Member
HereComesTheSnow
Finetales
Kaithe Dame
Neziul
Boreas
Stryder BCShe almost hadn't made it.
Macross Island, isolated as it was in the South Pacific, had nonetheless become a gigantic hub of activity in the past fortnight. Veritech pilots old and new had been shuttled in from around the world lately in order to fill their squadrons, and Cairo Casablancas was among the final wave of them; there had been some hangup with her file, something about a hang-up in her dual citizenship (so much for a seamless, efficient one world order...) that had nearly left her stuck in Tel Aviv while the SDF-1 left for space without her. She had been cleared (again) for Fox Squadron at the eleventh hour, and so it was that she was now ambling around the busy hangar, seeking out a squadron that had surely gathered up all of its other members but her.
Just my luck.
She had a large duffel bag of her things, including some very breakable bottles that had by the grace of God slipped through customs, slung over one shoulder, and her Aviators were pressed closely to her face, lenses disguising the bleariest of red eyes after the longest of red eye flights. She kept taking one hand and running it through her hair, fixing it and brushing the long, dark strands over one shoulder. Normally she had it tied back, or at least restrained somehow for the purposes of deceiving others regarding its length, but she found herself too wiped out to be assed about something so minor - especially when it was possible that her entire squadron had grouped without her. Her flight lead was probably gonna be one of the ones who reamed people like they did in the Full Metal Jacket days.
That would totally be her luck.
At least there was no way to fit a Veritech in your mouth.
Sure enough, when she found what looked to be her squadron - marked only by the characteristic red and white she'd been told to expect on a handful of their insignia; she'd need to find space on her own jacket for a Fox Squadron emblem of her own - there were already a few pilots gathered up around crates, in various casual poses. Behind her sunglasses, her eyes closed in long-suffering disappointment. She had to be late.
Silently, she began to sidle through the last few wayward bands of mechanics, pilots, and other assorted officials, on her way towards her particular eye of the storm. A few of the pilots were seated on the crates she'd spied, but one or two had remained standing. Cairo remained among them, drawing herself up to her full (if average) height and trying to shake any bleariness from her posture. Because she wasn't exactly sure whether this squad leaned towards uptight or ragtag yet on the Professionalism Alignment chart, she decided to go the True Neutral route - a single salute, directed at the only man present with a clipboard.
Am I being graded?
Oh, shit. When was I supposed to be here?
Wasn't it still 0900? What time zone was this?
"Casablancas," she said simply, in accented English, trying to make it sound like she was introducing herself instead of tepidly asking for confirmation on her own surname. "Cairo Casablancas...sir. My flight was...held up."
Just her luck.
