#poe001

Galen was eighteen years old.  He was eighteen years old, and a fresh recruit for the Resistance.  He was eighteen years old, a fresh Resistance recruit, and he was standing in front of a T-70 X-wing for the first time.

He swallowed, glancing around at the other people bustling around the hangar, before looking back at the X-wing looming over him.  He’d wanted to learn how to pilot one ever since his father had taught him how to pilot their dinky speeder back home on Chandrila.  

One particular person caught his interest, and he turned to face him.  “You’re Commander Poe Dameron, right?”

“I’d recognize my pilots anywhere but yours is not a face I can recall properly.” Bearing a symbol or not, she can tell what weights down his shoulders. It’s more akin of a vague feeling, one that persistently pulsates in her mind. She speaks abruptly and without a basis, preferring not to lose a second chance. Whoever is closer to home, they are still the best suited option for information.