"Since the Martian tech transfer programme started, you're not going on sorties with your missile racks only half-loaded for lack of materiel," Ghislaine's assigned Martian tech liason, Aliz, says patiently. "All your machines are flying to at least minimum working spec. Of course morale's up; do you really want to attribute that to spooky Martian mindfuckery?"
Ghislaine clears her throat. "I don't think I ever said 'spooky Martian mindfuckery'," she says defensively.
"I read your mind," Aliz says, quirking a grin. "With my spooky Martian mindfuckery."
"I'm not—" Ghislaine halts herself, coughs a little; "I'm trying not be that bad about it," she amends. "Am I? That bad?"
"Ghislaine, I'm joking with you," Aliz says, eyes crinkling. "Do you think I get to do that with the bad ones?"
She considers. "That's not entirely comforting," she says slowly. "That just makes me a politer bigot."
"Ghislaine." Aliz runs a finger along the edge of her clipboard. "I served in the Inner Planets Conflict too, you know; I've called people like you some...objectively pretty terrible things, in my time. We've all got things to unlearn."
Ghislaine smiles, tentatively. "Well," she says. "Here we are. Unlearning, and learning." She gestures at the clipboard. "What have you got for us today?"
Aliz passes another of the Martian techs in the corridor, slows her pace just a little, and subliminally bursts a message across:
:: Ghislaine/soft touch/yielding results//you bunk/adjacent room/yes?
::correct, the reply bursts back, as they pass each other in bullet time, their eyes still glacially tracking to casually meet glances in passing. ::can assist?
::push empathy vector/shared humanity/shared loss/parallel mil service in IPC, Aliz sends. ::may request handler/send care package/from home?//what snack food/sad for you?
::Marineris frycake, her colleague sends, a wry microexpression sleeting across her face like a wave pulling at a water surface. ::Offer/share?//Offer/share/story?//humanise
::hearts & minds, comrade! Aliz sends, knowing her own expression micro-telegraphs something close to insubordiante self-mockery at the tech outreach initiative's propaganda slogan.
Their eyes momentarily meet and part, subjective timescale spooling back to normative.
Nothing to see, here.