Plank Sinatra
OnaraxContrary to what one would have expected from his callsign, the cup of joe presently held in Montgomery Joe's left hand was not, in fact, a latte. The type of a drink hailed by some to be nectar of the gods that the oldest pilot of Fox Squadron was currently imbibing was instead of the instant variety, a fact that explained the mild grimace that was replacing his usual carefree expression. Slouched over with his bum resting on a conveniently-placed crate (one of many that was currently serving as a form of seating for his mates), he couldn't help but give uneasy looks at his blue mug (upon which was scrawled "World's #1 Dad") even while his squadron leader was talking. Yet he couldn't help but keeping drinking from it.
A chap had to finish his coffee. It was pretty barmy to keep drinking something he wasn't too fond of, but he'd finally gone to the effort of (after a bit of procrastination, actually) taking a look-see of the coffee situation on the SDF-1's mess hall today.
Didn't impress, really.
He drummed the pale fingers of his right hand against his knee for a few seconds, letting some of the black liquid roll around in his mouth. Nope, he wasn't a fan. Not in the slightest. He swallowed, a slightly discomforted huff leaving his throat as the coffee downed his throat. Even for instant coffee, it wasn't tolerable in the slightest.
Montgomery decided to turn his attentions to something else: the new meat on the team. They were young-looking lasses, weren't they? Certainly the that Dragomira girl. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was still just a schoolgirl! Or maybe he was just getting old. The middle-aged man stroked his chin in thought. Well, he was certainly around their age when he first got his wings. But that didn't stop them from looking like kids to him.
That sunglasses-girl (Cairo, yes?) seemed like she'd been called up to the headmaster's office! Montgomery mentally chuckled at that; Samuel McKnight was a far cry from a schoolteacher, even if he carried that clipboard of his around like a schoolmarm.
Still, they were old and (hopefully) trained enough, so he didn't need to worry too much.
The coffee, on the other hand.
Montgomery stared suspiciously at the mug. He took another sip.
Nope. Not a fan.
His blue eyes rose back up to meet McKnight.
"Have a question already, skipper," he spoke up, casually raising a hand (still tickled his funny bone that he was calling someone nearly a decade his junior 'skipper', but Montgomery Joe was perfectly content to be under Samuel McKnight's competent command; his fellow Briton had the chops for the job). "Will we still have to drink coffee this shite up in space? It tastes like dirt."
A smile found its way to his aristocratic-looking face.
"And it's not even freshly ground."
A chap had to finish his coffee. It was pretty barmy to keep drinking something he wasn't too fond of, but he'd finally gone to the effort of (after a bit of procrastination, actually) taking a look-see of the coffee situation on the SDF-1's mess hall today.
Didn't impress, really.
He drummed the pale fingers of his right hand against his knee for a few seconds, letting some of the black liquid roll around in his mouth. Nope, he wasn't a fan. Not in the slightest. He swallowed, a slightly discomforted huff leaving his throat as the coffee downed his throat. Even for instant coffee, it wasn't tolerable in the slightest.
Montgomery decided to turn his attentions to something else: the new meat on the team. They were young-looking lasses, weren't they? Certainly the that Dragomira girl. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was still just a schoolgirl! Or maybe he was just getting old. The middle-aged man stroked his chin in thought. Well, he was certainly around their age when he first got his wings. But that didn't stop them from looking like kids to him.
That sunglasses-girl (Cairo, yes?) seemed like she'd been called up to the headmaster's office! Montgomery mentally chuckled at that; Samuel McKnight was a far cry from a schoolteacher, even if he carried that clipboard of his around like a schoolmarm.
Still, they were old and (hopefully) trained enough, so he didn't need to worry too much.
The coffee, on the other hand.
Montgomery stared suspiciously at the mug. He took another sip.
Nope. Not a fan.
His blue eyes rose back up to meet McKnight.
"Have a question already, skipper," he spoke up, casually raising a hand (still tickled his funny bone that he was calling someone nearly a decade his junior 'skipper', but Montgomery Joe was perfectly content to be under Samuel McKnight's competent command; his fellow Briton had the chops for the job). "Will we still have to drink coffee this shite up in space? It tastes like dirt."
A smile found its way to his aristocratic-looking face.
"And it's not even freshly ground."