#lacuna

Engines screaming, lasers flying, explosions so close you can feel the heat of them on your face even through the glass around you. You've only seen this many starfighters up close once, and you spent that time doing your best to get out of it.

Running drills and simulations prepared you, but not nearly far enough. It's the first time you've had a team to look out for, people to protect, orders to follow. And the radio chatter is so loud you're struggling to pick out Green Leader's calls against Red and Gold. There's a flash of green in the corner of your eye, you just about barrel roll out of the laser's path in time. The TIE squeals behind you, following you down through the smoke and broken metal, only to find itself faced with the laser cannons mounted on Green Four - Shara Fuckin' Bey. She blasts the TIE and its pilot to kingdom come, and you get to live. For another ten seconds at the very least.

It's with one sharp breath, pushed out of your lungs, that you centre yourself and follow her back into the fray.

The TIEs don't seem to be diminishing, an endless stream of them flowing from the Star Destroyer in the distance. Another appears as soon as you shoot one down, two or three zipping around behind you to go after your teammates. Diving and twisting and turning, your guns are turned on anything that moves; a split second to decide if you pull the trigger or not, and another one goes down. It's a waiting game, both sides have one goal, outlast the enemy. You have to thank whatever made this bitch of a galaxy that you don't get motion sick - you've lost which way is up. A less horrifying sensation out in space than in atmosphere, without gravity contend with. And it only takes a moment to spin your A-Wing one hundred and eighty degrees when you realise you're looking at the underside of Naro, sitting without so much as a scratch in Green Two, when there's a call back to formation. The medical freighter is almost done collecting supplies on the ground, you just have to try not to die until it's safely in lightspeed.

"Sound off and fall in, Green! We're on defense from here on out!" Green Leader, Commander Leigh, calls over the comms to a chorus of numbers.

"Green Two, ready and waiting."

"Green Three, still kicking." Even a week in, your place in the line up feels like second nature. It'd be nicer if you weren't staring death in the face - but beggars can't be choosers.

"Green Four, not dead."

"Green Five, bringing up the rear!"

Your stomach unknots itself with the confirmation that everyone's alive. Just a little while longer. A glance to your right confirms Shara is indeed not dead, and she raises a hand from her dashboard to give you a thumbs up. You shake off a shudder, from the chill of space or the steadily approaching line of TIE fighters you're not sure, and roll your shoulders. The main component of being a rebel pilot is being willing to die for your team. There are much worse ways to go, as far as you're concerned.

Red and Gold squadron take a moment to regroup themselves behind Green's defense line, still mostly whole. Gold Two was lost in the first shootout, remaining pilots stretching themselves across the empty space, but the moment's silence will have to wait as the teams find their formations and soar overhead to take the front line against the Empire. It's a standoff, someone's going to flinch first. You just have to make sure it's not you.

"Med-Three, loading complete. Engaging launch sequence, back home in time for dinner, hey?"

You're not blinking, when the freighter pilot calls out over the comms; eyes fixed on the cloud of TIE fighters on the other side of no man's land, waiting, watching. The same as everybody else. It's easy to forget that there's someone across the way, maybe just like you. Born somewhere, raised somewhere, with thoughts and ideas and loved ones. Maybe. And somewhere along the way, something happened to make them think the Empire is the answer. Terrifying, really, to know that it could just have easily been you over there. Though you're not too deep in your reverie of what ifs to notice the exact second that the freighter breaks atmosphere. These are the most precious seconds, ozone to hyperspace unscathed. It doesn't sound like that tall an order, but the swarm of starfighters ahead of you are already locked into the skirmish.

It makes your fingers itchy, sitting still whilst the battle rages ahead, they twitch over the trigger for your guns. You have to stretch your hand so wide it almost hurts, to avoid hitting it by mistake. Holding the line goes against every fibre of your being, but orders are orders - so you hold it.

One, two, three TIEs make it through the barrage of gunfire to wind their way through the sky towards you, towards the freighter. Over your dead body. Or somebody else's, as your Commander would have it. She scrambles Green Two, Four, and herself. You and Davis, sitting behind you in Green Five, are left to man the barricade whilst Med Three finalises its calculations for hyperspace. The rest of your team manages the stray TIEs without breaking a sweat at the same time the freighter behind you zips off into nothing - job done.

The remaining Imperial fleet scatters, fleeing back to the relative safety of their Star Destroyer. Living to fight another day, same as you. The cheers of your teammates, of the Red and Gold squadrons, take over the comms system and you can't help but laugh along. Despite the losses and the anxiety that still swirls in the pit of your stomach, X-Wings and A-Wings flipping loops around each other among the stars in celebration. Falling back into formation, ready to make the jump to hyperspace, back to Yavin. Back home. Until somebody spots it. The Star Destroyer has turned, slowly but surely, to face your squadrons head on. Time to haul ass. Gold, followed by Red, followed by Green, rebel starfighters zip into lightspeed one by one before the Destroyer has time to get a shot off. Almost.

You think you've done it - spotted the incoming cannon fire at the last second, taken a hairpin dive to put a splintered fragment of TIE fighter between you and the shot from the Star Destroyer, and then shrapnel from the resultant blast scrapes the underside of your ship with an awful shriek. Metal on metal, the impact reverberates in your bones. 

"Three, come in!"

"I'm here," You respond immediately, fighting to right your ship and ignore the blaring on your dashboard, "I've lost an engine."

The damage isn't catastrophic, but it's going to be a battle in itself to get the thing back to base. You've done more with less, that's what you have to keep in mind, you've been in stickier shape than this. Knowledge and skill will get you pretty far, blind confidence will have to do for the rest of the way. You crank the hyperdrive into action, against the advice of every warning on your readouts, and scrunch your nose at the wail of protest that sounds from your one remaining thruster. It sounds like a dying bantha. Commander Leigh sticks close behind you, though you can't imagine she can see for the smoke trail you're likely leaving, but she won't leave you to struggle along by yourself. Shara's not far ahead either, keeping an eye on you herself.

You make it home by the absolute skin of your teeth. Smoke puttering out of your left thruster, the whole ship judders as you white knuckle the controls in an attempt to stay in formation - as if holding them tighter will do anything but cramp your wrists. The engine has the courtesy, at least, to wait until you've touched down to shoot a jet of thick white smoke out the back in one last spectacular hurrah before it finally dies. There'll be a spare one hanging around somewhere on the tarmac, you just might have to persuade one of the other squads to give it up. You've got the time, it'll take a few days to fix up anyway, you're not going anywhere any time soon.

Kes is there, in the shadow of the base cut into the side of the mountain, waiting to catch your bouncing best friend in his arms. The same way he did when he first arrived, it makes you smile in spite of some of the harder to swallow losses in the past months. Today included. It's unspoken, you'll give her ship a once over before settling in for the work that awaits on yours; she can have her Dameron time, she deserves it for all the favours she's done you. Shara's a unique character, snarky but love pours out of the woman's soul, you'd do just about anything for her. So you wave across the tarmac at Kes as she runs to him, proof of life and a promise you'll download him later. For now, Green Three needs your attention.

Sure, there's a troop of mechanics on hand to do it for you, but this is your ship. They forgive you for being a little territorial. You sweet talk the parts you need out of Digby, hauling them away on a borrowed tool cart before he's completely agreed to let them go with a doe-eyed smile. But the mechanics like you, because you're one of them, so the arguments aren't difficult to win. Most of the rebel pilots can run basic maintenance, replace parts if they're in a pinch - your scrapping experience has come in pretty handy.

A quiet afternoon, in the sunshine, working on your busted thruster sounds nice ahead of the command meeting you've been summoned for. Right before the dinner bell, you already know the cake slices will be gone by the time you can make your escape.

The afternoon isn't all that quiet, turns out. It happens about an hour in. You can't take the eyes boring a matching set of holes in your back anymore; the pliers in your hand find a home on the wing with a decisive thunk, and you turn to glare back at the culprit on the concrete, "Can I help you with something?"

"No, I'm good." Morgan shakes his head, his lips quirk up in the grin that furrows your eyebrows. He's been here for a week - wandering around on the tarmac, not exactly getting in the way, but spending most of his time bothering you. You're starting to wonder if Kes put him up to it. Relentless flirting aside, he's not unlikable. He's also not busy, not right now at least, so you put him to work.

He knows his tools, you have to say. There's no questions as you make your requests and peel away the engine coverings carefully, exposing the burnt wiring inside. Yikes. He doesn't miss the grimace on your face either, because he's never not looking at you, apparently. You're not up for chatting, that much is clear. So, he does.

Three brothers sounds like a nightmare, you decide. Two older, one younger, never a still or quiet moment in his house growing up. The four of them ran their parents ragged. Kegan and Barker getting up to all kinds of mischief and dragging the little ones along for the ride, Morgan and Sammy were just happy to be included most of the time. And then Kegan got his pilot license. Pod racing was a whole different world, Morgan's eyes light up like the setting sun as he tells you about the nights he and his brothers used to sneak out. Kegan would fire up their dad's transport and zip them over to Racer's Canyon every two weeks. They'd smuggle themselves in, blending in one by one with different groups until they were all inside, get as close as they could to the action. He would have given anything to be out there in the thick of it, dodging cliffs and winding through valleys at breakneck speeds, as close as a person could get to having honest to god wings. He dabbled, for a while. And when you ask him why he's not a pilot, he answers honestly.

There'd been an accident, one night, right in front of the stand the boys had holed themselves up in. He can still hear the crunch of the racer's bones against the stone sidewall, remembers using his sleeve to wipe a splotch of blood off of little Sammy's cheek. The guy lived, shockingly enough, but that was enough to put him off. And, of course, they'd gotten the bollocking of a lifetime from their father when they got home. But not one of them cared about the endless yard work and house chores in the end, because the brothers' secret trips to the races made for good memories. He suspects that's why his dad ended up in the yard too, chuckling to himself about his sons.

You can see it in your head - four teenagers and an older man, all with matching curls and wide grins and tanned skin, laughing together instead of working the flowerbeds. You're jealous, not for the first time. Because you don't have any stories like that. You didn't have a loving set of parents you can remember, or a gaggle of siblings who dragged you around to cause havoc. There's not a single story you could tell from your youth that would put the same smile on your face as Morgan's memories do. Anything you did on Corellia was just to avoid a premature death. And Ran? The Chop Shop? Everything was for a payday, or to get your own back on someone else, it all had an ulterior motive. Nothing ever happened just because it was fun.

A loud beep from your datapad, sitting on the hull beside your half-gutted engine, reminds you of the command meeting. This job isn't halfway done yet, not overly helped by Morgan and his yapping. He convinces you away anyhow, on the promise that he'll call Digby over so he doesn't completely wreck your beloved ship - while he knows his way around mechanics well enough, he's willing to admit his shortcomings.

"Touch my balance setup, and I kill you."

Morgan snickers at the threat, mimicking a wonky salute when you point an accusatory finger in his direction, "Understood."

You duck into the command centre at the last minute, finding a spot towards the back of the darkened room in line with the other unremarkable attendees, only a moment before every surface is illuminated by the blue of the holo-call. The console in the centre of the room beeps once, twice, and lights up with a fuzzy image; Senator Bail Organa sits at his desk on Alderaan, not a trace of optimism in his face. Oh, this is going to suck.

Things are so much worse than anybody thought.

Mon Motha's frown only deepens as Organa recounts the latest senate meeting, Draven looks as though he's eaten something expired. In one day you've managed to crawl out of one frying pan, and into another goddamn frying pan.

Not one of the delegates is willing to publicly announce their support for the Rebellion, the majority of them claim there's no need for one in the first place. Money and personnel will be pulled almost completely in the coming days. Andor's out on a job, Draven's worst kept secret, but intel is scarce - they don't know what's solid and what isn't anymore. The senators who had been supporters are sick of losing the volunteers they're sending out, time to call it. They're tired of the death, yeah, so are you. Votes are split down the middle in the council rooms, nobody wants to be the first to make the move either way and tip the balance. But what balance is there if no one's willing to stick their neck on the line when it counts? Some of the senators are claiming there's no evidence of aggression from the Empire, that it's the Rebellion claiming the need for firepower and support.

"I'd say attacking a medical frigate counts as an aggressive move, but that's just me." The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, far louder than you intended. You pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes squeezed firmly shut, as you feel the room's population turn to face you. The pilot with the big fucking mouth; idiot.

You chance a glance up at your sudden audience, now hushed. Mon Motha looks surprised, General Draven is decidedly not. Senator Bail Organa regards you much in the same way he did when he gave you your stripes, and barely stumbles over his words to agree with you. Though his intention is to be a little more subtle, more nuanced about it with his colleagues in the political circles. They're not so easily persuaded by blood and burnt metal, they want results. By some miracle, you don't melt into the ground in embarrassment any further, and slink back into the shadows for the rest of the meeting. Lips firmly pressed together, brain in gear so as not to blurt out your inner monologue again. Draven doesn't bother with the formalities that plague the other commanding officers when he collars you after Organa's holo-call is over.

"We can't convince you back to intelligence?" The General studies you for a moment, as if he's envisioning a different uniform, a captain's badge on your arm. Despite your earlier lapse in decorum. Good spies are invaluable, he's not above waving a promotion around to persuade you.

"I'm afraid not, sir. A good friend once told me I belong up there, he's yet to steer me wrong."

"Shame," Draven mutters, more to himself than to you, "You have the stomach for it."

It's only mildly disillusioning, to learn that the galaxy refuses to stand up and that the powers that be think you're in the wrong field. The stomach for it, he has no idea. God, you need to eat something before you make another poorly timed comment.

Snaking around the clusters of people in the mess hall has become second nature. Muscle memory as you weave between benches pushed out from the long tables, stepping over outstretched legs and ducking under gesturing hands. Your dinner tray remains undisturbed as you make your way to the far end of the furthest table, closest to the main exit, and you find a gap on the bench to squeeze into - squashed between Shara and Murphy, one of the squad mechanics. Your usual group is larger, with the addition of Kes and his Pathfinders, but no more room is taken up at your unofficial section. Sitting bumper to bumper, you're glad you're not claustrophobic. Wordlessly, Shara hands over the extra cake slice she swiped for you earlier, and the tension leeches out of your shoulders the moment the sugar hits your tongue.

There's a chorus of acknowledgement as Commander Leigh swings by, half eaten apple in hand on her way to command, to thank you all for a job well done. As well done as it could have been, at least. There's a moment where the loss of Gold Two hangs in the air, and then it's gone, because there are things to do. He wasn't the first, he won't be the last.

Your complaints about the senate, as you tuck into your hard earned dinner, fall largely on deaf ears. Not because your friends don't want to hear you out, but because they already know. They've been in the meetings, read the briefings, they know the senate's patience is wearing thin. It was only a matter of time before the cash dried up. It'll take something unimaginably terrible to get people to even look in the Empire's direction, and then they'll forget about it in a week. Or it'll be too late. Everyone will be dead, so none of it will matter anyway. Morgan kicks at your leg under the table, he's sure they'll clue in. All you have to do is hold down the fort until they do. The guy's got faith in bucket loads, you'll give him that.

"Is that all you'll give me?" His dark eyes hold a challenge you're not sure you want to accept, though you're not backing down from it either.

"You're unbelievable." You say, shaking your head.

"I know."

Morgan holds your gaze across the table, like he's testing you. Is he serious or not? Is it all bravado? You're not sure, and he knows it. He has his moments, where you can see flashes of who he is, of the boy he used to be; like out on the tarmac, telling you about his brothers. Or how he's saved a spot on the bench for you at breakfast every morning since he got in. You like this guy, you don't want to admit it, and he knows that. He leans back in his seat, satisfied enough to stay quiet, and just watches you. But you're not unsettled under the scrutiny, your own eyes stay steady on his - a tug of war.

"Oh my god, get a room." Shara's voice is low enough that the only set of ears her comment finds belong to you. The chatter continues around you, unaware.

"Speak for yourself," You hit back, breaking Morgan's gaze to shove her with your shoulder, "You scarred me for life yesterday."