Twenty, One, Seven.
"Twenty." Under the fleeting lights of the sky, a man's voice cuts the gentle hum of the shuttle. His uniform is identical to the rest of the crew, save for the single digit number '01' flashing blue on his jacket. "We're all scrapped, lights out, —" he points a gloved finger at her "—if our Recon so much as stutters."
And there she sits, strapped into one of the sparse seats, eyes fixed on a holographic screen, projected from her arm. The glowing '20' is about the catchiest landmark of her figure.
"If you're well aware, Captain, why are you interrupting the mission analysis?" she asks without looking up.
"The FOURTH revision of the analysis." He leans in, his face competes with her screen.
"And you're acting like I overclocked." She shifts her screen away, avoiding the intrusive face.
“Now I see why you’re not my successor.”
Her eyes remain locked on the data stream. "Because I’m a zero away from rank Two, AND you’re not dead yet?"
"Because you’re draining your battery with irrelevant logic “ He finally recovers his posture with a resigned smile. “save that power for field experience."
"Once this revision is over." And she finds her screen blocked again, this time by an open hand—
"Can I borrow your laser?" A soft high-pitched voice comes from a smiley face with long hair—half-unbound, strands still cascading free—brushing over her tag '07' ever so slightly. That's the culprit behind the extended hand.
Seven motions her fingers, inviting the laser again, while her other hand sweeps up the now-loosened hair, gathering it into a high ponytail.
Twenty pauses, her eyes lifting from the data stream for just a fraction of a second. She reacts with a glare, before she refocuses.
Without a word, she flexes the fingers of her free hand. A shimmer of yellow particles gather in the air above her palm, rapidly solidifying into a sleek, cylindrical form double the size of a fountain pen, with a large hole not fit for ink.
The cool metal solid lands on Seven's waiting hand. "Thankies!" She waves it goodbye, while taking off her jacket, making her way to a corner in the ship.
She fades from the light, taking refuge between military supplies and gear. The laser pen thuds on a high lid of a container, and her jacket slides to her hands.
The whisper of fabric separating from seams pulls Twenty's attention. Her screen dims as she arches her brow.
A sleeve hits the floor, followed by another. The collar doesn't survive either, nor the hidden zipper. The rest of the crew eyes the whole scene top to bottom.
A sharp hiss—the laser melts the synthetic material, welding the victims of her teardown operation.
Her back stays turned, hardly covered by an open-back shirt, which allows air to brush her metallic vertebrae, with their glowing blue core at the top, the same core her crewmates carry and show.
But that shirt gets yanked up too, spun front to back, and draped over her shoulders again. Now the core stays covered while her chest gets the ventilation. Twenty's raised eyebrow joins wide eyes and a dropped jaw.
And the modified jacket is slipped back on, Seven brushes her hand over the arm warmers, smiles, fiddles with collar, eyes her reflection on the metallic containers, she checks the fit of the off shoulder she designed, and adjusts the hem of the jacket to complete the looks .
