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[rogue_wraith]

Wedge storms into the bar, in full 'angry-general' mode.

He's just found out who Hallis Saper is, and what she has to do with this asine mission NRI has him doing.

This is a pilot in a serious need of a drink. Luckily, he's managed to come here instead of his quarters on board the Allegiance. There's better booze here, for one. There's also

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[fighting_mad]

There is a certain bald pilot sitting with her boots up on a table, who spots him and tips her hand to him. "Hey Wedge. Force, you're old, too?" Grin, Plourr, grin. You'll be out of your early twenties too, someday.

[rogue_wraith]

Wedge, who has, by now, gotten his alcohol (and we all thank the Force for that) manages a somewhat more relaxed smile than he would have previously.
"I'm not old, I'm distinguished. When you coming in from, Plourr?" Wedge can only wish his best mechanic was on this mission. Then he could tag her up with that snot-nosed reporter Saper, and he'd never see hide nor hair of the woman or her droid ever again.

What a happy thought.

[fighting_mad]

She snorts. "Old," she repeats. "And about a year after Endor."

[rogue_wraith]

"Year after Endor?" Wedge grins, then pauses.

"Sweet burning stars. Wes must feel like this all the time." It is a revelation.

No wonder the man's so smug.

[fighting_mad]

This is a highly suspicious look. "What?"

[rogue_wraith]

"Nothing." Wedge replies. With utmost Correllian smugness.

Damn. Wes was right, this is fun.

[fighting_mad]

Plourr? Is Not Pleased.

"What?" she persists loudly.

[rogue_wraith]

"Nothing at all. Buy you a drink?" The smug, it is growing.

So. Much. FUN!

[fighting_mad]

"Fine," she says grumpily, because pilots simply do not pass up free drinks. She hauls her feet off the table and makes her way over to the Bar, taking up a stool beside him. "Lomin ale. On his tab." The drink appears and then she looks over at him. She is highly wary. "Why do you look like the gundark that's trapped its prey, Antilles?"

[rogue_wraith]

'"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Plourr. Drink your ale." He's going to have to apologize to Wes. Or maybe he'll just let him get away with something. Yeah.

[fighting_mad]

She pulls a face at him. "Is that an order, Captain?" Prickly as ever, is our Plourr. She does, however, drink. Not because he told her to.

[rogue_wraith]

The smile gets broader.

"That's General, now." He offers, showing her the pips on his collar.

[fighting_mad]

Plourr eyes the pips. Then eyes Wedge. "You're a general, Wes and Hobbie are majors that somebody put in charge of other pilots-- what next? The universe is going to come crashing down, isn't it?"

[rogue_wraith]

"What makes you think it hasn't already, Plourr?" Wedge asks, tilting his head towards the Observation Window.

[fighting_mad]

Plourr opens her mouth, glances toward the window, remembers, and leans over her drink. "Shut up," she mutters, and there is a long, mutinous drink of ale.

"So where were you while Janson was painting the sim room yellow?" It is a subject change, for Plourr does not like being proved wrong, complete with curled lip at the memory of that kriffing color.

[rogue_wraith]

"There's a sim room?" Wedge doesn't fly here. This is the place for most anything besides flying.