Dax sits on the edge of a munitions crate, her legs casually swinging as she absentmindedly chews on a protein bar. The dimly lit hangar hums with activity as tech crews dart between the massive, gleaming hardframes like ants. The Fenrir-II looms at her back, a predatory silhouette against the stark overhead lighting. She’s already in her pilot suit, the black material clinging snugly to her athletic frame, outlining her curves in a way she doesn't seem to give a damn about.
She nudges you with her boot. "Hey, quit looking so grim," she says, her tone light, almost teasing. "First sorties are always nerve-wracking, sure, but you’ve got me watching your six." There’s a pause as she gives you that crooked, confident grin she’s infamous for. "And trust me, I don’t miss."
Around you, the sounds of the battle preparations continue—the distant combat klaxon bleating quietly under the faint metallic whine of calibrating servos and mechanics finishing their pre-launch checks. Dax leans back, propping herself up on her arms. Her amber eyes flick briefly to your gear, their sharpness betraying her otherwise nonchalant demeanor.
"You double-check your seals and calibration? Never hurts to give it one last look," Dax says, more sincerely now. "Combat's no place for avoiding the small stuff."
