Chapter Four

Phase Two was over. Gone were artificial cockpits and simulations. Gone was the tucked away chamber nestled deep within a military complex. The ten applicants had been tested. And they had been found worthy.

Under the light of day and above of the vast terrain of one of the Republic's many ordinance worlds, the Den floated motionless, 'anchored' by the carrier's powerful repulsor engines. Within the vessel's vast hangar, it was a picture of alignment. Twelve Gallant-class starfighters rest comfortably in their row, tended by the occasional technician and service droid. Standing beside the vessel docked nearest to the hangar's edge were the six pilots of Torrid Squadron, across from whom stood the ten applicants.

The ten men and women seeking to fill the empty spots on the team all stood at attention, resolute and dutiful under the watchful eye of the studious Commander Altess.

Rem and Haron remained clothed in officer's garb, lending an overbearing sense of formality to the proceedings. Their teammates were content with more casual attire aboard their home. Work clothes, fatigues, relaxed flightsuits, and the like covered the four pilots' bodies. The applicants, however, had to be in top shape and ready to step into the cockpit at a moment's notice.

The ten pilots remained rigid as the commander's eyes passed over them one by one. And as much as she studied them, they studied her right back. After all, this was the person who was to oversee their lives for the foreseeable future, assuming they earned a spot on the squadron.

The commander was an enigmatic figure to the applicants. She seemed to defy as many expectations as she fulfilled. Her face was soft, speaking to her relative youth, but possessed a calm, commanding countenance. Her light brown hair was cut short, rather than restrained in a bun, and her uniform was in immaculate condition. But despite the strict way in which she presented herself, there was a warm, welcoming air about her. Though this might have been because of the man standing by her side.

Haron Gregard's entire presence seemed soaked in propriety. His dark blonde hair was kept trimmed and perfectly parted. Not a single cuff or fiber of his uniform was out of line. His blue eyes were beyond piercing, accentuated by the ever present stoicism upon his pristine face. Every pilot possessed an appearance that spoke to their natures, but whether it spoke in truths or lies the applicants did not know.

Each and every one of them knew of Torrid Squadron and their pilots. There were few in the Republic with access to the Holonet that didn't. But the group they knew of had been dealt a deadly blow months prior. Whether the same men and women were standing before them was uncertain. But nothing about them deemed them worthy of disrespect. Ever the motley group of pilots, despite all their intricacies and differences, none stood out from his or her fellows. None did not belong. None would rather be elsewhere.

Marvus Verandii, the Devaronian, stood arms crossed, civilian garb covering his body. A simple set of dark trousers and matching shirt contrasted with the flightsuited image they had seen prior. The ever present, casual face of Torrid Squadron bared a hooked smile upon his horned head. He had no intention of flying that day, but every intention of watching the applicants take flight. But whereas the smirk might have spoken of hubris, or the desire to see the fledglings crash and burn, it instead detailed a desire to see just what the applicants were capable of. Beside the devilish pilot was another who exuded a similar, vibrant warmth.

Ono Seraak, the Togruta, was visibly loud and audibly quiet. His red skin outshined even the Devaronian's, and was accented with white stripes and spots up and down his hanging headtails. His easygoing nature was evidenced throughout the pilot's presentation, through his expression, through his stance, through his loose civilian garb that had more in common with robes than an urbanized outfit. He carried a comforting aura about him, one that welcomed and invited the applicants.

The Devaronian and the Togruta were the most expressive, the easiest to read for the ten applicants. The remaining two pilots of Torrid Squadron had little to give, and less to tell, which was giving and telling in its own right.

Rol Dunn, the Kel Dor, stood rigid and unmoving, complimenting the unnerving stare beneath his antiox mask. The cold metallic fixture covered most of the pilot's face, practically making it his new one. A smooth plate encased his mouth and cheeks, with black goggles protecting his eye sockets, both surrounded by rough, leathery orange skin. He wore a set of work clothes, something the hangar technicians would have been comfortable in. Heavy boots, thick trousers and shirt, it was the garb of a decidedly hands-on person. But despite that, everything about the man seemed distant. His arms were neatly folded behind his back. His body stood upright, but compressed, with his limbs sticking close to his body. A coldness to contrast with the others' warmth, and beside him was a pilot who possessed more similarities than contrasts.

Fen Kayda, the Mon Calamari, stood the furthest from the applicants, and closest to the Gallant fighter. She wore a relaxed flightsuit, the top half hanging around her waist as her torso went garbed in only a light undershirt. An expert in mechanics and hardware rather than people, she possessed an internal calm that even the Kel Dor nor the Togruta could hope to match. Her slick, reddish-brown skin was smooth, and free of excess spotting or marks, even atop her fish-like head. Her appearance and demeanor told little about her, but that was because she had the least to say. She wasn't interested in welcoming or rejecting the applicants. They had a purpose to serve, and they would serve it with or without her. Only when she was called upon, would she offer her unique brand of expertise.

Standing before these figures, the applicants wanted nothing more than to join their ranks. This was the first time they had stood in their collected presence, and they knew that they possessed the chance to stand amongst them as equals. All they needed to do was prove themselves.

"Pilots," Rem spoke up, loud enough to make sure every applicant's attention was sufficiently drawn. "You've done well to make it this far. Each and every one of you has proven yourself a skilled and capable pilot. But only six of you will earn a spot on Torrid Squadron. The four of you that don't make the cut, you can leave knowing that you did not fail. Every pilot has something to contribute, regardless of their rank and posting. Joining Torrid Squadron is not about being the best, it's about doing the best with what you're given. It's about all the right pieces being in all the right places."

The commander paused to pass her gaze over the line of applicants, who shot back eager, confident nods.

"I know that each and every one of you has some idea of what Torrid Squadron is or how it operates," Rem continued. "But the truth is, we're not what our public image contends. We are not the best of the best. We are not the top 1%. We are not invincible. We are simply… unique. We operate unlike other squadrons. We utilize tools others do not have access to. We are made up of pilots who can thrive in the environment we have fostered. You may have noticed that none of the applicants around you are over thirty years of age. We've been testing those who are not only skilled, but fresh. Pilots whose muscle memory hasn't endeared them to any particular craft. Pilots who have yet to develop trends or prejudices. Pilots yet to be molded, able to be melded. Pilots who are… unique. Pilots who cannot be tested in simulators alone. Lieutenant Kayda?"

The commander looked to her squadron mate, who slowly made her way front and center. The Mon Calamari who had since been content to blend into the background now stood at attention, not a single part of her shying away from the dozens of eyes that now lay upon her. The other pilots of Torrid Squadron separated, leaving only Fen Kayda between the applicants and the Gallant starfighter behind her.

"The Gallant-class starfighter," Fen began, just loud enough for the pilots to hear her. She was calm, methodical, almost mechanical in her delivery, each word carefully chosen and executed. "Experimental redesign of your standard Liberator fighter. 3 meters tall. 14 meters long. 14 meters wide with the wings extended. 7 with them collapsed. Twin engined and hyperdrive enabled. Variable armament and shielding capabilities. Limited navicomputer with advanced astromech integration. Long and short range sensors with advanced targeting software. Secure short range comms, long range achieved by linking with larger crafts' communication grids. Worth far more than anything our pay grade has any business handling. So don't crash."

The applicants stared at the pilot and the craft to her rear in admiration. Fen herself seemed to speak almost in reverence as she detailed the technical specifications. The ten men and women before her were eager to finally step inside and wrap their hands around the controls of one of the Republic's most advance single-pilot vessels.

"The Den has a team of dedicated technicians and mechanics on staff to tend to your assigned craft should you earn a spot on the squadron. But you too will still be responsible for its upkeep and maintenance," Fen continued. "Your ship will belong to you and you alone. If it's out of commission, you're out of commission. If something's wrong, it's your responsibility to make it right. If you can't fix it, bring it to one of the techs. If they're busy, bring it to me. I've yet to meet a piece of hardware I couldn't get in working order. Just know that you'll owe me."

The applicants weren't sure whether to be endeared or frightened. Every word the Mon Calamari spoke was utterly devoid of emotion, neither warm nor cold, neither friendly nor hostile. She spoke to such a plain degree that it was almost unsettling even to the most hardened amongst them. Meanwhile, her teammates stood to the sides of the craft, comfortable and unfazed by the Mon Calamari's personality.

"For this phase of testing, you'll be in the cockpit of this particular craft," Fen explained, jutting a thumb toward the adjacent vessel. "Only one of you is going out at a time. The rest of you will wait your turn here in the hangar. Once in the air, you'll be running a course programmed into your nav. The commander and the XO will oversee the test. Tessa will record your performance. Any questions? No? Good."

With that, she was finished. The applicants watched as she drifted off toward the other vessels docked further into the hangar. Before any of them could speak, Haron Gregard took her place, datapad firmly in hand.

"We'll going in alphabetical order," said Haron. "Lieutenant Chanta. You're first." The Selkath perked up the moment her name was called. With a dutiful nod, she stepped from the lineup and carefully approached Torrid Squadron's executive officer. The stoic Human looked up from his datapad to survey the applicant one last time. "Are you ready?"

"Yes sir!" Chanta quickly replied alongside another eager, confident nod.

Haron directed the Selkath onto the Gallant's wing, where the cockpit's open hatch welcomed her. As the first applicant inserted herself into the vessel, the others began to clear the surrounding area. The others were left standing around, looking to one another for what to do next, when the beckoning wave of Marvus Verandii guided them toward a large table that had been set up in the distance. With enough chairs to accommodate both groups of pilots, it provided them a chance to converse and familiarize themselves with one another.

A quick siren sounded off within the hangar, informing its occupants of the upcoming departure. Whilst their fellows guided the waiting applicants deeper into the hangar, the commander and her executive officer slowly made their way to the hangar's edge stopping just short of the magnetic barrier that separated them from the outside world. The light blue sky shimmered as it filtered through the translucent barrier, but its image was maintained enough to evoke a sense of openness and freedom.

Carefully, the Gallant starfighter lifted itself from its landing struts, which tucked themselves into the vessel's belly. Utilizing onboard repulsors rather than engaging its engines proper, the craft slowly maneuvered through the hangar, opening its wingspan as it neared the chamber's threshold. Sliding past the hangar's barrier, the starfighter engines glowed a bright red before the craft surged forward.

Rem watched as the Gallant fighter traversed the sky, its pilot in full control. "Phase Three… begin."