F L Y B O Y

attention passengers this is your pilot speaking, we’re going to be experiencing some heavy turbulence shortly so please strap in. this loser just bet that i couldn’t do a 360 barrel roll in this thing and let’s just say i’m about to be $20 richer real soon

moonjae stared in disbelief as he watched the amusing scene unfold in front of him. was his voice that intimidating? now he felt silly for thinking someone dangerous had found the new base. there was no way this stranger could be part of the first order. even if the stormtroopers missed almost every shot, they had some type of standard.

still, his curiosity was piqued when he heard d’qar. what business did he have there? and with that old blaster? against his better judgment, oh hoskuld was gonna kill him, he stepped out from behind the tree and cleared his throat. ❝ i think.. you might’ve put the wrong coordinates for d’qar.❞ he stated simply, trying hard to keep the nervousness out his voice as he picked up the blaster. 

❝  were you planning on delivering something there? ❞ 

now he knew why they never let him do interrogations. 

Fynock struggled to bite back a groan but it escaped his lips despite his best efforts, accompanied by a rather over-the-top roll of his eyes just in case the stranger was really curious as to just how annoyed he was. Not so much annoyed at the stranger — more annoyed with himself. Had he taken his ETA, this probably wouldn’t have happened — it was more honed and tested than the V-wing, after all.

Then again, had Fynock not idiotically laid back, switched on autopilot, and taken a nice little nap through light speed, he would have been awake to watch as he soared casually past D’Qar and landed smack in the middle of Forrest Planet.

“Look, uh...?” Fynock cocked his head to the side and studied the man in front of him — or was it a boy? He was never really good at gauging ages of others and the innocence level the young man was displaying was a new level of naivety he’d not yet encountered before. He shook his head and waved a hand dismissively through the air. “Just, look...trust me, those coordinates were right. It’s the ship that’s rusty —”

Certainly not the pilot.

“—as for what I’m ‘delivering’?”

Fynock smirked, throwing his arms wide and giving his head a cocky little shake, “You’re lookin’ at’im.”

To say that he’s annoyed when they stop again would be an understatement. He’s willing to impart some sympathy on someone who’s struggling internally, but he has no inclination to pause for banter and be forced to stare at some shit-eating grin. Why the hell did he stride ahead of the soldier just to cut him off and smirk at him like an idiot, anyway? The line of his jaw hardens and he levels a disgruntled glare on the pilot, certain that it will be enough to convey an unspoken Hey, shithead, about-face and get moving. And it does, he knows it does, but it comes as no surprise when the silent warning goes unheeded. If anything, the fact that he doesn’t just shove his way past the pilot seems to serve as an invitation to — touch him?

The lieutenant goes rigid when a hand is suddenly grasping his shoulder, his spine ramrod-straight on instinct. The only thing saving the pilot is the fact that Hoskuld is confident that he isn’t an enemy, just a nuisance. Otherwise, suddenly grabbing a hypervigilant soldier escorting you with a blaster is a very quick way to get your teeth smashed in. It’s a complete wonder this guy is still alive, traveling alone with no kind of buffer to lessen the blow of his stupidity.

“If I was I sure as shit wouldn’t be wasting my time rounding up lost pilots,” he grunts, ignoring the hand that feels like it’s damn near burning through his uniform, as well as the second epitaph he’s received in the course of only a handful of minutes. The older man can’t even bring himself to gratify the conversation by pointing out that it would be LieutenantBadass McGrump, thank you very much, because really, what’s the point? The only real difference is that one rank holds a longer list of responsibilities — which today seems to include acting as an armed escort for a complete jackass.

The younger man seems to be expecting something from him now. There’s an anticipatory look on his face that could have been endearing in a completely different situation (completely different galaxy, more like), but the soldier doesn’t know what it is he’s after. Maybe a laugh, some kind of acknowledgement that he understood the joke? All he gets is that same stony look, eyes hard and appraising, tempered only by a touch of abject confusion that, if anything, only makes the lines in his face run deeper.

Two jackasses just staring at each other in the middle of the woods. Outstanding.

What really grates on him — even more than the hand on his shoulder, though justbarely more than the way his shirtfront his adjusted, and nowhere near as much as that snide little wink — is the fact that, frankly, he can’t figure this guy out. He’s hasn’t managed to scrape out an existence for this long without being able to read a situation, without being able to read people, but this pilot just…defies logic. One minute he looks as if he’s been hit in the gut at the news that the D’Qar base had been abandoned, only to bounce back in a matter of moments with a smug look to deliberately invade the personal space of a man with a primed blaster. It’s why he doesn’t move when the pilot turns away, his gaze hard but not entirely impersonal, looking like he’s trying to mentally pick apart a map of an enemy base.

Until the stranger responds, at least. Because that — that makes him laugh. It’s a deep bark of a sound, genuine in its amusement at the audacity of the statement. “Sure you are, flyboy. I bet,” the soldier quips through a chuckle, his grin challenging. “Y’know, we do prefer it if our pilots can actually reach their destination. It’s a bit of a prerequisite, if y’can believe it.” Oh, he can’t wait for Captain Wren to meet this guy. The older man shakes his head as he begins walking again, the last of his laughter leaving his lungs in a rush of breath. “All that piss an’ vinegar you got won’t navigate your ship for you. And ‘sides that, you an’ I don’t have any more business past me handin’ you off to the captain. If by some real fuckin’ strange happenstance you do get to enlist, you an’ your rust bucket’ll be in the Starfighter Corps.” He pauses, then offers with a sardonic drawl, “Unless y’flew that thing across the galaxy just to park it on-base an’ march around in the mud with the grounders.”

The one sound Fynock least expects to hear is a laugh. He looks at his situation, and he can picture hearing wildlife, birds cooing and cawing and chirping to one another mid flight; maybe small rodents and forest creatures skittering about through the underbrush; the sound of the soldier’s leg dragging every here and there with the dead weight its injury provides. He doesn’t expect to hear the soldier laugh. So when he does, Fynock stops sauntering along and looks back at the man behind him with curiosity and a bit of surprise.

"Shit, man, geez —” 

The curiosity is replaced with annoyance — if he had wanted to triumphantly smile at cracking the rough and tough facade of the grounder, he didn’t have time to do so. Old man knew just how to get under his skin, it seemed.

“If you must know, I wasn’t really in any hurry to get to D’Qar, so I might have maybe just plugged in the coordinates...set it to autopilot...and, y’know...” He shrugs sheepishly, feeling color rising to his cheeks as he realizes this truth in no way proves that he’s a good pilot — if anything it will most likely show the ground trooper that he is a sloppy one — but Fynock knows his piloting skill is second to absolute none. He just got a bit skittish, thinking about what could be waiting for him on D’Qar, so he decided to take it easy on himself, relax and meditate, calm his nerves.

“I fell asleep. Alright?”

He whirls around and kicks at a pebble, letting a bitter emotion display itself openly for the first time as the stone goes soaring through the air and collides in a loud thwack with the bark of the nearest gnarled tree. “I trusted Edgehawk back there to get me to D’Qar...” he scoffs, turning back to face the soldier once more, all signs of conflict and distress removed from his demeanor as quickly as they’d come — no use dwelling over past mistakes. So he turns his back on the soldier and starts to walk once more. “I knew I should have taken the ETA...” he calls over his shoulder, a thought more to himself than the trooper. “Yeah...she definitely would have landed me on D’Qar, easy as shit...just doesn’t feel right flying her with my ‘mech unfinished and all, y’know...?”

                            “or stay hidden and meet my blaster.”

it was just supposed to be routine, basic, and boring parameter expansion. so how was it that he a) lost the group and b) managed to find danger in the two minutes that he was alone? 

the whole meaning behind moving bases was to escape the first order. but somehow they were found? within a week? keeping his eyes trained on the stranger, he reached for his comlink– nothing. where? in a panic, he lowered his eyes and checked all his pockets, but still his comlink was no where to be found. did he drop it?

his eyes roamed around the clearing as he considered his options. it was clear the male didn’t know where he stood. if he stayed behind the trees, maybe he’d be lucky enough for the grounders to find them. but he knows that’s just wishful thinking. 

❝ you know you’re surrounded, right? ❞ moonjae yelled back, praying for his voice to not betray him and sound strong. ❝ so drop the blaster and..❞ ah, why did he pause. if the stranger was smart enough, his bluff was over.

At the sound of the voice, Fynock whirled about in the general direction he’d heard the noise; in his immediate and rather flippant turn around, Fynock fumbled with his grip on his blaster and watched in utter embarrassment as the rusty old pistol thudded to the grassy earth. Pursing his lips, eyes shifting about the forest, Fynock made to reach for the blaster, then pulled his hand back...then started to reach again, before once more thinking better of it and instead chose to slide his hand through his already wild mess of hair, letting out a hefty embarrassed sigh that came out as a blown raspberry.

At least he wasn’t the only one struggling, though.

In the span of awkward silence that followed Fynock’s blunder, he noted that the other voice trailed off uneasily into the air until it blended in nicely with the thick smog-like sheet of humidity. 

Bullshit, he was surrounded.

“Uh,” Fynock stuttered rather loudly, hunching slightly as he raised his hands defensively to the sky. “Listen, pal, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just kinda...accidentally stopping over here, on my way to D’Qar. I won’t actually shoot you—”

Because my fucking blaster is in the dirt and, to be honest, I have no idea how to handle it any way—

“—I just maybe want some supplies or something, a place to rest for a minute?”

He can sense it before he sees it  — the sudden change in the air, the strain that permeates even through an atmosphere choked by cloying humidity. It’s not the reaction the soldier is expecting, and his expression, usually so carefully trained to reveal little if anything, changes to reflect his surprise. Piercing blue eyes watch as the pilot staggers backwards, unsteady feet carrying him to the rigid and comfortless support of the nearest tree.

It’s the first time the lieutenant has allowed his guard to drop since first encountering the stranger. Index finger fully removed from the trigger, his grip on his blaster loosens as he observes the perplexing scene unfolding before him. It’s an otherwise inexcusable breach in protocol, lowering his vigilance while escorting unknown persons back to a secure location to be detained, but he’s seen this same scene play out hundreds of times before. 

The eyes are the giveaway. Searching but unseeing, more focused on whatever vision is playing out within the enclosure of one’s mind than on their actual surroundings. It’s typically the recruits he sees this happen with the most; fresh out of training, utterly green — get them in their first firefight and once the adrenaline ebbs away and the blasters fall silent, many of those who are left become dead to the world. Monotone voices, unwavering gazes that see right through you, a lack of direction that borders on nonsensical. Too inexperienced to know how to hide it until they’re finally alone. 

But it passes nearly as soon as it comes. He’s used to seeing rookies stagger about in a blind daze for the better part of an hour. Some see the carnage replayed in their minds. Others simply can’t believe they’re alive. But this was prompted only by a simple explanation. The base on D’Qar had been overrun. This stranger had intended to go there first. Perhaps he was looking for someone — a loved one, or maybe just a close friend. 

Hoskuld thinks of his sister.

The pilot rights himself, smiles, and it’s as if the episode had never happened, as if it were merely some rift that had been resealed. All it takes is one long look for the soldier to see right through it. He’s better at this than most, the younger man, but not by much. The stranger is half-expecting bad news at the end of his journey. Half-expecting a set of identification tags and nothing else  — guilt, perhaps, but nothing physical. 

He tells himself he doesn’t care, forces himself to believe it, and with a nod they’re off again. 

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you’ll be meeting with my superior,” he says, breaking the uneasy silence. Always move forward. The anxiety that comes with stillness can drive a man damn near mad. “Captain Wren. He’s not some snot-nosed recruit who’ll stand around while you cock off, so get your chuckles out of your system now. The sooner y’answer his questions without pissin’ ‘im off, the soon you can get off-planet. I’ve had about enough’a you as it is.”

Another snap of another twig, some more crunching of some more leaves — they all cut across the soldier’s voice at the same time an incredulous scoff rips from between Fynock’s lips. The pilot walks forward at his normal pace— long, able limbs much quicker than the soldier’s injure gait — and manages to break through the soldier’s path, standing in front of him. With how close they are, Fynock notices for the first time that the soldier is actually shorter than he.

“So, wait — you, Sergeant Badass McGrump,” Another trying scoff paves the way for a devious smirk that plays in both Fynock’s face and his eyes. “— are not even the highest in chain of command?” 

Reverting back to his steadfast belief that the soldier will not shoot an unarmed and innocent civilian, Fynock reaches out and claps the trooper on his shoulder in a light grip that carries with it a tone of condescension and snarky wit. Something keeps nagging in the back of Fynock’s mind, a voice that tells him that if he could get the trooper to crack a smile even once, he would consider himself successful. But the soldier’s rugged face stays the same — stoic and statuesque, never wavering from the deadpan expression of a low brow over hollow eyes and a mustache that hides a pouting frown. Unbelievable.

Fynock realizes he’s still holding onto the soldier, and offers an uneasy laugh. His eyes catch sight of some dust and dirt next to the trooper’s collar, so he reaches out, fingers lightly brushing along the military getup as they push the grime out into the air. Another moment of condescension as Fynock straightens the trooper’s collar out and offers him a snarky wink before — stupidly — turning his back on the man and walking on ahead. He’s only a few steps in when he finally calls over his shoulder:

“You know, people say I’m the stupid one — I mean, shit, man,” he turns back around to face the trooper, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of questioning. “What did you think I wanted with you guys? Drinks? A nice chat? — not that this conversation hasn’t been great, that is...Nah, pal — you an’ I are gonna’ be stuck together for a while I’m afraid.”

Another sideways grin.

“I’m here to join.”

The pace is unnerving. Masking the limp at this point is moot; he’s reconnoitered well beyond the perimeter of the base, dragging his leg through mud and brush and, now, the rigid stiffness of attempting to seem less incapacitated by the task at hand. He can’t tell if their shared gait — now more akin to a lackadaisical afternoon stroll than a purposeful march back to a military base — is because of himself or because of the pilot. Neither is an especially welcome thought. If it’s the former, then he has to contend with the fact that he still can’t make it far without the motor skills in his leg going right back to shit. If it’s the latter…well, if it’s the latter, then he’s just fucking confused. This stranger is either keeping an easy pace to silently patronize the soldier’s condition, or he’s offering one of those shreds of human kindness that become rare currency in times of war.

He can’t tell which it is. And he does not care for that at all, not knowing which it is, so he diligently pushes all thoughts of that same such nonsense aside and focuses on stepping over the fallen tree. When two sets of footsteps become only one the lieutenant turns back, prepared to grumble about the hold-up, about needing to get back to the damn base before they both have a blasted heatstroke in the middle of the forest, but something about the pilot’s words, his tone, keeps the orders constrained to the older man’s mind.

There’s a drawn-out silence, tension lingering in the humid air, and when their eyes meet the soldier searches them for…shit, even he doesn’t know. Deception? A nefarious glint to break the pilot’s earnest gaze? Some assurance that he really is just a lost pilot looking for a Resistance base and not some saboteur? This whole thing is too eerie for “coincidental happenstance” to sit right with him as an explanation, but he still isn’t sure he believes that this stranger is here to cause harm. A quick-witted smartass who’s chafed the lieutenant’s nerves enough for one day, yes. But not some First Order crony.

“Yeah,” he finally admits, the word more a begrudging sigh than anything else. What’s left of us, at least. “S’why I said what I did, about you either bein’ a shitty pilot or a damn lucky one.” He naturally wonders just why the younger man has been looking for the Resistance. Perhaps he wants to join up. Maybe he has damning information about the First Order. Or maybe he’s just short on money and is looking to sell off some supplies to the poor bedraggled soldiers fighting it out in the Outer Rim. In any case, those are all inquiries for the captain and whoever else to address during questioning. “Congratulations, flyboy. You somehow managed to bypass an overrun Resistance base and land a few hundred yards from our new headquarters.”

The forest somehow begins to feel hotter, the humidity hanging in thicker sheets over the surrounding area, suffocating Fynock with it’s inescapable sense of discomfort. But it isn’t the only thing that leaves him feeling as though he can’t breathe — a few hundred yards, less now that he’s been walking, lies a Resistance base. His father could be within those walls, patrolling the corridors perhaps or maybe even piloting his own starship; would he even recognize his own son should he see him? Would he recognize his own father? Would there be some unmistakeable connection, some acute familial sense that urges him forth until he’s standing right before his father, waiting to be hugged, to be told he was missed, he was loved — he still is? 

Thoughts still zooming like speeders through his mind, Fynock steps away until he feels his back brush up against the trunk of a large tree; he feels behind him, fingers tracing over the bark, catching on the loops of a small knothole — an attempt to occupy his mind before it drifts to something worse, to the thought that maybe—

"You said there was a base on D’Qar? That it was overrun?” The words come out slow, almost slurred, as if he’s taken too many sips of Nectarwine and is forgetting how to connect thoughts to words. He’s trying his hardest, but the idea keeps threatening, keeps taunting him, surfaces before he can stop it.

What if he died on D’Qar?

He isn’t sure which outcome scares him more — missing his father by planets, having had the potential to save his life had he landed on D’Qar like intended; or having his father walking around, living, unknowing and uncaring that his son is only miles away wishing to know him?

“Well, then,” Fynock perks up, splits his face with his usual disarmingly sweet smirk, as if nothing is wrong — he can’t be phased. His disposition is what allows him to survive situations like this, and that’s what always has to be most important — survival. Because answers mean nothing to him if he’s dead. He arches a mischievous brow at the soldier, pushes off from the tree and claps his hands together. “Shall we?”

He doesn’t wait for a response before lazily hopping the fallen branch and sliding into place beside the soldier once more.

Was she making the right choice?

She hoped so. Her father always told her to trust her instincts–trust in the Force. It steered everyone certain ways for a reason. It had yet to steer her wrong so far–and right now it was telling her to help this stranger.

Giving his hand a shake, she nodded with a small smile. “Fynock. That’s an–interesting name.” She noted, almost in an off-hand manner as she let her hand fall to her side, turning with a wave for Fynock to follow her.

“I’m surprised you didn’t see the base. We aren’t too far, actually.” Using the end of her staff to help her navigate, stepping over a fallen tree. She was silent for several minutes, focusing solely on not falling over the thick foliage and vines that littered the forest floor. Her hand reached out to the side, Mara stumbling slightly until her fingertips brushed against a tree trunk, taking a brief pause to catch her breath, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. She was starting to understand the grounder’s complaints the more time she spent off-base. 

“If you look over there–” She pointed to her left, towards a small clearing in the trees. “–you should be able to see the base. I’ve been told it’s nothing too impressive but—as long as it gets the job done, right?” She paused, exhaling slowly as she moved to stand. “So–where are you from?”

“By ‘interesting’, you mean laughable.” The words came out amidst a light snort, laughter of his own. Many years reared under the name of an avian Corellian creature had met Fynock with more than his fair-share of taunts and torments; the name suited him, though — enough for him to have the very bird with whom he shared a name branded in ink upon the length of his left forearm as a self-present on his seventeenth birthday. He absentmindedly rubbed over the sleeve of his flight jumpsuit, knowing that beneath it was his namesake. “It’s okay, though,” Fynock commented, letting his hand drop to his set and his steps fall into line beside Mara. “To say what you mean, I mean. If that’s what you meant, I mean...” He furrowed his brow in confusion. “You know what I mean?”

Before she could answer his rambling slew of unintelligible words, Mara was slipping on the vine strewn ground, and Fynock was instinctively reaching out to steady her. His fingertips brushed over her skin for only a second before she steadied herself against the trunk of a tree. Just as he was about to ask if she was alright, she straightened up and pointed off into the woods.

Fynock’s eyes caught a glimpse of the base before his ears picked up Mara’s words. It was hard to focus on what she was saying with the base just in view. “Huh?” he murmured, tearing his gaze from the sight of the military fortress in order to look back towards Mara. “Oh...Lothal,” Fynock’s eyes returned to the Resistance Base, wondering if it held within it any of the familiar comforts of his home. “I’m from Lothal.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, so long as you can navigate your feet better’n you can your ship.” The words are delivered with something of a snort, a sardonic acknowledgement of the fact that, while the pilot may have a mouth that works far ahead of his brain, at least he has some wit about him. A hint of a grin cracks his visage, the expression dry and his eyes mirthless, and it disappears as quickly as it flickers to life. 

All the same, he obliges the request; with one final nod towards the treeline Hoskuld falls in line beside the newcomer, the muzzle of his blaster lowered. Were he still convinced that this was a First Order ruse, the journey would have been more arduous and he would have been wholly unwilling to give the pilot any avenue for escape. And were this situation not so coincidental — bypassing the remains of a smoldering Resistance base only to land within the perimeter of a new one? — the lieutenant may have even been inclined to let him go on his way. But there’s still something that seems amiss, and the pilot’s refusal to divulge his business on D’Qar only causes that sentiment to deepen. 

They’re past the treeline when he finally speaks again, the words terse as he forces his injured leg to lift over the rotted trunk of a fallen tree. “Try not to act so put upon.” A droplet of sweat tracks down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his uniform and adding to the miserable chafing of the fabric. “S’just a few questions. So long as we have no reason to think you’re First Order or some other sack’a bantha shit, y’can clear out and head to D’Qar.”

Even if he really is just a lost pilot, he’s a pilot all the same — and pilots see things, they hear things, and every now and again, something that is seen or heard can become valuable military intel. And if that’s all this stranger is…well, best get this done and over with quickly. Even if he is a jackass, he’s still a civilian, and the space between the Resistance and the First Order is no place for noncombatants. “Assuming y’can get the ship there this time.”

As his new “friend” falls into place beside him — ignoring the hand Fynock is tauntingly extending — Fynock begins to walk. But he keeps his pace slower than normal. He’s been hearing the unsteady footsteps of the man’s lopsided gait since before he emerged from the clearing — that’s what put them in this fun little situation to begin with. Now that they’re side by side, though, slowly making their way through the woods, Fynock can’t help but allow his grey eyes to continuously flicker over to the man at his side — trailing from face, to injured leg, than back to face. He may be an asshole, but only in the use of his humor — there are questions Fynock wouldn’t dare ask of a stranger, and ‘hey, how’d you get that actual crippling disability, there’, isn’t one of them. Instead he slows his pace even more, passing off his passive behavior and unwillingness to escape as interest in this so-called “military base” he’s being led to instead of his blatant curiosity in the man beside him.

For a while, they walk in silence, listening only to the sound  of snapping twigs, feet shuffling along through rough patches of grass and dirt, birds fluttering through the trees and animals scuttling off on the ground nearby. But when the soldier finally does speak, Fynock comes to an abrupt halt, foot comically suspended in mid air, raised to step over a massive fallen log in their path.

"Shit, no way...”

Something sparks behind his eyes as they widen in realization: an active military base, wanting to make sure he isn’t with the First Order. Can it really be that he was lucky enough to bypass a Resistance base on D’Qar, only to stumbled upon a new one on this planet — this “Raydonia”? Lucky enough to be found by a Resistance soldier, however grumpy and off-putting said soldier might be  who was actively offering to escort him to base?

“I really found you guys.”

The urge to retort is strong; were he a younger man — less experienced, less tempered by time and circumstance — he would continue to argue in circles with whoever the hell it is he’s standing in front of. He’s trained up enough recruits to recognize cocky posturing when it’s mouthing off right to his face, to recognize the complete and utter softness and inexperience of someone untouched by the ravages of human conflict. Being shot at tends to make people less inclined to tempt fate by bickering with the man leveling a blaster at their chest. Even if self-preservation weren’t a component, anyone with a mission knows that its completion is paramount. A soldier wouldn’t risk compromising it over a chance to spit out the last word in an argument. 

In some utterly bizarre way, this adolescent squabbling makes the lieutenant feel more at ease about this stranger. Less likely a First Order saboteur and more likely some shitbrain who can’t program coordinates to save his life. 

“Well, your great piloting just landed that heap’a scrap metal within the perimeter of an active military base.” For the first time since meeting, the frigid stoicism in his voice is replaced by a permeating and impossibly dry tone of annoyance. “That flying latrine parked behind you isn’t seeing airspace until who you are an’ what the hell you’re doing here is sorted out. So you an’ I,” he explains in the same voice he would use with a child, the faintest hint of a sneer curling his lip, “are gonna take a walk to the little knothole I dragged myself out of.” He gestures with his blaster, briefly pointing the muzzle back towards the dense forest. “Move.”

There are many things that Fynock takes in stride — insults that deflect off his skin, thickened from years of hurling insults and crops across farm fields to his buddies while they plucked vegetation. So it’s a bit odd that the one thing that actually has him feeling a pang of hurt is the insulting of his starfighter. Rusty and antiquated as it may be, he had found it himself on one of his many explorations during his teenage years — out near the old Jedi Temple back on Lothal. He had fixed it up entirely from scratch, his hands still showing callouses from the hours and days and weeks he spent tinkering with parts that didn’t even exist anymore, polishing metal that was scorched with years of rust and grime. 

Fynock took pride in himself, yes — but he took more pride in his work.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” A scowl curls Fynock’s lip, masked by a mirthless little smirk. “The walking, talking trash heap calling a vintage Starfighter a...wait, sorry, I didn’t quite get that, Grumbles, can you maybe speak a bit more clearly?” 

And he gets his wish.

The next words out of the soldier’s mouth are the clearest and most enunciated words he’s said since snapping a twig branch and revealing his position moments ago. There’s a span of a few seconds, moments were Fynock considers staying right where he is unless he’s moved by force — but the idea of a military base nearby piques his interest. Perhaps once he proves he isn’t a threat, they can supply him with fuel and food and drink — supplies to help him on his way to D’Qar — a place to stay for the night?

“Alright,” with a sarcastic little chuckle, Fynock shakes his head in mock defeat. “We’ll play this little game. But I’m not turning my back on you and your blaster. So,” he takes a ginger step forward, boots crunching and cracking dry leaves beneath their treads. “You can jam the barrel of that thing against my temple, hold my hand if you want, and walk beside me like the friends that we are.” 

The blaster is slightly lowered when the pilot finally discards his weapon, though Hoskuld is initially unwilling to offer much more of a reprieve. “Didn’t ask for your whole life story,” the lieutenant drawls, but his irritation is quickly replaced by piqued curiosity. After a pregnant pause the blaster is lowered further, though the muzzle remains trained on the stranger before him, finger still resting against the trigger. He’d said Edgehawk — more importantly, he’d said D’Qar. 

He doesn’t know if he should be relieved or anxious at encountering someone with ties to Lothal.

The soldier’s thoughts naturally stray to his sister. He wonders if that message six years ago ever reached her, let alone if she had the good sense to follow his suggestion. There’s a wild, fleeting moment where he considers asking this stranger if he’d ever encountered a Lierra Tormak, but it’s a pipe dream at best. Even if this person had come across her, his sister’s name doesn’t need to be in circulation. Not with so many people with a propensity for violence roaming the galaxy.

“That either makes you one shitty pilot or one lucky son of a bitch.” Or both. It does seem rather coincidental, though, this man accidentally bypassing the planet that held the Resistance’s overrun base only to show up a few hundred yards from their new headquarters — and such a short time after the firefight on D’Qar. Vague as it is, it’s the only scrap of information he’s willing to offer. 

“What business d’you have on D’Qar?”

Peripheral vision is a blurry bitch, but it’s enough for Fynock to notice the way the blaster drops...holds...drops a bit more. Maybe there is more than meets the eye — books that shouldn’t be judged by their cover; this rigid and structured soldier staring eerily emotionless down the barrel of his blaster might just have a bit of a soft spot for lost pilots blundering blindly through the forest. Or perhaps there was something else to it — something he had done, like throw done his blaster, or something he had said that causes the man to lower his weapon slowly, inch by inch.

It’s enough to let Fynock breathe for a moment. He lets out a long exhale, allowing his eyes to slip shut as he tips his head back, bearing his face to the canopy of trees high above him. "Well, I didn’t ask for attitude, and, yet...” he scoffs, and for the first time he turns his head toward his company and opens his eyes.

Fynock may have spent years tilling soil and picking plants, but he knows enough about war to know what it looks like on a person’s face — it looks like nothing. The stony settling of apathy — no fear, no worry, just a blank slate unreadable to the rest of the world. Like a protocol droid — programmed to do the job and nothing but. For a second, fear starts clawing at his insides as he wonders if this is what awaits him; he came to join the Resistance in hopes of learning about his dead parents, but is he going to leave with answers or with hollowed out spaces and hollowed out eyes that stare at everything but see nothing?

A lump in his throat begs to be pushed down; Fynock swallows hard, silencing the small voice in his head that begs him to turn back and masking his discomfort with another cheeky grin, one that’s tainted with a hint of anger. “Why don’t we try ‘great pilot’ and ‘unlucky son of a bitch’, hm?” With a soft chuckle, he turns his body to face the man. “As for my business on D’Qar? Doesn’t matter. I’m not there, I’m here. For now. I fully intend to make for D’Qar just as soon as you holster that blaster of yours, and head back to whatever little knothole you dragged yourself out of.”

“I’m not going to shoot you.”

Part of her wondered if she should take him at his word—then again, he had ample time to shoot her if he wanted to. After a moment of deliberation, her hands slowly fell to her side, chin dipping in a small nod. “Much appreciated.”

She moved to lean on her staff as the man talked, gaze turning sharp when she heard him advance towards her. “D’Qar? There’s–” A pause as she considered her words carefully, grip tightening on her staff. “There’s nothing there. The First Order took over.” There was hesitation in her tone, how many details did she give away to a stranger? She grew silent, inhaling slowly as she focused on the other–she didn’t sense darkness in him–not immediately.

“You’re with the Resistance, aren’t you?” She finally spoke up, head canting to the right as she considered the other. “Makes sense. Your orders and coordinates need to be updated though.” Nodding, she shot the man a small smile. “I’m Mara. Mara Eclipse.” She moved in the direction of the man’s voice, extending a hand. “Not that my name means anything. I can take you to the base, however.”

First, he landed on a foreign planet.

Now, he’s learning that had he landed on the right planet any way, he’d probably have been blown to stardust, left to fester in the massive galaxy he called ‘home’. 

“Well, then,” Fynock threw his arms up in the air in defeat. One solid lead — one friend of a friend’s brother’s cousin or whatever the order was — to relay the message to him that if he was serious about finding and joining the Resistance, he could track them to their headquarters on D’Qar. Now he was stranded in the middle of a forest on a planet full of forests. 

Unless—

Did she just ask if he was with the Resistance? 

Was it really that simple? 

Before he could even shake his head in denial — or perhaps even nod and play along — the girl had already incorrectly assumed her prior assumption to be correct. Did it really make sense for him to be with the Resistance? All because he said he’d been heading for D’Qar? And what the heck was he supposed to do now? Even if he played along and followed her to base, surely somebody would take one look at him and question whether or not he truly belonged. But Fynock did have one thing on his side: the blanket he’d been found wrapped in as a baby by his adopted father — bright orange, bearing the black insignia of the Resistance, or its predecessor the Rebel Alliance, across its entire length. That’s why he was searching for the Resistance anyway — to figure out who had wrapped him in that blanket, and why. And now that he was this close to being shown its base, to being introduced to its members — after thinking all hope was lost..?

A smile curled on Fynock’s lips as he made his decision; he slid his hand easily into the girl — Mara’s — own, accepting her outstretched invitation as he said, “I’m Fynock. Just Fynock. And I would love it if you escorted me to the base.”

Work something out. Either a cocky shithead or someone who truly has no idea what they’ve stumbled upon. Hoskuld can’t tell which irritates him more. In any case, it’s poor form to try and downplay the severity of this situation; whether or not this newcomer is aware, he’s landed only a few hundred yards from an active Resistance base, full of hyper-vigilant soldiers and survivors of an attack that has made them more than a little willing to neutralize anyone who poses a threat. Poor form indeed. 

There’s a pause where he momentarily weighs his options. He can still stay hidden and continue to order the errant stranger to lower his weapon, or he can approach and hope nothing goes wrong. The soldier unhooks the long-range comlink from his belt and brings it to his mouth, eyes and blaster never straying from their target. “Lieutenant Tormak to base,” he speaks evenly, disgruntled by how loudly his heartbeat thrums in his ears. “We’ve got an unidentified ship that’s touched down about eight hundred yards north off-base. Pilot’s armed but not belligerent — I’m gonna bring ‘im back to base for a few questions. Wouldn’t say no to a small party to search the ship.”

Protocol. Call it in. No need to take chances by handling this himself.  “Yeah, yeah. Keep that hand up, flyboy.” Comlink secured once again to his belt, the solder slowly emerges from the dense cover of the Radonian forest. Silence ensues until he comes to a halt several feet away, blaster still leveled. “You got a reason for landing that ship here?”

A low grumbling breaks the silence.

Dumb ass.

His steady gaze remains trained on the tangle of brush and leaf in front of him, but the low rasp of the hidden man’s voice has partly given him away; Fynock knows he’s off to the left somewhere. He’s fairly certain that, if given the chance, he can turn and probably spot the masculine frame poking through some stray holes in the coverage of tree branches and shrub nettles — or are there two frames? He may hear only one garbled voice, but surely the man has to be talking to someone?

Unless he’s lothbat-shit insane and talks to himself?

The thought doesn’t offer Fynock any comfort. The return of the silence as the man’s voice drops off into the air doesn’t help any either. It prompts Fynock to hum a small tune under his breath, one he distantly recalls hearing in one of Lothal’s cantinas, as he waits — albeit, far from patiently — for the man to either reveal himself, or retreat, or — heck — shoot him, even. 

I really don’t have all day, after all.

And as if reading his mind, and agreeing completely, the disembodied voice pokes fun at him — in a way it almost seems as though the trees themselves are alive and causing mischief. Until Fynock catches a glimpse of them out of the corner of his eye, parting and splitting and coughing up the predator that hunts him. 

“Easy...easy...” he says through curled lips — ghost of a scowl from being called “flyboy” and hints of the newly forming smirk on his lips. Even without turning his full gaze to to the man, Fynock can tell he’s haggard as all shit. Limping, too. Looks rough — probably hasn’t slept in a while, maybe months? Years? And he’s stiff, too — Fynock tries not to laugh at the fact that he’s seen droids more relaxed than this guy. But despite it all — the hard, militarized exterior — Fynock doesn’t really believe the man will shoot. Not him, at least. Someone else, certainly. But him? No.

“Edgehawk,” he finally says as he tosses his blaster to the ground, raising his now free hand up in defense to join his other one. “Her name’s Edgehawk. She’s a beaut, right? Refurbished her myself. Although maybe I didn’t do as good a job as I thought, see — she was s’posed to get me to D’qar, but we wound up here instead, and, well,” He shrugs, keeping his head fixed forward despite the way his eyes wander to the left to look at the man, smirk more prominent than ever. “This just seemed like a good place to land.”

“Ah, damn.” 

Temperate climate his ass. The afternoon is sweltering, sweat beading on his brow and making the skin beneath his shirtcollar itch from the persistent irritation. As much as he loathes sitting idle in the medbay, being fussed over like an infant, he has to concede  — privately, mind you  — that he had been plenty spoiled by the facility’s consistent, comfortable temperature. But perimeters aren’t patrolled from gurneys, and bellyaching never made stiflingly humid evenings cool down by a few much-needed degrees.

So on he trudges, the muzzle of his blaster lowered, index finger kept against the outside of the trigger guard until ready to fire. The uneven gait to his step, which he now allows to be more pronounced, away from the gazes of those who may suggest that his recovery period is not yet over, is halted only by the sight of  single, lone ship looming above the trees. It passes overhead, going east, and Hoskuld turns to regard its retreating form. If it were one of theirs it would be heading north, towards the base, given its low altitude. 

Strange ship near the base, and the airwaves are dead. Troubling.

He knows there’s a clearing a hundred yards east  — he backtracks towards it, moving carefully through the dense underbrush, each footfall marking another rise in his heart rate. An old V-Wing sits in the clearing. One ship, one pilot. Not as dire as it could be, and that’s the only thing that keeps him from using the long-range comlink hanging from his gear belt. Hoskuld would have been content to simply observe and assess the situation, but his limp makes for poor equilibrium and too much weight on one leg breaks something in the foliage that gives away his presence. 

The blaster is shouldered as soon as the pilot turns, the figure trained evenly down the barrel. A weapon is pointed in his general direction, but the eyes of his target are searching, not focused. 

“Fuck off with that,” the lieutenant barks. He would be amused by the request, were this not such a perilous situation. “Be smart and put the blaster down. Y’can take your chances shooting blind, but I guarantee I know exactly where I need to aim.”

“Fuck.”

The beads of sweat that cropped up on his forehead are beginning to drip, sliding easily down the curves of his cheekbones. Whether they are from the haze of heat that hung over the surrounding area like a dense cloud or from the distant fluttering of nerves thrumming up in the pit of his stomach, Fynock isn’t quite sure. So long as his hand stays steady on his blaster, he should be fine. Even with that disembodied voice commanding him to put his weapon down. Not that it matters much — whoever it is in the the thicket of trees around him doesn’t know that Fynock’s blaster skills are comparable to those of a small child. 

He grew up on a farm, for shit’s sake. Blaster handling wasn’t exactly something they taught you after you learned to shear crops.

Fynock lets out a rough sigh, eyes rolling upward toward the sky in an overly-dramatic fashion that he’s not sure the man in the woods can see. He raises his free hand in the air like he’s taking some solemn oath, and though his voice is not nearly as confident and in control as it had been before, he says, “Look man, you know I can’t do that.” His eyes sweep the area once more, swiping furiously from side to side, but he still catches sight of nothing but still leaves and bountiful shrubbery left without even a slight breeze to waver in. “Why don’t you just come on outta there and we can work something out? I’m really not looking for trouble.”

But somehow it always finds me.