‡ OFFICIUM ‡

“A day off? Why in the kriffing hell would I do that?” Mikal threw over his shoulder, grabbing a datapad from a passing soldier, quickly reading the information before handing it back. “Take that straight to the general, then get me the scouting reports from the past week.” He turned to face the other, brows furrowing. “I’m busy-in case that escaped your notice.”

Damn, where was his list of reasons when he needed it? “Could have something to do with the fact that you’re younger than me, yet also closer to experiencing a stroke than I am.” He wonders absently if there’s any way to take the captain’s blood pressure without having to administer a sedative, blinking as the sheepish recruit scurries off. Not likely. “Don’t think of it as a day off, boss. Think of it as a bit of personal maintenance, ” the lieutenant amends, already preparing for the resilient pushback. It takes some getting used to, but he’s been around long enough to know that Wren’s bark is worse than his bite. Usually. “What the hell’re the rest of us gonna do if you run yourself into the ground, sir? You really wanna risk the rest of us runnin’ the company without your iron fist while you’re recovering in the medbay?"

instinctively his hand begins reaching toward his pocket to pull out his datapad and add more notes. but he quickly thought better of it. besides, t’s not like he could just pull out his notes during a confrontation and still hope they found him intimidating. ❝ ah– got it. ❞ clearing his throat, moonjae took a deep breath before trying to act out the ‘mission’ once more. this time actually gritting his teeth and clenching his fists before he spoke. was he going overboard by imitating some of the grounders he saw earlier? probably. would this new stance help bring some backbone to his voice? probably not. ❝ where are they hidden? ❞ 

Somehow this attempt is both worse and better in new and confusing ways. There’s a bit more grit to his voice, absolutely, but still. Maybe he just isn’t objective enough? It’s hard to imagine such an impossibly kind soul as this one being particularly fearsome. “Don’t grind your teeth together like that,” he reprimands, though for a moment he fails to articulate just why it’s wrong, only knowing that it somehow is. Hoskuld purses his lips, mouth twisting into a truly pensive expression. “You just sound frustrated when y’do that. Don’t give ‘em any reason to think they’re gettin’ under your skin.” The lieutenant wonders offhandedly if Moonjae has ever actually experienced enough anger to make this simulation possible. “I held off on asking, but it might help a bit if I knew just why y’wanna learn how to do this.”

Having to uproot an entire armed force and relocate it while under fire presents a litany of logistical nightmares that the Resistance is still struggling with. Where do you put all those soldiers, pilots, and support staff? Where do you keep the wounded when the medbay isn’t large enough to hold them all? How do you quickly recoup the loss in manpower and material that you incurred in your withdraw? And so on it goes. Then there are the more minor issues, the ones that are more of an inconvenience than anything else.

Like having to use a glorified broom closet to question strangers who wander too close to your base, because every other room in the damn compound is packed to the brim as it is.

Still, the mantra of the Resistance has always been to just make it work, for fuck’s sake, so there they are, he and the captain crammed on one side of the table, the pilot seated behind the other. “So.” There’s a moment of hesitation where he weighs his words, trying to condense the introductions down to be as brief as possible. They’re all past tired, running on next to no sleep since D’Qar — except for their guest, who apparently took a nice nap on his way here. Woeful.

“The pilot here landed his ship about two hundred yards northwest of the base. Didn’t put up too much of a fuss about comin’ with — disarmed himself,” he elaborates. “I’m more concerned about why we weren’t alerted to any unidentified ships breaching our airspace, frankly, but.” His shoulders give a dismissive shrug beneath the dingy fabric of his fatigues. “In any case, I radioed it in. Should be hearing back from the squad that went out to search the ship soon. This one,” the lieutenant offers a  sharp nod in the pilot’s direction, “says he’s here because he wants to fly for us. Starfighter Corps. But I guess since I’m the one who found ‘im and he was never given clearance to be here in the first place, he’s our problem for the moment.”

@readyaim-resist

Probably is, he thinks dryly, looking at the captainfrom across the small round table. It’s been a brutal stroke of poor luck allafternoon, but he’s nothing if not relentlessly persistent. If a game of sabaccis the hill he’s destined to die on, then so be it. The older man grunts and then chewsstubbornly on the end of a half-smoked cigarra, eyes shifting back to hiscards, then to Wren, and back to the cards again. Not a good hand. Again. Thoughhe supposes that his money could be going to worse places than the captain and…whateverit is he does in his spare time. On that front he’s torn between it’s none of my business and I probably don’t want to know. “Did itever occur to you that I just let you win because I love watching my pay fly outta my pocket?” he asks as he throws anothercredit into the pot between them.

❝ as long as you guys don’t come back with even more injuries than before i’m not going to complain. ❞ moonjae knows as a medic, he shouldn’t have said that. that he shouldn’t be encouraging the grounders to voluntarily leave the medbay. but the lieutenant had a point. the grounders were often the first round of defense against captain wren. ❝ you know the captain managed to scare one of the new medics during a perimeter run. ❞ he would be lying if he didn’t think it was amusing to watch the medics suddenly become busy with their patients to avoid being selected. ❝ the poor guy didn’t know what he was signing up for when he raised his hand. ❞

❝ survival rations.. ❞ he repeats the dreaded phrase, lowering his spoon with a look of disgust on his features. he shouldn’t be complaining too much. after all, he’s probably only eaten them a handful of times. but the taste – or lack of– was burned into his tastebud memories. ❝ i’m hoping when they ship us out to a planet, it’s a planet that has a nice climate. somewhere without creepy trees that loom over everything with roots tripping unsuspecting medics, ❞ mainly just him. 

“Oh, I’m real surprised by that.” Wren’s personality is something of an acquired taste, he knows that much from experience. Once you managed to stick around long enough to see through the veneer of stoic officership, you found a damn good captain who would move mountains for his troops. Running the gauntlet until then was another matter entirely. “The ones who volunteer are his favorites to put through the wringer, I think,” the soldier muses. He spoons more broth into his mouth and swallows the now lukewarm soup down before adding, “Likes to see if they’re just the gungho piss-and-vinegar types, or if they really have the stones to back up their enthusiasm.” Best to strip them down of any inexperienced zeal before it gets them killed. “How d’you think the poor kid did?”

It takes Reiko a full minute to register the footsteps encroaching on her, the telltale presence of another human being in an otherwise sterile hallway. She hears the creaks and groans of leather and fabric- they’re at her level- he’s at her level, she recognizes, but who is he? Familiar and unfamiliar, a face not entirely processed in her ruinous oblivion of a memory. What else was new? 

Still, she makes the slightest effort to skim through her limited array of faces; there’s the people at the medbay, but he looked too rugged to be a medic. Older, wiser, his hands probably calloused with the sheer workload of being in his position- what position? 

                                            she’d go in circles forever like this.

Instead of playing mind games with herself, she sticks to a near painless, resolute way of speaking, and perhaps he would not think her rude; just strange and  painfully unfortunate.

“A while ago. I’m not too new. Just,” She pauses, looking for the words. “Lost. Lost at the shittiest hour to be awake at, I suppose, whatever hour this is. Shouldn’t you be finding yours?” 

Her response elicits something of a chuckle from him, a soft, dry exhale that could have been a laugh were the situation not so dour. Rather hypocritical, for him to be asking about a bunk when he’s the one roaming around with a cup of caf. Her affliction won’t come to mind — who would automatically pinpoint some form of chronic memory loss, after all? — but there are certain subjects he knows better than to broach with others.

“S’ppose I do,” he concedes. Whatever is causing this behavior, it obviously hasn’t dampened her wit. “But I also know where my bunk is.” Not that it matters much. He’ll wile away his sleepless hours taking care of all the bureaucratic bullshit that comes with being an officer, the menial tasks oriented for deskwork that he can’t bring himself to fuss with during the day. 

“I also know from experience that sittin’ in a corridor for too long will fuck up your back.” The lieutenant pushes himself to his feet, mug of caf still cradled in his hand. “Even if I don’t, someone ‘round here’s bound to know where you belong.”  The free one extends down towards her, a silent offering to help her to her feet.

Better. Not great, but…better. “Listen, listen. Don’t focus on the words, yeah? Y’can yell that you’re in charge all y’want, but it doesn’t matter if no one believes you.” There’s a long pause where the lieutenant fixes a scrutinizing gaze on the medic, caught in some strange place between appraisal and sympathy. It’s not that this is the hardest request he’s ever been asked to fulfill — just the strangest. “I said the chest. Y’gotta speak from your chest.  That voice needs more backbone. Try it again.”

It seemed that everyone on this base had been injured in the battle at D'Qar, and Lenor couldn’t stop the itch that said he needed to take advantage of it somehow; but he shoved that down. He was part of the Resistance. He was finally one of the good guys -and he wasn’t going to resort to old habits, especially ones like that. “I avoid medbays,” He said, looking up at the other man and letting the barest hint of a smirk curve his lips, “I’d sooner chew my own arm off than let a medic come within ten feet of me.”

“Chew your arm off an’ you’ll have more’n just one medic to deal with,” the older man snorts, the laugh as dry as his retort. Which, wasn’t much of a stretch – his injury had been relatively minor, and even then he’d been promptly looked after as soon as the base had been evacuated and the remnants of the Resistance were en route to Raydonia, in spite of all his snapping and snarling. He thinks back to his earlier conversation with Mara, a subtle grin mirroring the younger man’s expression. “Best advice I ever got was to not get shot. Which, ironically enough, is the fuckin’ hardest piece of advice to follow.”

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…?”

This time, it’s the soldier’s turn to pause in his tracks, weight shifted forward onto his uninjured leg.

“Y’fell asleep?” he echoes, the disbelief that doesn’t make it onto his face seeping into his voice. For a brief flicker of a moment the lieutenant is torn, feeling for the first time in who fucking knows how long like he doesn’t know how to react. There’s something about this that’s weirdly — very, very weirdly — ...endearing? For fuck’s sake, he doesn’t know what to call it. All he knows is that this complete stranger is spilling his damn guts about something that is, in all honestly, pretty fucking embarrassing, in the middle of the blasted woods. There’s something about the pilot’s reaction, the raw frustration that appears like the sudden flash of a blaster muzzle only to be smoothed over as quickly as it comes, that betrays youth and inexperience. He doesn’t know who this guy is, but he’s smart enough to put two and two together  — the reaction to learning that D’Qar had been overrun, the apparent relief at finding the new Resistance base, this..familiar little penchant for exposing some visceral emotion only to mask it over with a bullshit grin. 

Seems the past few days have been a shitshow for the both of them. Though, one of them does have an injured leg that he has to stumble along with like it’s an extra twenty pounds of dead weight, but hey, who’s counting?

“That’s fuckin’ woeful,” the soldier admits with a snort, resuming his pace when the pilot begins to walk again, muttering to himself about what he should have done, as if the way things now stand isn’t a perfectly advantageous situation for him. “Should’a, could’a, would’a, flyboy,” he grunts. “Be real fuckin’ thankful it didn’t. If you weren’t shot outta the sky by a TIE fighter, you would’a been in a world of shit once you landed.” 

They’re nearing the base now; even through the thick cover of trees and the din of nature, he can start to hear the steady hum of human activity. There’s a pause as he measures his words, heaving a pent-up sigh before calling out gruffly, “Hold up a fuckin’ minute.” He doesn’t release his hold on his blaster rifle until they’re once again next to one another, slipping an arm through the accompanying strap so that the weapon can hang disarmingly from his shoulder. “Don’t draw any unnecessary to yourself,” he advises. “People here see me bring you in at gunpoint an’ you’ll automatically be on several shit lists. Not everyone’s as nice as I am,” he deadpans, the joke as dry as a Jakku desert. “Y’look like a threat an’ you’ll be bendin’ ass over backwards for the rest of the war tryin’ to convince people you’re not.” At this point, Hoskuld’s convinced that this pilot is more of a threat to himself than he is to anyone else. 

Falling asleep on autopilot. Un-fucking-real.

“An’ maybe leave out the whole naptime bit, when you’re talking to the officers in the Starfighter Corps.” It’s only when they’re near the cusp of the treeline with the base sprawled out before them that he gives the younger man another long, scrutinizing gaze. He reaches over without a word and, with a forceful tug, “straightens” the collar of the pilot’s shirt. 

“Right. Let’s go.”

“Can you blame them for thinking that? ‘Join the gallant Resistance and save the day’. It is a novel idea.” They were the Resistance–the dashing heroes fighting against the vile, corrupt First Order. It sounded like a story–right up until you were in it. Until you were fighting for your life, watching your comrades-friends-fall around you. Until you were captured by the enemy and turned inside out–manipulated and twisted into something you hated.

That’s when the story ended.

“Hmm.” The lieutenant spoke highly of his captain. Not that she was surprised–amidst all the teasing and ‘fear’ that the soldiers had, even she could see the respect they all had for Captain Wren. “Maybe I’ll stop avoiding him when I’m training.” She mused, only half-joking. Mara echoed his laugh, grinning widely at his comment. “Well, I’ve never been called that before. Sarcastic? Sure. But never a ‘piece of work’.” She pointed out, but didn’t deny his comment. “Of course, I’m sure they’d be very distraught if you weren’t there to sneak out.”

“Well, no one has had the heart to tell me to kriff off yet.” She shrugs, pausing at his question, directing her gaze upward as she thinks. It’s several seconds before she speaks, her voice careful as she recalls just who she has spoken with. “A couple. There was a pilot–he kept dodging my questions though. And there was…an engineer, I think. She seemed nice.” Another pause as Mara sighed, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Two drifters too, but I think they were transferring to another base……maybe a medic? I don’t really remember off the top of my head, sorry.” She turns to look at Hoskuld, expression shifting from apologetic to curious. “Feeling homesick?”

All the older man can offer is a grunt of acknowledgement — because he can’t blame them, not like he wants to. He can play the part of the unforgiving hard-ass, can curse and snap and snarl at each recruit until they fall into line, but at the end of the day, he knows how this conflict works. The romance of this struggle — the underdog freedom fighters challenging the remnants of an oppressive fallen empire — will ultimately be what draws many into the ranks of the Resistance. At times he wonders what’s worse — seeing that hollow fear in their eyes when they realize that the gallant adventure is really a fabrication to hide the hellish reality, or watching others fall victim to their own enthusiasm. 

At the mention of a few new additions to the base from Lothal, the lieutenant perks up. A pilot and an engineer... Hoskuld turns to look at the younger woman more fully, his gaze flickering from her face for only a moment. “This pilot didn’t happen to be hopelessly fuckin’ lost, did he?” he scoffs, his amusement more a dry disbelief than genuine humor. But his thoughts shift back to the engineer, if only for a brief second. He knows better than to expect anything, knows that elevated hopes in times of war more often than not lead to bitter disappointment. But all the same...it’s been six years since he reached out to his sister. It would be good to just know that she’s okay. 

That she’s alive.

“Homesick?” And just like that, he smooths over his worries with practiced precision. “Nah, no need to be. Home’s here now.” He offers a small, crooked grin, adding, “’Sides, y’ever been to Lothal? Just Bantha shit, fern potatoes, an’ spine trees.” There’s more, of course, more that he tries to keep from recalling to memory: the mountains, the snow that sweeps down their jagged sides, the green valleys, the winding dirt road from the farm to the village. But that’s two decades in the past, too long to bother reminiscing over. He hasn’t been a Lothalian farmer in a damn long time, and until the First Order is wiped away from the galaxy once and for all, he doubts he’ll go back. 

“You and I both know charm is not one of my defining traits.” Mikal mused with a pointed look in the other’s direction. “I was simply there in case things went south. Thankfully, I wasn’t needed.”

Eyes turned upward at the lieutenant’s observation, scowl only deepening at the sight of turbulent clouds. “Kriffing great.” Of course it was going to rain–why was he surprised?

“Depends on how long it takes for the First Order to try to kill us.” He replied quickly, words brief and biting before he seemingly catches himself. “Raydonia is off the radar and the First Order likely think that we are scattered–beaten down. Raydonia is a good planet to lay low and build ourselves up again—and the First Order isn’t likely to look here. Like it or not, we will probably stay here for a while.”

“Oh, I find you very charming, boss,” he drawls as he steps over the rotted-out shell of a fallen tree, stifling a wince as his weight shifts from his unharmed leg to his injured one. Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, indeed. In any case, they both know that charm is an attribute wasted on ground troopers; no one’s ever charmed their way through a war, and the Resistance has people aplenty for when a finer touch is needed, people like the General and bureaucratic refugees. You don’t need “people skills” in combat – just a clear voice for giving orders and a clear head for following them. Aside from a blaster, that’s all anyone on the ground really needs.

Behind them the din of human activity fades as the base disappears, giving way only to the quiet hum of nature and the oppressive thickness of the humid air. There’s a derisive snort that rasps past his lips, expression sardonic as his eyes peer through the thick cover of Raydonia’s foliage. “Good. I’ve always wanted to have a heat stroke at least once in my life.” It’s the closest thing to a complaint that he’ll allow of himself. Instead he momentarily focuses on his path, ducking beneath the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree. So both sides are going to be licking their wounds for a while. In the end what matters is a victory – how they accomplish it is of little concern past what part he needs to play in it. They’re soldiers, after all – they buckle down and go where they’re told.

“No chance of us hittin’ first, then?” the lieutenant queries after a moment of pensive silence. “S’gonna take a while to train up all the rookies we’re getting, sure, but I can’t say I’m a fan of sittin’ on my ass an’ waiting for those shitheads to come to us again.”

once he saw the lieutenant laughing, moonjae couldn’t help but laugh yet again. he was certain they were drawing attention to themselves, especially with the older male’s laughter filling the mess hall. but he didn’t mind. it was rare to see hoskuld smile, and even rarer to hear him laugh. especially when it came to talking about the future. ❝ i think it must be a hobby for captain wren and his squad to give us heart attacks when nearly half of you guys all voluntarily release yourselves after a quick check up. ❞ bringing a hand up to his mouth in a sad attempt to cover his laugh, he cleared his throat and shrugged. they were understaffed even before the attack so he was used to the workload. ❝ it’s a little hectic but we’re hanging in there.❞ he paused to gesture at the plate in front of him with a grin. ❝ plus as long as they give us time to get some food and breathe then i’m not complaining. ❞ leave it to him to prioritize food.

“We are an elusive bunch, yeah,” the older man agrees easily. He’ll have to let the captain know that they’ve got a nice little reputation going in the medbay. Far be it from any of them to break tradition now. “We just like to make things easier on you guys. Ease the burden an’ all.” As much as he hates lingering in the sanitized recesses of the medbay, he does have to give credit where credit is due – it’s likely only because of the medical staff that so many of them are mobile enough to hobble off on their own. “’Sides, we have a moral obligation to hustle outta there. Who’s gonna be a buffer between the captain an’ the rest of the Resistance if we’re all holed up in the medbay? I don’t think the base is ready to have Wren completely turned loose on it.”

Medical talk is momentarily pushed aside. Now food – that’s something everyone can agree on. He nods and gives an affirmative grunt around a mouthful of some sort of soup, a thin broth with sinewy meat in it. Still beats the food they get in the field. Hoskuld swallows it down and clears his throat. “Better enjoy it while we can. Soon as we ship out again it’s back to survival rations.”

He made a fair point. And the past had a lot to do with events happening now. The Empire led to the First Order, the Rebellion led to the Resistance. 

History really did repeat itself.

“Captain Wren? Suspicious? Can’t see it.” In her brief encounters with the Captain, she knew he could be—-intense. And she had heard from the grounders that he was critical of those under him. Mara always assumed he had a reason for his behavior-but she also tended to avoid him when it was possible. “He doesn’t really scare them that badly–” She paused, glancing over at the lieutenant, arching a brow. “–does he?”

Her brows furrowed at Hoskuld’s response, but she simply nods. “Have you tried not getting shot?” She offers, corner of her mouth twitching upward into a fleeting grin. Given her injuries, she could stand to take her own advice. 

Mara is quick to pick up on the shift in tone, her grin turning into a soft smile as she nods in agreement–something shining behind her eyes at his words. “I’m impressed with the medics, they always seem to have things under control for the most part.” Aside from a few restless patients missing from their cots—oops. “People are coming here from planets I’ve never even heard of.” Then again, Raydonia was only the fourth planet she’d ever visited, having spent most of her life on Corellia—so that wasn’t anything too outstanding, but it didn’t dampen Mara’s curiosity. “I imagine a couple of them are annoyed with my questions by now.”

The lieutenant shrugs, the gesture more appraising than it is noncommittal. “He can, sometimes,” Hoskuld admits, though an amused lilt plays in his perpetually gruff tone of voice. “Yeah...he sure as shit can. But only ‘cause these kids’re green as all shit. Most of ‘em have no idea what they’re runnin’ into. They think this is some...I dunno, some story. Some big adventure that they get to just walk away from. Go fight the bad guys, have some stories to tell the kids one day, that sort’a nonsense.” And he remembers that well, being a hot-blooded seventeen year-old away from Lothal for the first time, eagerly seeking out a recruiting depot for the New Republic’s military. Remembers feeling like he could take on the entire galaxy. 

Remembers seeing a lot of people like him get killed in the midst of their optimism and naive arrogance.

“But he’s a good man, end’a story.” Even if it wasn’t, the soldier cuts himself off with a laugh at the younger woman’s suggestion, a smile deepening the lines around his eyes. “Real piece’a work, you are,” he manages to get out as his laughter tapers off, the mirth lingering in his eyes even after he’s able to regain composure. “And deprive all my friends in the medbay of getting a chance to see me? Never.” 

“Ah, I doubt it,” the soldier muses, recalling more than a few encounters he’s already had with the steady stream of new recruits that have been trickling into the new base. “Probably appreciate the fact that someone’s takin’ the time to care. Lot of ‘em just sort’a blunder around ‘till they’re told where to go.” She has piqued his curiosity, though; he hesitates for only a moment, debating on whether or not he should even bother asking, whether or not he should dredge up those old ghosts, but finally swallows his worries down and broaches, “Don’t s’ppose you’ve run across any more poor bastards from Lothal, have you?”