[b]Caelum C. Jameson[/b]

Caelum was teetering on the edge of putting her head in her arms, blocking her ears with her hands and singing 'lalala' until everyone – her own [i]crew[/i] – wandered away. Instead, she busied herself with the front page of F. Sharpe's file, folding in the corners and smoothing them back out again. She was the pilot, not a people person!

Thomas R. Grayson (the captain, Cap'n, she noted) was blessedly quiet. Caelum couldn't help but draw parallels to the men in her mother's old novels that she was forbidden to read. Silent and brooding and the like. Of course, his lack of talking could be attributed to observation, him watching for the crew's weaknesses so he could kick-start his master plan of taking the helm and turning it into a pirate vessel...

Where [i]was[/i] that idea coming from? She shook her head to clear it of errant thoughts like a dog shaking water from its fur. If anyone it'd be the mechanic. [i]Stop![/i]

She swapped from fiddling with the file, to anxiously fiddling with the zip of her slate grey jumpsuit, if only to hear the reassuring sound of the mechanism. It was similar to that of The Medusa when the cabin door sealed and unsealed. Every second or two, the bright eyesore of her tie-dye shirt shone through. Any distraction would be better than the subconscious ordering that was going on in her head, organising which crew members would fall to star-sickness until there was no sound, no oxygen anywhere but in the pilot's cabin. F. Sharp would definitely be first, then–

This time, Caelum really did rest her head on the table in exasperation. Rubbing at her eyes, she excused her actions with a quick, “I hope the other few I messaged get here soon – otherwise I'm liable to leave them behind so I can see my baby. The Medusa, that is.” Her leg started bouncing up and down, shaking in nervous excitement... or was it tension. Her desperation to see The Medusa was quickly turning into a desperation to see The Medusa [i]so[/i] she could hide in the pilot's cabin away from human contact.

'Course, she didn't feel too bad that Tide and Risty and F. Sharpe were all conversing easily and she couldn't find it in herself to do the same. That Pascal fellow – the skinny, morose looking one who in her mind sucked the fun and excitement from a meter wide space around him – didn't seem to interested in talking either.