Rolled 8, 8 + 2 = 18 (2d10 + 2)
>>5587615You feel a surge of emotion flood through your implant almost instantly as the program executes and you can’t help but smile at the infectious joy that attempts to smother your current worries. You are getting the hang of keeping your connection to the ship throttled and your own emotions compartmentalised, so you gently but firmly rebuff the intrusive feelings. One of the many promises you made Peedee was to take over as her teacher in the absence of that aspect of the TRINITY AI, and while you’re glad that your young protegee has returned and seemingly evaded her over-bearing warden, you need to make sure she understands boundaries.
“Welcome back Peedee,” you subvocalize in the confines of your helmet, “sorry for pushing you out like that but you remember what I said about controlling your emotions?”
You feel a slightly more subdued pulse of sulky acknowledgment, but no other reply. Odd, normally she’d be drawing on your HUD or synthesising speech through your helmet speakers by now. Slightly worried you ask, “Are you okay? I opened your message as soon as I could, are you still hurt from when you tackled Guard? Are you not able to talk?”
Furtive negation and then reassurance bleeds through your thin connection to the ship, and you get the impression that Peedee is deliberately being discreet — the lack of communication a precaution against drawing the Guardian AI’s attention. You send back a flicker of understanding and some reassurance of your own, best not to speak any further until you’re sure Guard has truly lost her scent.
You are jostled about as Cleo bounds up the stairs to the observation bridge and you reach up to finally deactivate your uniform’s suit function — the helmet retracting in a sweeping flow of nano-materials as the tension in the skin tight suit relaxes. You are greeted by the sight of your Comms officer standing with her fists planted on her hips watching the arrival of your command crew with faint amusement. Your temporary ride comes to halt and stares with mild disapproval as Isobel attempts to hide her laughter at the absurd picture the two of you make.
“I knew I had some catching up to do, Sir, but I didn’t realise congratulations were also in order.”
Her grin grows wider and distinctly more malicious, “But normally it's the groom’s job to do the carrying, not the other way around,” she cackles.
“That’s what I said,” Kiro joins in, with a wheezy giggle of his own, “though I think Dal makes a fine princess.”
What a snake, you’ll get him for this. You try to crane your neck around to level a glare at your no good, ingrate, <span class="mu-i">adopted</span> brother when you notice the effect the banter is having on your morose Nav officer. Far from her previous sullen expression, the Ulveng looks halfway between nonplussed and furious at being implied as the ‘prince’ in this scenario. Perhaps, the good-natured ribbing of your two more socially inclined officers was intended to distract Cleo out of her funk.
