts slam into the pylons, shoving racers sideways at the worst moments. Especially when one of them came a little… okay WAY too close. Pulling on his oxygen mask, and shutting off the atmosphere in the canopy, much to RADIO’s detest, Rojuhr transferred power to the ailerons and the engines. He needed the control.

It wasn’t a perfect ascent, especially since he cut inside that close running transport and got a ship load of turbulence for his efforts. Who is the idiot who said “cut inside this guy?” Don’t answer that.

RADIO actually snickered at that, this was good. They were in a bad spot, and needed to have a good attitude about it.

By the end of the Vertical Ascent, Rojuhr managed his throttle well and got out clean. Good thing too, now they were approaching the spot where he would need his engine the most.

TAG: OPEN
This is where he is speaking
Roll (at the bottom)

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

PERSONAL FLIGHT LOG – Entry #333333333333 (man, that’s a lot of 3’s)
Location: Mon Gazza
Assigned Craft: My X-wing
Astromech Partner: BRED (BB-30)
Current Mood: Energetic
Background Noise: I can’t hear anything over the spherical Diva.

So, we’re passing the first leg and suddenly everything is pitching up. Everything is super-hot…
“Wooo-beeep.” [Translation: I told you, I didn’t turn the heat up!]

I know, relax! Just saying everything is changing and changing fast, so I put my oxygen mask on. This was an old trick Rojuhr taught me, he said he learned it from my old man. It was a way of getting extra engine, by dropping the cabin pressure.
“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: You need all the oxygen to your brain you can get!]

Rood!

“Chrrp.” [Translation: No, I know that sounds bad, but this was a rough patch. Just saying it was rough enough with the heat.]

This leg was about controlling the power you have, not trying to throw everything you have out there. We had to deal with the thin air before those slow-(censored) Cargo haulers that were all but crawling in front of us. The traffic drones were a pain.

“ChEEp.” [Translation: Says the guy who was trying to slalom them!]

Aw, come on man! You know you had fun with that. If it wasn’t for those wind gusts, we wouldn’t have had to deal with those transports.
“ChEEp.” [Translation: That’s because you crossed hard, and into a gust! You flew RIGHT INTO IT!]

That wasn’t my fault! I couldn’t control it!


“Wooo-beeep.” [Translation: Because you stalled it!]

Details… anyway, we got it running again…
“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: “We”?]

The engines were running again. Either way, I stopped fighting it and we kept in there. We were surfing those gusts!
“Chrrp.” [Translation: I still don’t understand why you want to die in these antiques.]

You could have given me flightlines to follow.
“ChEEp.” [Translation: I can’t do that in an N1!]

Anyway, we managed to make it out of the climb, but we were redlining… and it was at the worst possible time…


– Michael A.
This is gonna suck!

Roll (at the bottom)
TAG: OPEN!

This is where he is speaking

 

[Ayumi Pallopides]

Maëlys Amnen

The race continued and they had moved to the executive yacht. Ayumi was watching it and impressed if only because she was hoping the pilot lived up to what they had developed in the shipyards. Then something caught her eyes as she looked out from under the brim of her hat and saw two things... the first was a beautiful woman and the second was a little black and gold number. This race had gone from fun and mostly for helping out where needed to interesting enough now. She would just need something incredibly awesome and suave as she walked towards the railing to overlook and see what her pilot was doing in the Danger Zone. Her voice came out though as she looked at the woman. "Hello, do you have a racer competing."