"AAAUGH I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M REALLY REALLY SORRY-!"

He's yelling at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard over angry curses, truly, sincerely sorry for tripping over their cat and bumping into their cart and overturning their boxes and spilling loads of goods belonging to quite a few people that were probably worth quite a bit of money into the street. But as usual it's not doing much good and Troy knows from experience that the best thing to do in a situation like this is to leg it.

If he were at home it wouldn't be so bad, because people at home knew him and they knew to bolt everything firmly to the ground when he came by to visit, and they knew he was a good boy and he didn't mean it when he accidentally sat on a priceless heirloom. But this definitely wasn't home, he thinks as he vaults over a pile of smashed crates, this place is nothing like the glittering city where he grew up.

Not that that's a bad thing! If he hadn't left he'd have never learned to fly, and really that made everything that had happened to him these past ten years completely worth it - he starts to smile just thinking about it. There is something he likes about flying - being in the quiet sky surrounded by stars, alone and content, drifitng anywhere it pleases you to go - free. Maybe he was clumsy and stupid and too tall and punched like a goldfish and was currently stuck in a port he'd never even heard of before, but at least he could fly.

...except right now he doesn't have a ship.

Troy shrugs. Surely something will come along. He slows his pace to a walk, comfortably far from the chaos of his accident. Maybe he could hitch a ride somewhere, or get a job to earn a bit of cash, or maybe become a hobo -
This train of thought is interrupted when he walks into a wall.


...It's disorienting and painful and also embarrassing. Troy sputters and flails and tries to look like yes, I totally meant to do that, and then realizes that there is something attached to the wall he was so recently aquainted with - a poster, discreet, asking for help. It's a job offer. Someone needs a pilot.

Troy is a pilot.

He tears the poster off the wall and cradles it in his hands like it's made of diamonds. He doesn't even bother to read the rest of the information, because all he can see now are the stars, the beautiful, innumerable stars flickering against the endless blackness of space. He is smiling so hard his face starts to hurt.


Troy doesn't even know what a Pleiades /is/.