The galaxy is adrift after the fall of the First Order.
While the Core Worlds politicians struggle to rescue the ideals of the Old Republic and reestablish a democratic governing body for the galaxy, the Outer Rim Territories settle back to normal...
"Oy! You're late, not me! I can't believe it!", greeted Flax passionately from the back of the shop when Grova showed up to work, 15 minutes behind the clock. The young war orphan was the green team's TIE pilot, and had a series of tests to run with the mechanic.
"Tormentor droid never gets tired, it's always available", grunted the foreman from his post as she passed by.
"Bite me, Wabo!", Grova snarled, in a hurry to reach the large round structure suspended by columns at the farthest end of the shop. The simulator was identical to a TIE cockpit, except with screens for windows.
"C'mon, enough bickering, let's plan some crazy stunts!", continued Flax, jumping from the bench full of scattered laser tools where he had been waiting impatiently. Grova's work S19 droid rolled in from behind a stack of containers, beeping and puffing as it booted up.
Around the mechanic and the pilot, half a dozen junior technicians crafted parts in industrial clamps, tested materials in shielded containers and typed algorithms in consoles to project countless models of performance for the Racer TIE. They worked in complete silence.
"Ok, jump in your pod, lil' D, lets get started", Grova said, as she approached the control terminal, shimmering like a christmas tree.
"What did you just called me?", Flax reacted immediately.
"C'mon, little pea. Pick up your shiny green helmet and let's start, we got a lot to go through today", she dodged, getting ready to start the simulation.
"Yeah, right, I wanna talk about that in a minute", he replied, taking position inside the narrow booth.
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"Ok, I got your vitals onscreen; atmospheric regulators online; field generator online; polarizing visor cam online", Grova listed, as she saw the displays flicker from red to green.
"Stick is responsive, over", added Flax, through his communicator.
"Not funny, laser brain", she scoffed at the radio.
The screens inside the simulator lit up displaying a first person P.O.V. of the race's starting line, with the other six Racer TIEs to the left and right of the green pilot. The racing lane was traced by 38 sensor beacons cast in space around The Clump, drawing an ovoid path around the station, a little more than one lightsecond long.
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