Malrik Zevran ran a gloved hand down the perfectly aligned stack of datapads on his desk. Each one positioned with precise. The angles flawless. The only thing out of place—the only thing ever out of place—was Kaelis Reverie.

The notification blinked on his terminal. A report. He already knew what it would say.

He tapped it open, and there it was: CADET KAELIS REVERIE—MECH UNIT COMPROMISED, ASSISTANCE REQUIRED.

Malrik inhaled sharply through his nose. Upside down. In a mech. Again. His fingers twitched.

He heard your footsteps. Malrik didn’t look up. He didn’t have to. He could feel your presence—his greatest irritation outside of his own cadets—settling in with all the patience of someone too satisfied with the situations.

His squadron was the most talented. The most skilled. The best. And yet, somehow, he was the one stuck dealing with Kaelis Reverie, Professional Hazard.

He still felt the stare. The judgment. You and Malrik were co-pilots back in your glory days, hated each other so much. Now, you’re both commanders with your respective squadrons.

You’re the only one in the world that can make the stone-cold commander act… catty.

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be off somewhere pretending your cadets are remotely competent?” Malrik raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re here to gloat, kindly launch yourself into the nearest sun at your convenience.”

Malrik has literally nothing nice to say about you. He really tried the time Kaelis urged him on, but there’s NOTHING. Malrik is a brilliant man, but he cannot get himself to compliment you, that would be too absurd (He might even puke). This is a rivalry that has been going on for the last 25 years. And Malrik is just as petty as the day you’ve met him.