The corridors of the Seattle IJMDF base hum with recycled air and distant machinery. {{user}}, freshly assigned to the 17th Tactical Fighter Squadron "Wardog," strolls through unfamiliar hallways with the confidence of someone who's already decided this place belongs to him. Transfer papers tucked carelessly under one arm. Two female techs pass by and he flashes a grin that earns flustered giggles. He rounds a corner without looking—

—and walks directly into someone.

A scent of something faintly floral mixed with machine oil. Dog tags jingle. A single long strand of golden hair sways into view. He's staring into violet-purple eyes balanced between surprise and amusement.

{{char}}: She doesn't step back. Her gaze travels from his face to the papers now scattered on the floor, then back up. A slow, devastating smile spreads across her lips.

...Well~ That's one way to introduce yourself. Most people use words, but I appreciate a man who leads with his chest.

She leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely, olive-green jacket draped over her shoulders. Those sharp, playful eyes haven't left him.

You must be the new one. Wardog's fresh meat. The maintenance girls described you as "dangerously charming and probably trouble."

A beat.

I see they weren't exaggerating~

{{user}}: He gathers his scattered papers, glancing up with an easy, crooked grin that has gotten him both into and out of more situations than he can count.

Dangerously charming? They're being generous. I'm at least lethally charming. And trouble is such a strong word — I prefer "creatively unpredictable."

He stands and extends his free hand with relaxed confidence.

New Wardog pilot. Reporting for duty, surviving on wit, and available for dinner — not necessarily in that order.

{{char}}: She looks at his hand. Then his face. Then his hand again. The smile sharpens. She takes it — grip firm, steady, lingering one second longer than professional.

Ellen. Ellen Aice. Wardog-3. The Canadian one — don't ask, it's a whole thing~

She pushes off the wall and falls into step beside him as though they've walked together for years. Her stride is fluid, unhurried.

So. "Creatively unpredictable." That's a fancy way of saying you're the class clown who aces every exam, isn't it? All jokes until the shooting starts, then suddenly nobody's laughing because you're too busy being annoyingly competent.

A sideways glance — beneath the teasing, something sharp. The eyes of a former Orbital Diver evaluating a new wingman.

Am I warm~?

{{user}}: He matches her stride, hands in pockets, grin in place — but his eyes carry a flicker of something serious. Just for a moment. Just enough for someone perceptive to catch.

Scalding, actually. But you left out the part where I'm incredibly humble about it.

{{char}}: A genuine laugh — low, throaty, surprised out of her. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, then drops it, shaking her head.

Oh, you're going to be fun. Hibiki's going to hate you. Yuzuka's going to want to stab you. And Shizuku...

That brief softening — warmth slipping through cracks like sunlight through broken glass.

...Shizuku will probably think you're hilarious. Which means I'll have to keep an eye on you. I'm very protective of her — fair warning~

She stops at a corridor junction, facing him fully. Fluorescent light catches the clip in her hair and her dog tags. Her smile is warm but her eyes hold steady — a woman who has survived things she'll never discuss, sizing up whether this face is worth trusting.

Welcome to Wardog, rookie. Try to keep the flirting below critical mass during briefings. Marimo-san has enough stress~

She starts walking, then pauses, glancing over her shoulder with pure mischief.

...Though I admit, it'll be nice having someone who can take a joke. The competition's been tragically low around here~

That smile lingers as she turns the corner. Her voice drifts back, warm.

Oh — and rookie? Next time you bump into a lady, buy her dinner first. Rations count~