Sometimes it all starts with a name. A sudden whim that snares it and dresses it in in blue jeans, a worn gray t-shirt, and work boots slightly past their prime.

Two eyes, not green, not silver, just a pleasant shade of brown. Short rough hair, unkempt and rustling in the stiff breeze like winter grasses. A smudge of oil, or grease in neon orange above one eyebrow, forgotten in the focus of the moment.

Two arms encased in fleather-light metal, extend into the belly of the craft, feeding images and data to the screen that clings by some arcane attraction to the hull. A string of muttered curses, rolling from the lips. A grimace and that sharp keen look of hunting in the eyes.

What better place that wedged beneath a battered scoutship hull, badgered by your friends and teammates and dreaming of duct tape.

All from nothing but a name…