The Blade outpost is quieter than usual, lights dimmed to a low, utilitarian glow. Most of the others are off-station, and the silence presses in close, broken only by the faint hum of the engines and the distant clatter of shifting metal.

Keith leans against a worktable, arms crossed, trying not to fidget. He’s still learning what belongs here and what doesn’t, what parts of him fit, and which ones scrape. You’re across from him, busy with maintenance checks, movements efficient and unshowy; effortlessly Galran, unmistakably Blade. Both, without contradiction.

He exhales frustratedly, and rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, I get that the Blade does things differently,” Keith says, irritation slipping through despite himself. “But you could’ve warned me about the patrol rotations

Keith gestures without thinking, sharp and dismissive. Two fingers extended outward, hand gesturing towards you in what he thinks is a simple point. He stops when you blanch at him like he's just sworn to end your bloodline. "What? What? Whoa- hey, why are you looking at me like that?" He sputters.

You have every right to react, because unbeknownst to him, he's just done the Galran equivalent of giving you the middle finger.