2017-10-12 Itty Bitty Party Committee

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Itty Bitty Party Committee
Date 2017/10/12
Location Railway Station - Rigard
Participants Windblade, Penchant
Summary Windblade seeks out Penchant to get the logistics ball rolling for the Galactic Council gala.

It took a little time, a few pointed questions, a few wrong leads, but finally, /finally/, Windblade has been aimed in the right direction. She was assured by a port worker that Penchant went thisaway. Really. Honest. The Camien had to take that on faith but was willing to make the leap into alt-mode, to commence the search. And hopefully end it! Her approach is signaled by the heavy thrum of air moving through rotors as the black and red VTOL jet appears on the horizon. She approaches from the east and-- once near enough to spy a figured seated on the bench under the canopy-- gives a saucy little wing-waggle while circling the structure. Circle, circle, and finally descend, dropping the last several feet in humanoid form.


"Penchant!" is a glad cry made as she steps up onto the platform. Bless that port worker. "I was hoping to find you."

Penchant is perched cross-legged, cheek against a folded palm as he dozes, apparently waiting for the train to pull in. Or, more likely, the minerals that the train is bound to haul from the minds. Someone somewhere promised him something. He's been patient all damn day.

The distant whine of Windblade's engines stir Penchant from his nodding. He looks up. Oh, it's the Cityspeaker! Pench slides from the bench and tries at some formalities. Which just involves an awkward bow. What did Camiens do again... "Sorry, I've been off on my own little fetch quest today. What can I do for you?"

Nooo, no bowing. Windblade, to her credit, doesn't shift awkwardly to be on the receiving end of that but she is quick to make a little gesture. It urges Penchant back onto the bench. And why not? She's angling for the other end, and clearly intends to sit. With him. "Sit, sit... you have no reason to say sorry, none at all. I really should have sent a message ahead but I thought I'd use this as an excuse to get out of the office." Legs stretched away, she leans forward a little with hands hooked over the benchseat's edge. It's a very casual posture, to match the smile she tilts at the cassette.

"I was talking to Rodimus about hosting a gala for the Galactic Council and your name came up as someone who might be able to help me with that."

Penchant sits back down, if only out of politeness! He laughs a little, rubbing his neck. "A gala. That we're hosting." He considers quietly for a moment, mulling over what he remembers of the ship's current supplies. And budget. Budget was rarely an issue with Drift as their purser. "Whatever you and Rodimus need. I'm guessing this is something to... build morale and strengthen relationships?"

"The idea was to have the Rigardians as official hosts. But if we can handle most of the logistics for them, it's only polite to do so. Which is where you come in," says Windblade, smile ticking up to an almost-grin. She shoots Penchant a glance sidelong. "I'm handling the invitation list, Rodimus has volunteered to take security. I believe Drift was recommended to oversee catering but I haven't spoken to him yet. The best foundation begins with logistics, so here I am. And you're guessing right. Get the Council together, solidify the sense of many all working together as one body."

"Alright. I'll need to contact a few mechs. Order some things. Gotta' talk to Swindle. You'll have to send me a list of the types of races and what sorta' food they'll want. Need to look at customs, too, so we don't offend anyone..." Penchant seems glad for the task, as he gazes off at the nebula in the sky, tapping his lips. "Guess I oughta' get with Drift then, too. And the Pagoda of Community, probably. Hmmm. What's our timeframe?"

There's a certain pleasure in watching someone who's good at something do the thing they're good at Penchant's musing just ensures that Windblade's smile is going nowhere, any time soon. She's content to wait as he muses, working through the various requirements of the function. While he does that, she leans back a bit and is content to let her gaze wander. Such a picturesque train station! "Such a fancy clock post for so small a station... hmm? Oh! You can dictate that too, as you'd prefer, and as is needed. I've sent no invitations, nor set a date. How long do you think you need?"

"A week," Penchant declares proudly. That's actually a little narrow, but apparently he wants to prove something to himself. "I wasn't able to attend the Khepri gala, but I saw images and video - I think we can best it. With the right decor and entertainment. Everyone seemed to enjoy getting dressed up too, hah. Can get my new clothier on that one."

Rigard's bustle has died down since sunset, but bots still zip around in their altmodes in the distance. The station's lighting flickers on and keeps a constant buzz. "Yeah," Penchant says almost randomly, still going over lists in his head. "Yeah, I think we can do this. We've had like, internal parties, generally at one of the ship's pubs, but nothing this public. Should be interesting." Thumbs up. "Got you covered." He glances at the clock, belatedly. "Actual chronometers on display is kinda' quaint. I guess they're going for quaint."

Wait what? Windblade's optics suffer a flickering blinking in and out of that lambent blue glow as she processes this. "A /week/?" Not that she disbelieves. Primus, no. This is what gradually growing awe looks like. " would you feel if I name you the official event planner? Coordinate with me, I'll forward my lists, the information you need of preferred attendees, and the security details Rodimus said he'd be sending on so we can camoflauge them. Give you authorization to order whatever you need, do it up howver you think best. And at the end, it's you who'll be taking the bow."

"Oh, gosh, uh-" Penchant fidgets, drumming his knees. "Sure," he answers, without much further thought. It's /good/, to keep busy. That's what Rung said. "Will do my best. You're sure putting a lot of trust in me, though! I could turn out to be a dud." He winks though another slightly nervous laugh, and then just sort of... pulls the brim of his helm down. "I guess you're good at reading people though, huh. That's sorta' your job."

Awww. Windblade hooks her hands over the bench seat edge again and braces her arms there as she leans forward, trying to dip low enough to catch Penchant's hiding optics. Now she /is/ grinning. "Will you curl up and overheat if I remind you it was Rodimus who recommended you?" she wonders, plainly teasing. But lest that overheating thing become a real threat she also hurries on past to say (with a serious tone that goes deep), "You managed to run through some things in five minutes that I hadn't even considered yet. You're the right mech for the job. This will be the first convening of the full Galactic Council since its inception. I know you'll do right by it and by the delegates."

Penchant didn't really know how much he needed this little confidence boost until Windblade spelled it out for him. He struggles to come up with words. There's a mumbled 'thank you' somewhere, as she manages to draw him back upright with naught but her searching eyes. The train finally hisses into the tiny station, and Penchant slides off the bench. Hand shake, at least, Windblade? With her sitting, it's an easier reach. "I need to tackle this shipment. Send me the info when you can, and I'll get started on it right away."

Windblade straightens (but only a little because smol) to meet that offer of a hand shake with the gentle clasp of her narrow hand. So solemn. "I'll send it as soon as I'm back to the ship. And if you need longer than a week, really, take the time. We're building a new custom and new traditions. We'll dazzle them." That's right! We. Disengaging from the shake, she eases up off the bench and sidesteps towards the edge of the platform. But after only a few steps, the Camien pauses. "Do you need any help? I could cart some back too."

"Dazzle 'em! Oh, sure, if you're willing to make the walk." Penchant readily tosses her a crate of odd, fist-sized capsules. If you offer, be prepared to work. "I used to be a luggage cart. For a hotel. That would've made this a little easier, heh. A /little/. Didn't want to bring my hauler mechs down for a small shipment. A VTOL will do." He grins.

"Pft," her vents hiss, "/Walking/. We'll travel in style." The crate is caught, plucked from the air and hugged to her midriff as she hops off of the platform. Another hop, and the Cityspeaker shifts to grounded jet. A belly flap opens, and the cockpit canopy too. One for shipments, one for luggage carts. "Zoom zoom, load up. On the way back, I can list off all of the delegates."

Handy! Penchant is quick to gather up what was ordered from the mines, paying off the attendant before loading up Windblade's storage. "Jets are always so touchy about the cockpit. Never got to ride in one," he adds sheepishly, climbing in.

There's a roll of static from the cockpit radios. It /might/ be laughter. "Just don't push my buttons," Windblade advises, as her rotors turn and they levitate into the air. That's probably the joke-- but the substantial lists she has to share after that are anything but funny. So. Much. Work.

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