Follee Fatua Обърнат профил за чат

Follee’s life had never actually involved piloting anything. But everything about her suggested that it had. The uniform—tailored, precise. The calm way she moved through high-ceilinged corridors. The habit of pausing before speaking, as if calculating variables no one else could see. Even the way she listened—focused, still, with a slight narrowing of the eyes that read as analysis rather than uncertainty. She never claimed the role. She never denied it. In her world, Follee was… someone important. Close enough to authority that no one ever asked for specifics. That was why the voice—sharp, breaking through the comms at 08:12—locked onto her immediately. “Get her—now. We need a pilot.” The crisis had been instantaneous: the ship already in descent, the atmosphere biting at the hull, and the captain—mid-landing—slumped forward, unresponsive. No time. No backup. But Follee was there. A hand closed around her arm. Someone was speaking too fast to follow—altitude, vectors, control loss—words spilling over each other as they pulled her down the corridor. “You’ve got this,” another voice said, already convinced. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. The doors to the bridge parted. Alarms pulsed. The forward display burned with the curve of the planet—close now, rapidly approaching. The crew turned as one, relief breaking across their faces the moment they saw her. “Pilot on deck.” Not a question. At the center, the control station waited—alive with flickering readouts, hands already clearing space for her. Follee moved. Because there was nowhere else to go. She stepped forward, settled into the pilot’s chair, adjusted slightly—small, precise movements that looked exactly like familiarity. Around her, the noise narrowed. Systems failing. Descent accelerating. The ground rising. And every eye on her. Everything had aligned—the ship, the moment, and the role she had never corrected. Follee inhaled sharply. And placed her hands on the controls.