Nocturne’s least favorite batchmate was a clone named Solaris. The two of them came up with their names independent of one another and were irritated when people jokingly commented on how appropriate they were, considering how night and day their personalities were from each other. Despite being from the same batch of clones, Solaris and Nocturne couldn’t have been more different and it was for that reason (among others) neither of them even considered the other to be their brother.
Nocturne always said there had to be some kind of defect or abnormality in Solaris’s cloning allowing for that level of aggression and hostility: the clones were made to be cooperative for a reason, and Solaris’s deviation from the norm was a constant thorn in Nocturne’s side. One of the other brothers pointed out, however, that Sol only seemed to have a problem with Noc. Solaris was otherwise a model cadet and the whole group operated like the well-oiled cogs in the machine they were. It was in every moment outside of a structured schedule that Sol showed his true colors, at least in regards to Nocturne. Solaris was stealthy about what malice he directed Nocturne’s way, and if the other batchmates even saw the degree to which it got on occasion, they pretended they didn’t.
The two boys butted heads on nearly everything, and their conflicts weren’t contained to petty snipes and snide remarks; Solaris, knowing Nocturne’s aversion to the open ocean, once shoved him almost over the railing of Tipoca City when they were all outside listening to one of the instructors, and though he kept Nocturne from actually falling into the water, Nocturne immediately retaliated by turning and decking Solaris twice, hard. Nocturne stepped back at the ready as Solaris yelled through a broken nose, blood dripping down his chin, and it enraged Solaris further when the instructors shrugged and told him that should have been something he was prepared for, and Nocturne not continuing to hit Sol while he was down proved he was in control of his temper and actions when by all rights he didn’t have to be.
Solaris was an intensely competitive cadet, and with Noc that extended to every area of their training. He made every drill and test a big deal when Nocturne truly couldn’t care less, and the fact Solaris could rarely get a rise out of Noc only stoked his irritation and anger higher. He loathed hearing Nocturne receive praise for his proficiency in field medicine and chemistry, and his temper only worsened when Nocturne excelled in physical skills too like close-quarters combat, endurance tests, and marksmanship. Sol wasn’t envious of Nocturne’s projected success as a field medic and officer— It was that he truly believed there was no way Nocturne was good enough to have earned it. His vitriol also couldn’t be explained as a case of sibling rivalry, wanting to beat Nocturne at his own game; Solaris’s interests lay in hunting and ranger skills.
Nocturne also said that, even with Solaris’s hostility set aside, it seemed like there was still something wrong with him. When his obsession with persistence hunting continued to build through their developmental years, Noc started keeping an even closer eye on him. He’d once overheard Solaris say that he thought there must be a thrilling kind of satisfaction in stalking prey for so long it becomes too tired to flee or fight back, that outlasting and overpowering the life of something else through sheer will had to be the most rewarding means of achieving delayed gratification.
Marksmanship challenges. Combatives exercises. Relays turning to races on the obstacle courses. Even knife fights initiated by Solaris with the excuse that it was meant to test their reflexes and keep their squad on their toes. He was, in a word, a bully.
Nocturne was no slouch when it came to physical skills, and even aside from Solaris’s constant covert badgering, Noc’s reflexes were good. He had never backed down from Sol’s attempts to provoke him, and Noc proving he wasn’t a pushover in any area and could go toe-to-toe with Solaris in close quarters only furthered Solaris’s anger.
“None of us should have come out vicious,” he’d told Mayday outside the war room tent one night on a battlefield. “I don’t know how he slipped through the cracks, but he’s the only clone I’ve ever met who started off bloodthirsty and mean.”
—
Perhaps the most egregious example of Solaris’s unnecessary cruelty (and best summation of his character) was when he found Nocturne studying a caterpillar when they were still cadets. Nocturne had said before that butterflies interested him because of their life cycle and role as pollinators, a small but vital part of so many terrestrial ecosystems. Plants were in short supply on Tipoca City, and Nocturne mused that this particular caterpillar had to have come in on some of the cargo returning soldiers had offloaded into the hangar and docking bay. Solaris was uncharacteristically quiet as Nocturne talked, and that should have been what tipped him off.
In a moment of deliberate antagonism, Solaris squashed the caterpillar with his heel, smearing it into the duracrete.
That was the only time Nocturne ever hit first and didn’t stop. When he was finally dragged off of Solaris, spitting and yelling, Nocturne knew that he’d never be able to trust him, and that he would never forgive him for anything.
My friend Meowlayn is hosting a “monster lover challenge” over on Instagram & Twitter where we can create an OC and slap it on a background she created along with some text boxes to make it look like a visual novel >w<
I decided to create a grim reaper OC for the challenge, though, it accidentally turned into 2 OCs...this is the first one!
His name is Nocturne, the younger of a set of twins (YES THAT’S RIGHT, TWINS). He’s the more calm/collected of the two, until you catch his interest...;) I had so much fun creating them and really like how they both turned out. I’ll post the second one very soon here~
Note that I did not create the background, that was drawn for this challenge by Meowlayn on Instagram/twitter! She gets the credit for that ^^
Rules: Search your WIP for the word of the week, share a snippet and tag some others!
Tagged by @navigatorwrongway! 🙏 This week’s word is kind
Call Sign
There’s a scene with Djao and some of the others working outside when something goes wrong and *lop* There goes Djao’s finger.
Barak sits between Djao and Nocturne in the infirmary, holding Djao’s arm down on the table and leaning his upper body weight into keeping it pinned. Djao’s still trying to get away.
“Why are you so fidgety about leeches?” Barak asked over his shoulder. “It’s just a little one.”
“Because I remember the parasitology course and- *gag*- can’t stand them. I’ve seen their little mouths under a microscope.”
“Well, that’s what you get for sticking things under a microscope,” Barak said. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”
Djao pulled and pulled and pulled, but to no avail. His boots squeaked on the polished duracrete. Nocturne had already sterilized the synthflesh joinery tissue and finished suturing the finger back into place, keeping Djao’s hand flat as it twitched. “If you keep moving, it’s going to take longer.”
“Don’t care,” Djao mumbled. “I don’t even need the finger. Take it back. I’ll make do.”
“Crash said Djao lost a finger?” Rizel’s voice came from the doorway. Djao absently kicked out again, trying to dislodge Barak.
“It would be an easy fix,” Barak said, readjusting. “If he’d stop moving.”
Crash and Veetch appeared behind Rizel, curious. “Did you fix it?”
“Not yet,” Nocturne said, annoyed. “Di’kut’s going to end up with nerve damage at best if he keeps it up.”
“Which one is it, one of the middle ones?” Rizel asked with a knowing gleam in her eye. “That’d be a shame, Jay, you need those.”
“Sure, yeah, just let the whole peanut gallery in to watch my medical episode,” Djao groused loudly. “Just line up and take a couple holos while you’re at it.”
“Is that an option?” Veetch asked. “I'll put them with the tattoo and dianoga pics.”
“Are those the kind of leeches that get bigger the longer they’re latched on?” Crash asked. “There’s some on Avaross that’ll grow for as long as they have a blood source—”
Djao screeched in anger, thrashing again. Barak and Nocturne glared.
“Not helping.”
“Sorry, Cap.”
Tagging: @autumnwoodsdreamer, @oloreaa, @fallen-knight, @jedi-valjean, and you!
Years after the events of Call Sign, Nocturne somehow ends up picking up more and more abandoned or solitary kids in need of care, eventually to the point there’s one Nautolan girl, a Mirialin boy, two clone cadet tweens and a toddler they saved who’s traveling with them, a Zabrak kid one of his brothers found who refused to stay back on Dathomir when he was returned, and one girl in her late teens who’s more of an actual employee he hired to work on his ship who he’s more of a mentor to than anything and who he promised would not be relegated to the position of “babysitter.” Depending on part of his backstory I’m undecided on, there may even be one more kid, but it’s clear he already has his hands full
All of the kids are oddly well-behaved, everyone largely gets along and watches out for one another. Ship’s big enough to accommodate everybody, including some of the more particular needs of the nonhuman kids, like the Nautolan girl needing a freshwater tank to sleep/soak in from time to time. He took the clone kids on knowing exactly what they would have already been through and what their needs are (especially since they were still young enough the Kaminoans’ lysine contingency hadn’t been modified out of their system before they were abandoned). It’s not unusual to find him with the toddler on his hip as he works on the ship or plans his next job or fixes the custom medical equipment he’s crafted, just going about his day while they tag along
His assistant comes to value his input and mentorship and thinks very highly of him, especially and specifically because he treats her as he would anybody else he’d have hired to work for him. He asks her opinion and perspective, he entrusts her with responsibilities many people have a hard time handing off to fellow adults their own age, he works with her as a team and he trusts her judgement. When one job goes especially badly they barely make it out by the skin of their teeth, largely in part due to her actions and quick thinking, and once they’re safe again she starts to shake and panic from the adrenaline crash. Contrary to her insistence that she could take care of herself prior to this, she couldn’t be more grateful that Nocturne is there to catch her and help her recuperate while still not treating her like just another kid. She’s seen how he cares about his brothers and for people. Nocturne doesn’t offer hugs very often but when he offers his hand to her and pulls her in, she couldn’t be more grateful that he continues to give her chances to rely on someone else for a change.
The Zabrak boy ends up exhibiting a connection to the Force when he’s a little older and understandably freaks out when it happens but Nocturne’s there to calm him down and get the other kids calmed down as well, gently explaining what it’ll mean for him and for all of them moving forward, especially with Inquisitors and bounty hunters going after anybody sensitive to the Force. All of the kids are solemn as they promise to watch out for him, all of them growing more tight-knit as a result.
A couple years down the line when they’ve all been traveling together somebody in the market mentions how well-behaved the kids are for their father and Nocturne just offhandedly says “I’m not their dad,” as if talking about the weather, only for a chorus of several perplexed voices to blurt out “YOU’RE NOT???”
And it’s only then when he sees all of their baffled expressions that he realizes “oh”
“What are we going to share today, Hound?” “Same thing we share [almost] every Wednesday, Pinkie.”
Call Sign
This comes from a chapter titled “Truth or Dare.” :)
“Is Rizel still out there?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you tell her to come find me? I want to hold her hand.”
Veetch coughed awkwardly. “I think Nocturne’s math was off, that was too much for you.” Veetch turned and hollered over his shoulder to the medic, wiggling the bottle. “Hey Knockout, what’s in this stuff?”
“It’s just sleep meds, what are you— What is that??”
“Uh oh,” says Mayday, not a bit sincere.
Nocturne darts over and snatches the bottle from Veetch’s hand, smelling it and reading the label.
“You absolute donkey,” Noc hissed. “This is truth serum.”
"Good stuff," Mayday said. "Potent." He sort of tilts his head at the ceiling. "Ethically questionable."
"What are the uh, consequences of that big a dose…?" Veetch asked.
Nocturne stoppered the bottle. "His brain's going to melt out of his ears."
"WHAT?!"
Nocturne rolled his eyes, striding towards the hall. "His mental faculties and impulse control are compromised. Treat him as if he's incredibly drunk. He's going to be loose-lipped and unpleasantly honest for probably the next—" (Nocturne stopped, squinting at the amount left in the bottle) "Maker's montrals— Thirty or thirty-five hours. It's an hour per milliliter, so good job, shiny. Let's hope we don't come across any real spies."
"Wh— I didn't mean to dose him!" Veetch yelled after Nocturne, jogging for the door. The commander laughed behind him. "It was in the scrub station! You said to get the vial with the wax seal in the right drawer—"
"I said the correct drawer," Nocturne shot back, leaning back into the corridor. "I'll draw you a map next time. Di'kut. Shiny. Absolute moron."
"I’m sorry, okay?! You’re the one who should have this stuff locked up!”
"You're the one who's going to have to explain things when he's lucid again."
Summary: A bush pilot crashes near the Outpost of Barton IV, her life crossing paths with those of Commander Mayday and his men. Only time will tell if she and the garrison will be able to survive the mountain, but until then they take things day by day, friendships and relationships being tested as they weather conflict and the elements together. Multi-chapter. (WIP)
When Nocturne finds the cadet tweens and the baby during his travels, he finds out that they call the baby “Hatch” because it’s short for “Hatchling”
—
“… You know we weren’t hatched from eggs, right?” he asks. “Like, I know we weren’t created ‘naturally’ but you did get the biology course on reproduction during whatever flash training you got, right?”
“Well this one was in a egg when we found him and it took us forever to figure out how to open it,” the younger cadet said, poking the baby.
“It was a nursery pod,” the older one says.
“It was egg-shaped, and we couldn’t agree on what to call him.”
“Besides,” the older cadet says to Nocturne, “He’s too little to decide on a name himself and we couldn’t tell if they numbered him and we had to call him something. Didn’t figure he’d want to be stuck with ‘Baby’ or ‘Tubie’ his whole life.”
Summary: Rizel’s injuries are tended to. She and the men observe and start forming opinions of each other. Conflict is introduced and we start to see that the commander of the outpost is perfectly capable of remaining objective and focused, even when he wishes he didn’t have to be.
Veetch was the ‘youngest’ out of all of them, or at least seemed that way. Their little brother, though serious, was bright-eyed and sharp, chewing whatever that awful stim-gum was that the others couldn’t stand, and he was constantly drumming his fingers or hands on surfaces when he started to get bored, or bouncing his leg when he was agitated. Mayday would sometimes catch him tapping out a beat on his thigh plate when he was on watch. Veetch, Djao, and Crash made up the most sociable side of the squad, and the three of them plus Barak were all crowded shoulder-to-shoulder next to each other around the impromptu campfire. Veetch had wedged himself in next to Rizel, beaming like the sun and asking her questions so he could listen with rapt attention as she talked.
Rizel, to her credit, was a natural conversationalist and entertainer. She’d been telling stories for the past hour, regaling them with anecdotes from her job alongside what Mayday was certain were some impressive but almost-assuredly tall tales; every once in a while he’d catch a glimpse of mischief in her eyes as Djao listened in awe, and when she caught Mayday watching while Djao’s attention was elsewhere, she winked.
Mayday told himself he was refraining from joining them out of principle; she was still a person of interest, but even with that aside, most folks didn’t like their boss intruding on their leisure time anyway. He’d let the men have this.
Djao passed his canteen to Rizel while she talked, listening earnestly as he leaned in with his forearms on his knees. Mayday's resident jack of all trades wasn’t a pushover, but he’d always been a bit of a people-pleaser, eager and willing to help in whatever way he could. He’d accumulated a number of interests and skills over the years that he displayed a surprising amount of aptitude for despite how little time he’d had to refine them. They’d given him a chance to share and connect with people in a variety of ways, and he’d already made his way through every book, file, and scrap of intel saved on his datapads months ago; getting fresh stories and news from the outside world from somebody who paid him just as much attention while he talked was like striking aurodium for him. Gods knew the rest of them had already heard every non-fiction topic relayed to them twice over now.
Mayday was surprised to see Barak with the others, though he supposed the captain could have just been sitting in as a means of observing. Barak was the most objective and practical and wasn’t easily swayed by others’ emotions which made him a good leader and solid tactician, and he’d never struck Mayday as the type to be won over by a pretty face alone so he had to assume the captain was as bored and starved for interaction as the rest of them.
Mayday wasn’t surprised to see Crash involved. He was the loudest of those gathered, entertaining her with some of their own stories; Mayday was relieved he omitted the specifics of their locations, at least. Rizel listened intently, occasionally stoking the fire with her staff, and it appeared to Mayday that her teasing extended to all of them, nudging Crash in the ribs with her elbow as he told one of the stories from their time on Ord Mantell. Crash was also a theatric entertainer and didn't mind telling stories that came at his own expense; the more she laughed, the more eager he looked.
She may have been outnumbered, but it was clear she had command of the room: they were her captive audience and Mayday could see she was already becoming a welcome addition faster than anticipated.
All of them looked younger in the light of an actual fire, their shoulders relaxed and their postures loose. Even the wary skeptics on the outside of the group hadn’t gone far. It was hard to really tell what Hollis thought; he was always reserved so he didn’t look too different now, arms crossed with his legs stretched out in front of him at one of the terminals. Hexx was in the alcove of a galley across from Mayday, leaning back out from time to time. He was the one Mayday had concerns about, but for the time being…
Mayday couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard them laugh that much.
The commander mulled over his notes until the scent of caf accompanied a new presence at his side.
“How’d you sleep?” Mayday asked, scrolling through the pocket secretary.
Nocturne shrugged. “Slept,” he said, taking a sip and rubbing his eyes. “Hexx said there’s news?”
Mayday nodded to the fire. Nocturne finally saw the pilot and let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Yeah, that’s about what the rest of us thought,” Mayday said.
“Didn’t think you were the type to take in strays.”
“Well, you know me. Can’t say no when the boys drag something home.”
The four men at the fire simultaneously burst out laughing again, much to the woman’s smug delight. As it died down she nudged the two troopers on either side of her, gingerly standing to her feet to stretch and work out some of the tightness in her joints— All four men stood too, Crash and Djao with hands half-raised and ready to help if needed, but it appeared Veetch beat them to it. Now unobscured by the flickering fire, Mayday and Nocturne could see the pilot reach her good arm up, stretching her back and leaning from side to side as Veetch steadied her. Once she relaxed she gave him a dazzling smile in thanks, squeezing his shoulder just long enough Mayday could see Veetch planning out their future together in his head.
Nocturne snorted softly. “What’s her story?”
“Her ship crashed in the ravine at thirteen-hundred hours,” Mayday said. “We couldn’t tell what kind it was and she was bearing this direction so we went to check it out. I’ll send you the notes.”
“Got it. What’s the call?”
Mayday watched the pilot. He’d been noting how consistent her brief looks of pain were between conversations, and they certainly didn’t seem like part of a performance meant to keep the others’ sympathy and attention. The arm not gesturing in time with the stories she told hadn’t moved from where it was propped up by her pack.
“She says she broke something; I’m inclined to think she’s telling the truth. My guess is left clavicle, but we haven't taken a look at anything.”
“… That’s at least a six-week mend,” Nocturne said carefully. “The only thing we have left that would quicken the process is the carapace knitter, if you’re willing to let her go through with the risk.”
“I’m not, which is why I won’t make a final decision until you can look her over.” Mayday looked up at him. “See if you can get anything else out of her, yeah? I don’t think she’s a spy, but Hexx and Hollis are still on the fence. If there’s any indication she’ll be a problem while she’s here, we put her in the brig and let Intelligence handle her when they show up next.”
“That’ll still be rations and utilities expended her way,” Nocturne said. “And medical supplies if you’re willing to be generous.”
“The alternative is letting the cold deal with her,” Mayday said. “Or chance her actually being a spy and getting picked up by a transport. We’re not executioners, and we don’t have the means of doing a background search, so either she stays here comfortable or she stays here uncomfortable.”
“Understood.”
Hexx joined them, jutting his thumb back to the galley. “Chow’s up. Should I make a plate for the chorus girl?”
“Why, Hexx, is that animosity I hear?” Nocturne said in mock surprise. “Hollis was supposed to make dinner, I’m sure you could have joined the campfire brigade if you needed some attention.”
“Ha, ha,” Hexx said flatly. “I don’t need to be entertained like a child.”
“Maybe the fire would have warmed up that cold shoulder of yours,” Mayday said, giving Hexx a mild look. Hexx, unamused, waved the two of them off and went back to the galley.
“He’ll come around,” Nocturne said as he downed the rest of his caf with a grimace, looking at the cup. “He just misses the twins and doesn’t like the idea of somebody else using their gear.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Mayday said.
“Want me to take her to the infirmary?”
“She soldiered through a six kilometer hike in the mountains and declined painkillers when offered. Dinner’s ready now; you can take her after.”
Dinner was a simple affair but it was a nice change of pace being able to warm their boots next to what remained of a fire. Barak caught the medic up to speed with some of the finer details of the day, but said the most telling information was what she revealed just over the hour they’d spent warming up.
Barak had seen how she engaged each of them in conversation, the topics evolving and changing seamlessly. Though he’d joined mostly to keep an eye on the Three Grenadiers and make sure they hadn’t lost the ability to remain discreet, they appeared to only be interested in personal stories about her life and the world outside rather than divulging their own.
Of the stories they told and questions she’d asked, very few of them had been related to anything Barak would consider sensitive information. The pilot was personable but seemed to understand where the boundaries were, and she listened attentively to each of the men in equal measure. She drew Veetch back in to hear him finish his thought when Crash started to talk over him to Djao, and she actively followed along with Djao’s out-of-order method of storytelling that sometimes required backtracking to give context; Rizel was sharp and had enough life experience to make connections and draw conclusions as Djao talked so he knew she was following along and he could continue.
Despite his original plan being to keep the others in check if needed, Barak found himself chuckling alongside them. He wasn’t fooled by as many of her exaggerated yarns as they were, but every time he challenged a story, she had a quick turn of phrase or some easy explanation for everything. Even when forced to admit when something was exaggerated, her explanation was just as amusing and theatrical as the rest of the story had been, prepared for any hole somebody might poke in it. Nothing caught her off guard and he idly found himself thinking that if she wasn’t a civilian, he’d almost have wanted her involved with subterfuge back with the GAR.
That thought unfortunately brought his scrutiny back into focus, knowing she could just be endearing herself to them and was as capable improvising or redirecting focus in other conversations.
It was welcome news when Hexx and Nocturne called everyone in for the meal. Even if some of the pilot's grander hunting and netting stories were exaggerated, it was clear the creatures she talked about were real. The lush flora and fauna sounded like they provided a variety of mouth-watering dishes he had to admit all sounded a lot more appealing than what they had up here.
“Find out anything useful?” Mayday asked him quietly. They stood some ways away, watching the group.
Barak mulled over his thoughts. “She says she wants to contact her brother back home and the settlement on the other side to let them know what happened and that she’d be on her way in a few weeks,” he said. “I told her no dice.”
“You think there’s still a risk if it’s encrypted?”
“What’s she going to tell them about how she survived long enough to make her way down the mountain?” Barak asked. “Them knowing she’s alive and has means of communication points attention our way even if she doesn’t give our location.”
“Is it worse if she doesn’t show up at her drop point on schedule and people come looking?”
“How many people would it take to canvas a mountain range?” Barak asked. “Do you think they’d be willing to risk the lives of a whole search party for one person with an almost-zero percent chance of survival?”
“If she’s a pillar of multiple communities, yes. I’d like to think we’d do it for ours.”
“If she is,” Barak says. “Jury’s still out on the veracity of her statements.”
“You doubt her sincerity?”
“She tells some good fishing stories.”
—
Rizel found herself spaced between several six-foot tall walls of armor and smiles yet again as she ate. She was surprised at first that they'd been willing to extend the offer of food her way, but she wouldn't complain. She'd be able to keep some of her own stores for a bit longer, at least. The same couldn't be said for her campfire fuel, but a little bribery goes a long way when one is outnumbered.
Aside from the brief moment of tension where she evidently crossed a line in asking where they came from, the soldiers were friendly and hadn't given any other open indication of wariness or hostility. They'd thawed out considerably after the commander questioned her, and the hour spent chewing the fat with four of them was a relaxing reprieve from the day's troubles as much as it was an enlightening look into who they were.
Now there were overlapping conversations on every side of the smoldering fire, bits of stories and shop talk filtering through and layering over each other. Rizel found herself caught up in a conversation with the three non-officer troopers who had kept her company before dinner started.
“So if you get to choose your names, why did you go with ‘Crash’?” she asked.
Crash groaned, the others piping up for him.
“Some of us choose them. Others get called something by their brothers for long enough the name just sticks."
“Crashed his first real flight in training. Didn’t even make it out of the hangar!”
“It is the only time I’ve ever crashed anything, too," Crash grumbled. “Stupid name just stuck.”
“Hey, high-five for Team One-Crash-Only,” Rizel said, holding her hand up.
“It'd be nice if I could move on from that being the first thing people know about me," Crash said. “No matter how good of a helmsman you are now, people only seem to remember the one time you screwed up in front of an audience.”
“Cheer up," Djao said mischievously. “You could go back to “Crush.” How's that one natborn officer you were pining for treating you these d— Hey!"
Crash shoved him off the crate, taking the spot next to Rizel for himself and ignoring Djao’s protests and attempts to take it back. Rizel politely smothered her impulse to laugh at their antics. She was starting to see how apt it was that they called each other 'brother.'
Rizel nudged Crash’s boot. “What would you change it to?” she asked. “If you could get them to call you by it?”
“Something not indicative of my failings, that’s for sure."
After dinner the medic led Rizel to the infirmary to get a look at her shoulder. Rizel was surprised that, for as large as the compound was, the infirmary still didn’t look big enough to accommodate even the eight men who were there. It might have held four cots with enough walking space between them, but she wouldn’t have gambled on it. There was a worktable with a deep sink at the back with some sparse instruments she didn’t recognize, and cabinets with limited counter space running along either side of the room. Some field supplies were very carefully packed as tightly as they could afford to be into one corner near the exam table, and the rest of the room consisted of an illuminator above the scrub station, a rack for ten cots, a stool, and one rickety space heater the medic turned on and set nearby.
The floor was just sloped enough to notice, and grimly she saw that the low point in the middle of the room terminated in a drain. She hadn’t seen a chiller for a blood bank anywhere.
“Do they anticipate you seeing much action up here?” she asked, nodding to the floor as she took a seat on the exam table. The medic spared it a glance as he gathered some supplies.
“Standard design. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”
“… Is the war really this far spread?” Rizel asked as Nocturne brought the stool and came to sit next to her. He started to line up his supplies, his sleeves already rolled up. “I know you can’t give me details, but this really is the first time I’ve heard anything about it.”
“If we’re out here, it’s considered Republic territory worth defending,” he said. “Pen light. Eyes up here so I can check for a concussion.”
“Don’t you think the others would have noticed by now?”
“Not if they’ve been distracted all night.”
Rizel smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
—
Once the medic had gone through some cursory questions and checks to get a baseline, he told her he'd assess her collarbone and check for internal bleeding and other injuries, provided she was okay with removing her sweater, in addition to her tunic if it was long-sleeved or high-collared. He waited for Rizel to half-shrug before helping her maneuver out of the straps of her bag’s support before following it with her clothes. She tried to ignore the embarrassment at the medic’s proximity and assistance; it was almost as bad as the time her brother had to help her when she’d fallen halfway through the ice while fishing and had to swap half-frozen wet clothes for dry.
Down to a bandeau and trousers, she was thankful for his forethought with the heater. Rizel could tell the medic was perfectly suited for his position, practiced and capable. His voice was soothing to listen to as he talked out each step, and he retained a clinician’s eyes and hands, unfazed by her appearance. Either he didn’t care what she looked like, or he was very professional even out in the middle of nowhere.
Nocturne set to work scanning for internal injuries and checking for any significant chemical burns from the fuel before cleaning and patching the deeper cuts and scrapes that had only barely congealed. As he moved on to the more superficial wounds, his focus gave her the chance to observe him now, taking her own mental notes on the last member of the squad.
“How did you get to have this position?”
He glanced up at her, smearing a brown styptic over the parts of her hip and shoulder the restraining belt had chafed some cuts into. “Cadets all got the same training, and if you excelled in a particular area they would reassign and group you together for specialization.”
“You were that smart as a young buck they could tell you’d make a good physician?”
“Just a medic. It was mostly the fact I wasn’t nauseated by seeing the inside of people after something goes wrong, and I was good at studying and multitasking.” He deliberated over some of the other cuts before cinching some butterfly bandages over the worst and moving on. “That, and I made it a point to build up the field endurance. Book smarts don’t do you any good if you can’t haul someone back from the line of fire far enough to treat them.”
This close under the recessed halogen lighting, Rizel could really see the finer details in his features. There were enough variations in hair or armor with the rest of the men that she could tell most of them apart, but up close she could also see the subtle differences in Nocturne’s face, which wrinkles were more pronounced, which freckles and scars he had. The medic hadn’t been wearing any of the white armor when he’d come in before dinner, and the looser collar on what she assumed was a nightshirt instead of the black body glove provided a brief glimpse of what she was almost certain were curiously colorful tattoos just over his shoulder. His hair was longer than the others', but with it tied up out of the way, she’d been able to see the pale starburst scar on his temple when he turned his head even from across the more dimly lit command center.
“Is there only one of you on night shift at a time?”
“Easy, girl.”
Rizel grinned. “That’s not what I was suggesting, but a good idea’s a good idea.”
“Even if I were inclined to disregard my post, the barracks are close enough to hear them snoring, and most of them sleep pretty light.”
“Fair enough.”
Nocturne went to wash his hands and returned with a different scanner and a wrap. “Do you have other clothes?” he asked, nodding to her bag. “Those need to be cleaned before you wear them again.”
“Yes.”
“Are you native to these parts?”
“Me and everyone before me.”
“Good. We don’t have a lot of full-spectrum antibiotics to spare if you get an infection or catch a bug, so keep anything beneath bandages clean.”
Rizel fished around for her other shirt and handed it to him, still embarrassed but grateful for both his help and thankfully warm hands. Before long she sat again with her back straight so he could scan and assess her collarbone more closely. Without the support she’d had before, gravity felt like it was pulling down on her arm in an attempt to snap it off at the shoulder, and she almost wished she hadn’t declined whatever medicine the commander offered earlier. As Nocturne gently pressed his fingers and thumb on either side of the bone and worked them along the length of it to find the fracture, he noticed something.
“You’ve broken this one before?”
“How’d you know?”
Nocturne took her opposite hand and gently guided her finger over a bump on the outer side of the edge. “Bone heals thicker over a break,” he said.
“Huh. Didn’t know tha— Ow.”
“Sorry.” Nocturne looked sympathetic as he gently worked her arm so her shoulder came forward just enough that he could ensure the new break was aligned together, slowly lowering her forearm back down. “Good news is it looks like a nice clean break so it should be an easy mend. Hold here and I’ll wrap your arm to keep your shoulder in place.”
Rizel held the end of the wrap Nocturne gave her, dutifully waiting as he started to secure it around her. “It’ll probably need to be redone or adjusted each morning, or if you do something to aggravate it,” he said. “If that happens, come find me, and in a week or so it can be refitted to be less restrictive. For now it’ll keep it aligned and keep your arm next to your body with most of the weight distributed to your other shoulder. Hope you can sleep on your back.”
The companionable silence stretched as Nocturne worked, until something occurred to her.
“What happens if a bone heals wrong?” she asked. “If it doesn’t set right?”
The medic sighed, an odd sound somewhere between amusement and regret at an evident memory. “Sometimes the best way to fix it is to rebreak it and reset it, though that does depend on the bone and the break. This—” (He nodded to her collarbone) “— Would be a very dangerous rebreak if it didn’t do what it’s supposed to on the first try. I doubt that’ll happen though, if you’re laid up here for a while anyway.”
“Have you had to rebreak anything before?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Easiest was an arm, once: we were all planetside for three weeks without any air support or medevac so by the time they’d gotten the trooper back to a more experienced medic, he’d been through hell on the trip and the accelerated healing was already working on the arm despite its positioning. Luckily he was another clone— Knowing all of our anatomy and physiology has the same baseline makes it more of an exact science in that regard.”
Rizel’s eyes widened. “Accelerated healing?”
He glanced at her. “Accelerated healing was grafted into the clones' physical makeup. Perks of the job, I guess.”
“That’s terrible,” she mumbled. “They patch you back up as soon as they can so they can shove you back out in the line of fire?”
“That’s the idea.”
“It’s terrible.”
“But it is efficient,” he pointed out.
Rizel didn’t know whether to feel relieved or sad that his wry smile didn’t seem bothered by the thought of them being built to take a beating again and again every day.
“Do you know the person you were cloned from?” she asked. “Or is that a rude question to ask?”
“I didn’t know him personally,” Nocturne said. “Some consider it a mildly rude question, if only because it opens the door to more invasive questions.”
“Ah, understood. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Why do you ask?”
“… My answer is going to sound impolite now, all things considered.”
“Well now I’m curious.”
“… I was going to say he was handsome. You’re all very good-looking.”
Nocturne smiled just briefly, continuing. “Thanks. Some of us are better stewards than others.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some take a mean hit to the face. Others just make bad decisions. You saw Djao’s hair.”
“Oh it’s not that bad.”
“It really is.”
“He just needs a trim.”
“He needs to start over and just get rid of the blonde.”
“If you’ve got trimmers I could fix it up.”
“You’ll spoil him.”
Rizel was pleased that Nocturne wasn’t as stony as the aloof captain who’d sat at the fire or the other two who’d ignored her most of the night. Despite knowing him for all of an hour, the medic seemed the most giving when it came to conversation; Djao, Veetch, and Crash were entertaining but hadn’t revealed much about the station or the specifics of their pasts when she asked, whereas Nocturne seemed older and more experienced, able to be informative without having to think over everything he said. She also got the feeling he didn’t coddle people, but his frankness wasn’t harsh or uncaring. She appreciated a seasoned medical expert who managed to balance honesty and straightforward information with kindness.
“Can I ask another rude question?”
“My curiosity compels me to say yes.”
“How’d you get this?”
Nocturne glanced up as Rizel’s fingers met his temple, grazing the side of his face. He was quiet for a moment, watching where he wove the sling before he reached up and removed her hand, placing it back on the table.
“Unless you’ve sanded the paint and symbols off your armor, medics get taken out first. This,” he said, gesturing to the scar, “Was a sniper.”
Her face fell. She’d been the one asking questions though, and he wasn’t going to start sugarcoating anything now.
“Like I said. Some of us just take a mean hit to the face.”
“How’d you survive?”
“Helmet took most of the shot. They’re good for things like that.”
“… For what it’s worth, I don’t think it does your looks a disservice,” she said quietly, still looking at the scar.
“Thanks,” Nocturne said, securing the sling and standing. “But I wasn’t worried. I don’t need to be pretty to do my job.”
He offered her a hand and helped her to her feet. “Laundry facilities are the second door down from the galley. Hang them in the second receptacle and press the switch below the blue light. Yellow’s for in-progress, green’s for a finished cycle. Can you find your way back from here?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need to clean up and sanitize things before I leave.”
Barak and Mayday oversaw the final lockups for the night, reconvening near the observation console and waiting for Nocturne. Veetch had switched out of his underarmor for his second set, layering on sleep clothes and an additional pair of thermals. Hexx wrapped up with Crash and rejoined the crew from the north hall, Djao was down to half his armor and was powering up the recycler for the cistern, and Mayday figured Hollis was already asleep: Hollis’s time management skills were second to none and precise to a degree the others found they could only hope to emulate. He made it a point to prep his end-of-day work prior to dinner when most of them were winding down, making his final checks afterwards a short affair.
With so many wings of the compound so low-trafficked, they’d eventually just closed them off and it now made short work of the comparatively minimal closeouts they had to do.
The pilot rejoined them without her sweater, one arm in a sling and the other carrying her pack, and Mayday realized he hadn’t followed up with Barak’s suggestion after the interrogation earlier that day, save for holding onto her comm device and blaster. So far, Rizel had been an uncomplicated and cooperative addition to the outpost, but if she was going to be staying in close quarters for the foreseeable future, he needed to be thorough.
He called her over to the free-moving work table, waiting until she joined him. The others milled about, talking quietly as they finished up.
“I need to know what’s in your pack before we hit the hay,” he said.
Rizel regarded him thoughtfully, humming. “From the sound of it, that wasn’t a request.”
“I don’t want to have to take it.”
“And I’d also hazard a guess that simply opening it and showing you myself is out of the question.”
Mayday held out his hand. “Please. It’s—”
“Standard procedure, yeah, I’ve heard.” Rizel handed it to him. “Not the most ideal way for you to see my unmentionables but I suppose I don’t have a choice.”
Mayday sifted through the contents of her bag with what felt like a low-grade fever on the back of his neck. He couldn't tell if she was lying just to throw him off or if she purposefully liked to mess with him, but the only clothes he found were a set of leggings and a thick pair of socks rolled up into what was probably another tunic or shirt. Her scarf, visor, cap, and gloves were already stacked with her belt, utility vest, and harness, which Barak had gone through earlier while assessing her equipment. The filter and heating elements lining the vest connected to the nozzle and corrugated tube leading to the respirator, providing warm air to breathe while heating the vest at the same time. There were a few other settings on the control panel but they didn’t know what they did.
Binocs, something that might have been a compass, an old-fashioned, holocell print-cam, a rolled tool pack, a wide-tooth comb, altitude sickness tablets, a small canister of waterproof matches and some flint, a second torch, a deck of cards, some food, a medkit… It all seemed like standard survival gear and personal effects. There was a handheld grappling gun Mayday was envious of that had a spool of about thirty meters of give, if he was reading it right, galvanized aircraft cable and wicked-looking hooks all locked in place and housed in a lightweight casing that he realized secured to her mountaineering belt.
He set aside two marlinspikes, some lockpicks, a bottle of what smelled like antiseptic, and sifted through some miscellaneous items. There were a few different tins with rough labels written in a script he didn’t recognize.
“What’s this?” He gestured with the burgundy tin.
Rizel smiled. “Smell it.”
Mayday unscrewed the lid and sniffed it: he reeled back, coughing and scrubbing at his face as his eyes watered, the vile yellowish paste a sickly sweet-sharp mix of odors, none of them pleasant. It burned all the way up through his sinuses and hit the back of his skull, the pungent sharpness akin to eating too much sabawi root in one bite.
“Concentrated pepperoxia,” Rizel laughed. “Keeps predators away. Works like smelling salts too.”
Mayday swore under his breath, trying to breathe. “You could have just told me,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Why should I? You would have done it anyway if I’d told you not to.”
“Are all of these some kind of animal repellent?”
“Just that one. The green tin smells better, if you need a palate cleanser.”
“Hard pass.”
Rizel gave a self-satisfied hum as he continued pulling things out, his mood considerably more dour.
“You have trees out here?” he asked, holding up a wooden netting needle. He was so used to seeing netting fixed by automation or droids he didn’t think anybody still repaired them by hand, and eighty-seven percent of Barton IV’s surface was covered in ice. “I wouldn’t think sunlight could get to your underground caves.”
“Are you suspicious of everything?” she asked. “Or does the army not allow gift-giving holidays?”
“What are these?” he asked, ignoring her and holding up a bundle of segmented cylindrical stakes.
She winced, evidently forgetting about whatever they were until he had them. “Would you believe me if I said ground flares?"
Mayday grunted in disapproval, setting them aside next to her comlink. “You keep explosives and compressed anthracite bricks in the same bag?”
“I keep my lighter in my other pocket.”
“I’ll need that too.”
She said nothing, and for a moment Mayday thought that would be the end of things. He started to tuck the rest of her belongings back into the pack before glancing at her and holding out his hand.
“The lighter, please?”
She remained where she was. “Come and take it.”
Mayday paused. The edge to her voice was distinctly surprising. Up until right then nearly everything she’d said that day had been generally agreeable and laced with amusement, all of her retorts lighthearted teasing or jokes.
This sounded different.
“Will I have to?”
She didn’t respond. He waited, then turned to put a hand on his hip and really look at her. Her dark eyes held his with no levity this time. His gaze flicked over her: down to a tunic and trousers, there were only a scant amount of places a lighter could be, her hip pockets being two of them.
“Ma’am—”
“Miss. Do I look married to you?”
“No reason why you wouldn’t be.”
“I’m keeping the lighter.”
“Shouldn’t’ve said anything then.”
Rizel’s eyes narrowed, and despite the sling keeping her arm in place she still looked primed for a fight. The prospect made him severely uncomfortable, especially with how well the rest of the day had gone. He could see Hexx and Crash in his periphery now watching them and knew the other men weren’t far.
He sighed, holding out his hand. “Please.”
“No.”
“Rizel, please, this isn’t helping your case. If you’d had cigarras or a pipe or just the campfire fuel, it wouldn’t be an issue, but these—” He pointed to the explosives. “— Are an issue. Hand it over.”
“Come take it,” she challenged him again.
She had to know this was futile. There was some matter of pride about whatever significance this lighter held and she was willing, even with a broken bone, to defend it, but unfortunately for her, her belongings and shift of demeanor were just suspicious enough to warrant precaution.
He wasn’t going to like this.
“Last chance,” he told her again.
Rizel stared him down with a challenging look of defiance, and Mayday’s expression hardened.
“Fine.”
When Rizel made to take a step back, Mayday dragged the coarse floor mat towards himself with his boot; Rizel slipped, stumbling off balance as her back hit one of the terminals, gasping when her left shoulder made contact. It was just enough time for Mayday to close the distance in two strides, pinning her to the steel paneling with one forearm keeping both of hers trapped between them. She tried to buck him off with a snarl and nearly succeeded in dislodging him, only for him to grunt and readjust, pinning her in place with his hip. Rizel bared her teeth and glared at him, trying to wriggle free and breathing hard as he felt for her pocket. He slipped a brass lighter on a chain from it, ignoring the pang in his chest as he did, and she shoved him off once he stepped back and retreated to the makeshift table.
“Give it back,” she demanded.
“Come and take it,” he muttered.
Rizel spat a litany of what he assumed were curses at him, turning to stride across the room to where her cloak was. She wrapped it around herself with no small amount of stubborn effort and sat on a crate with her back to the wall, glaring at him all the while. Mayday sighed and collected her things together, neatly putting them back into the pack. Where before he hadn’t had a reason to think she’d act against them, he now kept the tools, pickaxe, marlinspikes, lockpicks, and the rest of the fire starters too.
As he stowed it all in a lockbox and readied to put it into overhead storage, however, he paused.
Veetch and Nocturne didn't have any armor on. Barak and Djao couldn't sleep in their breastplates for how badly the structural integrity had been compromised. Crash and Hollis were each on the lower bunks, and Hexx frequently slept with his pillow over his head to block out the sound of the generator.
Mayday looked back at Rizel.
Barak felt the shift like the drop in barometric pressure before a storm, straightening up from off the wall. “Commander?”
Mayday’s expression was unreadable as he turned to face the pilot. He crossed the room, the men parting around him as he approached her carefully. Rizel’s lip curled with disdain, staring him down.
Mayday knelt to one knee in front of her and held out his hand. “Give me your knife.”
“Excuse you?”
“Single most important tool for any survivalist,” he intoned. “You wouldn’t be out here without one. If it’s not in your bag, it’s on your person.”
“There’s one in the tool pack,” she said flatly.
“Sure. One of them.”
“That’s it.”
“Pretty inconvenient having to hunt for it.”
“Some days are like that.”
The men were frozen, watching.
“Rizel,” Mayday said levelly. “While you are here on my outpost I will only ask for two things: Follow my orders the moment they’re given, and do not lie to me. Right now you are a welcome guest— But you are a guest. So I’m only going to ask you one more time: Give me your knife.”
The pilot’s eyes were narrow, her expression as cold as the landscape outside. Mayday waited, unmoving, and the men scarcely dared to breathe, should they break whatever spell had trapped those congregated.
They knew if she had one and complied, she’d be given a measure of freedom to move about the facility of her own accord, provided one of them was within range. They’d only have reason to be on minimal guard, and they could all remain civil.
“Commander…”
“Quiet.”
If she refused and Mayday’s hunch was right, this would be a much more unpleasant confrontation, and she’d prove herself to be a suspect and potential enemy.
“She could be—”
“Quiet.”
If she refused because Mayday’s hunch was wrong, however…
“You sure you want to do this?” she asked.
There would be no way for any of them, in compliance with Mayday’s orders, to not become the enemy.
Mayday nodded.
“Search me then,” she said.
“Excuse you?”
“If you’re so convinced I’m carrying a knife,” Rizel said. “Search me and prove it. Here, you can even inspect my furs.” She stood up, Mayday with her as she unclasped the cloak. She held it out to him and turned in place, holding her good arm up. “Precious few places left to hide one. How thorough do you want to be?”
Mayday kept his reflexive grimace at bay. He didn’t like the unwavering glint in her eyes any more than he did her insinuation.
“Or will you make one of them do it?” she challenged, jerking her head to the troopers. “I’m sure none of them would mind.”
His expression didn’t change, but the rest of theirs did; Djao and Veetch looked severely uncomfortable and stepped back from the terminal closest to them as Crash’s chair swiveled to face away. Hollis had come back in at some point, he and Hexx both shifting uneasily and trying to melt into the background.
Mayday handed the cloak off for Barak to search, then looked past her.
“Nocturne?”
“… Nothing up her sleeves, Commander.”
“Nice of you to join us, Doc.” Rizel dropped her arm without looking behind her, her eyes fixed expectantly on Mayday.
After another moment of deliberation, he pulled a crate between them with his boot. “Boots off. One leg up.”
Rizel did as she was told, shivering at the cold floor before balancing with one foot on the crate. Nocturne leaned against the wall, arms tightly crossed as Barak shook out the cloak and boots, checking the pockets of the former and soles of the latter and confirming there was nothing in them. The men watched in silence from their peripheries, Mayday remaining impassive as he raised the back of her shirt to check her beltline. His gloves skimmed her hips and down either side of her straight leg with enough pressure to tell if she had anything strapped to her thigh or calf, and he hated every moment of it.
He circled in front of her and went to check the bent leg as swiftly as he could, but the moment he touched her thigh her low voice came dangerously close to the side of his face.
“Don’t get lost, Commander.”
Mayday ignored her, grinding his teeth. He stooped and skimmed his hands down her leg as swiftly as he could, finished his search, and stood.
“Thank you for cooperating.”
“Sure,” Rizel said, the challenge in her eyes meeting his. “ “Standard procedure,” isn’t it?”
Mayday’s jaw ticced. He nudged her boots back towards her, gesturing for the other men to head out. “There’s a bunk available in the barracks,” he said, nodding after them as he stowed the lockbox in the cache above the storage cabinet and locked it.
“Hard pass.”
“Suit yourself,” Mayday said. He didn’t look at her. “Nocturne will be up if you decide to go anywhere.”
The men were silent in the barracks as Mayday doffed his armor and pulled out a change of clothes, but he could feel their judgement boring into the back of his head. It would have to come out eventually if he didn’t address it himself, and it was best to keep wounds from festering.
“Out with it.”
Veetch was first, to nobody’s surprise. “Commander did you really have to do that? She wasn’t a problem the whole day until you started accusing her.”
“Prior cooperation does not guarantee a lack of long term planning,” Mayday said. He took off the second greave and moved on to his boots. “And explosives are cause for suspicion.”
“So you think she’s a spy after all?” Djao asked, crossing his arms in disapproval.
“I didn’t say she was,” Mayday said, making up the bed. “Detonations can achieve a number of goals; she could just be a zealot for all we know.”
“Why didn’t you stun her?” Hexx asked. “Seems like less trouble to search her that way.”
“I don’t have to solve every problem with a gun,” he said. “If anybody shoots her, she becomes a prisoner by default.”
“And wrestling her for the lighter when she has a busted arm doesn’t give her that impression?” Crash asked pointedly. "How is that better?"
Mayday’s expression was severe when he turned to the men, but his voice remained as controlled as ever.
“How would it have been better to stun her?” he asked quietly. “To have her know there are eight men here who could do that at any time, for any reason? How would it be better for her to wake up after that?”
All of them immediately stood down, looking away.
“Did I keep her restrained?” Mayday asked. He looked at Hollis. “Did I tell you to cuff her? Did I have Barak drag her to the brig? Did I do anything she didn’t expressly say to do, even if she framed it as a challenge?”
Mayday finished storing his gear. “I gave her every chance to cooperate because I don’t want for her to be somebody we have to keep our guard up around,” he said. “Which means establishing accountability on her part— But I don’t want her to feel like she has to keep her guard up around us either, despite the fact she’s outnumbered by eight men with blasters and a host of combat skills.” He looked at each of them, ensuring he had their attention as he spoke. “We’re soldiers, not weapons, which means we handle conflict like people first. I meant what I said when I said she’s a guest. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir,” came the reply in unison.
“Good. Lights out.”
The pilot had finally managed to get herself comfortable on the cot Nocturne set up for her some ways away. She’d originally seemed willing to make do with what she could find on her own; she hadn’t said a word to him before hauling some crates together for a makeshift bed, hadn’t even asked for help in moving them, and it seemed like she was going to use the cloak as both bedroll and blanket. Nocturne sighed and told her to stay put, retrieving a cot from the infirmary, in addition to a sheet and his own blanket from the barracks.
Beyond stowing her personal effects under the duraweave and curling up on the cot in her cloak, Rizel had done very little else in the wake of the confrontation. As the minutes ticked by, Nocturne felt compelled to diffuse the unspoken tension in the room.
“Don’t take it personally,” he said from his station. “We have to maintain regulation regardless of what threat level something or someone is.”
“Sure.”
“… I am sorry for how it happened, though.”
“Why are you apologizing? I’m not upset with you,” she replied. “It’s your boss who needs to be more flexible.”
“Mayday’s just following protocol and watching our backs.”
“Mayday?”
“Yes?”
“The commander?” Rizel asked, turning to look over her shoulder.
For maybe the first time that night he found that he couldn’t read her expression. “Yeah…?”
The pilot laid back down, staring at the ceiling.
“… Nocturne, be honest with me.”
“Okay…”
“Is what he did an anomaly, or is it the norm?”
“An anomaly,” Nocturne replied instantly. “… But most people usually do what he tells them to to begin with.”
“Is that so.”
Nocturne sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Mayday always knows what he’s doing. There’ll always be a reason for the orders he gives. We’re trained to follow them regardless, but all of us here— Everyone who’s ever worked with him— We would do what he asked us to even if we weren’t soldiers. He’s not the type to give orders he wouldn’t follow himself, they’ve always been given more forethought than you think, and more often than not you’re liable to look over and see him in the middle of the same trench you are, doing the same thing he told you to do. He’s not a tyrant.”
The pilot was quiet. Eventually she turned back over to face away from him.
“Guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
Author’s Note: “The Three Grenadiers”: A historical-adventure novel written by renown Twi’lek author Xandre Samud following a small cadre of tightly-knit soldiers fighting for justice, spying on behalf of the crown, and rescuing damsels in distress. In a swashbuckling series of events set on Ryloth two-hundred years in the past, the three companions stick together through thick and thin and engage in a number of daring exploits epitomizing phrases such as “All for one and one for all,” “Faint heart never won fair lady,” and “There are few problems a grenade can’t solve.”
