Private Paging Through The Catalog

[Sergeant Omen]

Location: At Home on Empress Teta

"BEEP BEEP BEEEEP" Omen quickly shut off the alarm clock before Aren could murmur in her sleep, trying his best to slip out of bed without Aren noticing. It had been a long shuttle flight back from Ilum. When she did finally get up, she would find him in the kitchen with a plate of flapjacks covered with Jogan Syrup and a steaming cup of caf waiting for her. Unlike normal, Omen didn't look from the display he was paging through while more flapjacks bubbled over the frying pan he was handling. He was so immessersed in it what he was looking though that he didn't notice her come in.

What he was looking through was a Starship catalog, muttering to himself. "It has to be a Light Frighter to Gunship Size... And no, we are not paying for any Luxary Yatch and its many many possible add ons..." It was clear that the Clone had had enough of shuttle seats making his back ache. And while he could dig up his old transport where he had stashed it before he started his prison sentence, with the time away, he doubted he would be able to fly it anywhere, not without alot of work atleast. They needed something Aren could fly in the mean time for her work. Something large enough to have living space and a workstation for her talents or space that atleast could be converted. It also had to be small enough that she could pilot it by herself or by droid pilots. Hell, in a bigger ship, droids would have to fill every crew slot and that might work for Aren but droids had limits... Having them instead of sentient crew would have drawbacks in the creative thinking department. Still for just turrets, sliced in droids should be fine.

The ships and their various layouts scrolled by as Omen tried to decided what was best. It was only when she walked up close that the Clone spied her out of the corner of his eye. Shuting his holopad down, he turned and smiled at her as she walked up. "Hey hun, hoped you slept well. I managed to make a half-decent breakfest for you." Hoping she had seen what he wanted to be a surprise for her, he leaned her to wake her up out of her groggy state with a deep kiss. Omen had to keep his standards up by giving her the best morning greeting ever.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren registered the smell before she fully registered where she was.

Caf. Warm oil. Sugar—jogan syrup, if she had to guess. Familiar, grounding things that pulled her the rest of the way out of sleep as she padded into the kitchen, hair loose and uncombed, shirt borrowed and hanging a little too long on her frame. She paused just inside the doorway, quiet by habit, watching him for a moment while he muttered at the holopad as if it had personally offended him.

Starship schematics. Of course.

She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding loosely as she listened, the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to betray her amusement. "Good morning to you too," she said at last, voice low and still a little rough with sleep.

Only then did he notice her. She let him shut the holopad down without comment, let him turn, let him smile like he hadn't been caught mid-planning something expensive and potentially dangerous. When he kissed her, she didn't resist—didn't melt either—but one hand came up to the back of his neck, steadying him there just long enough to make the point that she was very much awake now.

When she pulled back, her forehead lingered against his for a beat.

"You made breakfast," she observed calmly, eyes flicking past him to the plate of flapjacks and the caf. "Which means one of two things." She stepped around him to the counter, pouring herself a caf without asking, movements unhurried and practiced. After a sip, she glanced back at him over the rim of the mug. "Either you're trying to bribe me," she continued, "or you're about to pitch me something that involves engines, credits, or both."

A pause. Then, dry: "Judging by the catalog, I definitely wasn't supposed to see… I'm guessing option two."

She took another sip, then reached for a flapjack, finally allowing a little warmth to soften her expression.

"That said," she added, more quietly, "this is appreciated."

Her eyes met his again—clear, alert now, curious rather than suspicious.

"So," Aren said, tilting her head just slightly, "what problem are you trying to solve before I've had my second cup?"

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

As he heard Aren's feet pad on the floor, he turned to see her in his shirt, wiping the crud out of her eyes, and he couldn't help it. He just felt compelled to kiss her. Guess that's what being in a relationship does to you. As he pulled away, he couldn't help but smile at her. "You know, you can steal my clothes all you want if they make you look this perfect." Then again, she always looked perfect to him.

"Waaaa...? Why would I be trying to bribe you? You are unbelievable..." The Clone voice had a sense of nervousness before his shoulders slumped, letting Aren know she was right. "I... wanted it to be a surprise... You are special to me, figured I should try to make you feel it right back by getting you something you really need. If you are going to travel, I might as well try to give you something to travel in." He gave her arm a playful punch as that signature smirk returned to grace her presence. "Maybe it will also put you in a better mood when a child isn't kicking your seat after a long shuttle flight."

Bringing the list of ships back up on his holopad, he showed her the options. "I know what you probably want, but why don't you show me. At least then I'll have a better idea about what you want." Who knew what she had in mind for her personal ship, but he was prepared to nod along and say good things about it, as every boyfriend should during important decisions.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren let out a quiet breath through her nose at the compliment, not denying it, not indulging it either. She took another sip of caf before answering, eyes briefly unfocusing as if she were filing his words away rather than reacting to them outright.

"Careful," she said evenly. "If you keep rewarding theft, I'll escalate."

The corner of her mouth curved just enough to signal she was teasing—subtly, in the way she always did. She shifted her weight against the counter as he admitted the surprise, watching the way his shoulders dropped, the way the intent behind it finally surfaced. That, more than the ship catalog, was what made her expression soften.

"You don't have to buy me things to make me feel valued," she said, calm but sincere. "But… I won't pretend I don't see what you're trying to do."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the holopad when he brought it back up, then returned to him instead of the screen.

"And for the record," she added dryly, "the child kicking the seat is only half the problem. The other half is trusting a shuttle pilot who thinks maintenance is optional."

She stepped closer, nudging his hip lightly with her own as she finally glanced down at the list of ships. Her eyes scanned the specs quickly—too quickly for someone casually browsing—already filtering, discarding, prioritizing.

"I don't want luxury," she said after a moment. "I don't want something flashy enough to be remembered, or rare enough to be tracked just because someone recognizes the hull."

She reached out and scrolled the display herself, pausing on a mid-sized frame.

"Independent power routing. Manual overrides that actually mean manual. Enough room for a proper workstation and modular cargo, but not so big I need a full crew to keep it flying." A beat. "And it needs to handle rough landings. Not 'certified for,' actually handle."

Only then did she look back up at him. "I need something that works even when everything else goes wrong," Aren said quietly. "Something I can trust when I'm tired, or hurt, or thinking three steps ahead of everyone else."

Her fingers brushed his wrist—brief, grounding. "And if you're offering to help with that," she continued, steady and unguarded, "then I'll show you exactly what I'm looking for."

A pause, then the faintest hint of warmth. "But don't just nod along. If you think something's a bad idea, say it. I don't need a yes-man." She tilted her head slightly, eyes sharp but affectionate. "I already have enough droids."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

The Clone's hands slammed quickly with an audible slap against the counter between them as Aren leaned in, their faces inches apart, and he playfully hissed out, his voice slithering into her ears as a playful threat. "If you escalate, maybe I will too." Only after giving her a long look that told her exactly how he would crank up this interaction as the air crackled around them with their connection, he pulled away, leaning on the countertop opposite her to listen to what she had to say.

The corners of his own mouth curved upwards as he listened to her speak. Raising a finger, he corrected her. "I'm not buying you this because I want you to feel valued; I'm buying this because I want to keep you safe. Because if some lousy shuttle pilot crashes their ship with you on board, my heart might not be whole again. So yes, I'm being your sugar daddy for one moment and helping you get your own ship, sue me." As she came over and nudged him, he nudged back with his hip as he tried to keep a look of exasperation off his face, and if she kept it up, there would be a nudging war till the end of time.

Her requirements for a ship were the ones he expected out of her mouth. All of what she said made sense for a ship that would be fulfilling her mission roles as a long-distance reconnaissance/maintenance craft that would hold everything she needed to do her role. His only question was what her definition of "rare" was. Considering the options, he finally spoke as he watched her scroll through the pad. "Well, I guess you could put any YT or Soro-sub cargo hauler in that category, so that's still a lot of choices. To me, if I were to pick a "Legacy" option, it probably would be the Defender-Class Corvette. It's got heavy shielding, enough weapons for protection if needed, and plenty of space to put any parts and supplies, a speeder bike to take out to isolated installations. It's even got the comms dish when you want to call me and complain about your employer. Plus, I heard the Jedi are still using these ships today, making them real monsters. We would have to change it up ourselves to be that deadly, but I bet we could do it as a Couple project." It would be more supervising the work of repair droids, but hey, they would be doing it together.

There were a couple of designs that he favorited and marked for later without comment, including a Mon Cala design and one from the Madrugar starship design. His eyes held on to one ship from Trigonus Industries that was heavily armored and looked like it could take a pounding. It also looked like it could only move forward if they got out and pushed it. Saying offhandedly as he marked a Mando offering that looked like the refresh of an old design. "It just depends on what tradeoffs you want to agree to, I don't know your piloting ability and how much you trust your instincts. You know yourself better than I do. If you want me to choose for you... I'd probably go for either a Defender and customize it to your liking or go with this Mynock Class... Get some rep with your Mando clients." He couldn't choose what he wanted for her; he could only guide her path as she requested, til she made her final choice.

As he looked at the Mynock Class, he saw the name of its manufacturer, Maji Ironworks, and its owner... the infamous Shai Maji. Or the past owner now... seeing that it showed she was deceased. A soft growl came to his throat as he looked at her face, as memories of that dark day came back to him, memories he didn't want to face... In a soft tone meant only for himself, he muttered with a rough, grizzled voice that didn't hide his emotion. "Guess I got to outlive you after all, Shai... Hope that where you are right now is a better place... And that you saved a spot for me..." By the tone of voice, Aren could tell that something about this person from the past had affected him. She could also tell that he wasn't going to give the details up easily.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't retreat when his hands hit the counter or when his voice dropped like that; she stayed where she was, eyes steady on his, letting the moment burn itself out without adding fuel. When he leaned back, she took another slow sip of caf, unhurried, the kind of pause that wasn't avoidance so much as calibration.

"Threat acknowledged," she said evenly, the faintest hint of dry humor threading through it. "Filed under 'mutual escalation,' to be revisited when we're not standing near breakable objects."

As he talked—about safety, about shuttle pilots, about doing this because he couldn't stand the thought of losing her—she listened without interrupting. When he finished, her expression shifted, not into softness exactly, but into something more deliberate, more careful, as if she were choosing clarity over reflex.

"I know why you're doing this," Aren said, calm and certain. "And I'm not bristling at it. You're not trying to manage me, and you're not trying to make decisions over my head. You're worried, and you're acting on that worry in the only way you know how—by fixing the problem before it breaks." A small pause, her gaze holding his. "That, I can work with."

She nudged his shoulder lightly with hers, a familiar grounding touch meant to settle the air rather than challenge it.

"And yes," she added, dry as ever, "avoiding death-by-incompetent-shuttle-pilot is a perk I'm willing to accept."

When the holopad became the focus, Aren's attention sharpened. She listened to his suggestions in full, absorbing them the way she always did—quietly, thoroughly, without rushing to speak until she'd weighed every angle. The Defender earned a thoughtful look, her fingers hovering over the specs before moving on.

"It's solid," she said at last. "Predictable systems, reliable frame, easy to source parts for." Her finger tapped the pad once, decisively. "But predictability cuts both ways. Anything still common with Jedi fleets carries assumptions I don't always want attached to me."

At the mention of Mandalorian rep, she glanced at him sidelong, one brow lifting faintly.

"You just want to watch me argue with armorers over tolerances."

She was ready to keep dissecting the options—mass-to-thrust ratios, internal volume, how much abuse the hull could take—when his voice changed. It was subtle, but she caught it immediately. Aren went still, eyes leaving the display to study his face as he murmured that name.

Shai.

She didn't rush him. She didn't press. She let the silence stretch just long enough to acknowledge the weight behind it before she spoke again.

"That wasn't just a name on a spec sheet," she said quietly, not as a question but as recognition.

This time, when she reached out, it wasn't to his face. Her hand settled lightly against his forearm, steady and present, offering contact without demanding it.

"You don't owe me the story," Aren continued, her voice low and even. "Not now, not later. But I can tell when something matters to you, and I won't pretend I didn't hear that."

Her thumb pressed once against his sleeve, grounding, before she glanced back at the Mynock-class listing and then returned her attention to him.

"As for the ship," she went on, composed again but not distant, "this is closer to what I want. Armored, unapologetic about what it's built to survive, and honest about its limitations." A brief pause. "We'd strip out the assumptions, rework the internals, make it fit the way I actually operate. It wouldn't be fast or elegant, but it would endure."

She met his eyes again, steady and intent.

"And if it carries someone else's legacy with it," Aren added more quietly, "I'd treat that with the respect it deserves."

Her hand remained where it was, neither gripping nor withdrawing.

"We don't have to decide today," she said, the cadence unhurried, thoughtful. "But if we do this, we do it properly, with both of us involved, not as a purchase but as a project."

Then, with just enough dry edge to sound unmistakably like herself: "And no, you don't get to choose for me. But I do appreciate that you're thinking with me instead of around me."

Her gaze held his, patient and open. "When you're ready," she added, gently but firmly, "you can tell me what she meant to you. If you want. I'm not going to force you to."

Sergeant Omen