It wasn’t every day that you got chosen for a mission as singularly important as the one Gera was chosen for. I mean, sure, he volunteered for the mission, but he didn’t just volunteer. No, Gera was
contacted. Maybe he was contacted after the first three candidates declined the job, but fourth out of hundreds of thousands wasn’t exactly shabby either! Pa called him a fool, and Ion? Well, he used some more… choice language. Neither of them thought going was a good idea.
Like hell he wasn’t though! Who in their right mind would decline getting paid to ferry people across fucking galaxies? There was, of course, the slightly unsettling nature of his briefing. Gera wondered if the lead pilot had received similar instructions. He resolved to discuss it with them once he figured out who the hell they were.
"I'm yer pilot, Miora. Donna go callin' me nothin' else, less ye want me to rearrange yer face, a'ight? Now, what are ye stations, ladies?" Well that answered that question.
Gera approached Miora, and tapped her on the back.
“Co-Pilot Gera Zsoldos reporting for duty,” He said with a smile, giving a mock salute.
“I hope you’re as capable as you are old fashioned!” And by old fashioned, he meant hundreds of years old type of old fashioned. Who the hell was this person? She intrigued him, to an extent. At least this trip wasn't making out to be a boring one.
Anton strode towards the crew’s rendezvous point, his thick, human hand clutching a heavy duffle bag. The left hand's metallic counterpart was holding on to a similar bag, and was thankfully free of pain. Peering out from beneath his flat cap, Anton spotted a small gathering of individuals.
Two soldiers for certain. Who are the others? Too early to tell. Most likely part of the crew. He advanced on the group, standing a respectful distance away. He could afford to wait.