Two Irons (Part 1.)
Revolution was among you. You could not deny the feeling. No longer were you swayed by the established consensus of peace as everything around you burned. Belief in the Galactic Concordance was belief in a fireside story. Degraded was your planet, maimed by the stagnancy of people left to fend for themselves. Allies and enemies alike kept rations under lock and key with cooperation in extremis. Property was fenced, privatized and off-limits. Policies and curfews were established to minimize increasingly routine incidents and petty crime. Those enforcing laws could be bought and swayed, surveillance witnessed as much or as little as the waning currency dictated. From your corner of the star system, you saw firsthand that the age of conflict was far from over. Independence, as it was sold to you, was harsh and bitter. And so you dreamed of freedom, humbled by fleeting eye-contact in the street with strangers, as occasional as it was. Exchanging expressions with those who existed in parallel hardship was incentive enough to keep your thoughts with your people. Although you shared looks, staring into eyes kept wide with uncertainty, you managed to observe the odd soul with lips curved in blind confidence— as if to say, it won't last forever.
It only took so many years before your impatience outgrew your body. You worried peace would evade you, that life would slip past without remembering its taste.
But then came ambiguous whispers, of rebellion and control, in backlash from the political destabilization which cursed your people. The New Republic was steeped in self-interest and decisions took too long to be effectual. They turned their backs, ignoring the sight of malfeasance and suffering. It wasn't as easy for you, having to conduct your life inside the vale, to simply shut your eyes to the grit and believe all was fine. Change needed to be realized. Had to. Your home world had only sparingly felt like home with the increasing issue concerning the senate and their migratory attention. You harbored frustrations, your very blood running badly, as the needy continued needing. It just— wasn’t right.
As each day came and went, you felt progressively more confident that you could not remain on the sidelines, watching the disintegration of justice. You refused to walk alongside criminals that looked to you without sympathy, of those engaging in the almost constant flow of illegal activity, profiting from a world left to fend for itself. You refused to pass another civilian, dying on the streets from a preventable cause, abandoned by the government. Your parents built a fence to barricade their meager slice of land, coursing and spitting with electricity, all in fear of yet another break-in. Paranoia swelled and eyes averted, no one would look in your direction. It had never felt so bad. And as effortless as it was to stand by and wait still, even the smallest waves in heavy repetition have the capability of erosion. You were tired of the small waves and you were far too young to feel so worn out.
But— as luck would lead you, your introduction to the First Order swooped in with impeccable timing. Coming across an officer on shore leave, they had flagged you down for directions to some nook or cranny that would be impossible for a visitor to find. In your brief encounter as the
conversation took a polite drift, they assured you that they, the Order, would restore authority to your planet and people. They had left you with the impression that there was still power, omnipotent and supreme, that would fix the cavity the Senate had caused. "You should consider joining us." Their words bound you, latching onto your brain that had become sick with worry, "We need more people like you."
Soon, the utterance of the First Order officer became the only words that truly had any impact on you. As you slept and as you were conscious, their voice swirled around your brain until you were fully persuaded and held vindication in a tight grip. You felt assurance that you had found purpose. It felt divine, a desideratum for one who had mourned for the death of liberty for so long.
You would end the internal decomposition of your planet and you would restore it for the sake of all of those you loved and left behind.
Expelled into the stratosphere, you took what felt like your first real inhale. It was action, pursuit of a solution. Diffusion of luminescence from your planet, receding into a speck into the blanket of the universe surrounding you, filled you. You vowed to yourself then, that you would return, but only after you had made a difference. Only after you had made your personal mark upon totality. The upsurge of your thoughts was as luminous as a supernova. There were sparks in your brain, gently snapping and tilting about all that you had previously known.
You would play a role in something much greater than you could conceive.
Time had little comparative value while floating through space on the Finalizer, or stationed where you were on Starkiller Base. The passage of hours, marked in cycles, became your new gauge of days passing. Far removed from the archaic, disorderly squabble of planet life, you were implanted into a tightly regulated schedule that had not yet overridden you with monotony. In this came a purpose and desire to meet your responsibilities, even if adjusting was not as natural of a process as you could have wished for.
Your first post as a junior analyst upon the resurgent-class star destroyer had been remarkably brief. To your great dismay, after being thoroughly acquainted with the advanced operating systems and specialized equipment of the Finalizer, the pull of simulated gravity would prove not to agree with you on a long-term basis. Enervated from bouts of queasiness and with your request for reallocation granted, you had been shifted from the behemoth battlecruiser to the even greater mobile ice planet. You had to learn to embrace the cold, as the residual of it crept through chambers and passageways, frosting windows and inducing shivers. Warmth became somewhat of rarity, but for the sake of your pride, bruised as it had been, you would not allow it to affect you. Fortunately, your new duties did not include you having to leave the shelter of the base. The cracking, unforgiving arctic air was only directly felt if you happened to be crossing a hangar with the gate completely unlatched. It was unlike anything you had expected. Discarding the political and social status, your home planet was rich in its soil. Covered densely by pastures and gardens, you longed for the sight of verdure once again like the forests you spent your childhood in. The bare soles of your feet over fallen tree trunks, or grass matted by dew, were feelings you had almost lost but fought to hold onto.
The base itself, a colossal military operation, sprawling over lowlands surrounded by higher ridges, never truly slept. Troopers and officers fortified themselves with a synthesis of caf and stimulants to meet demands and approval of their overseers. Vigilance was expected within Starkiller's expanse at all moments, being that there was persistent construction and evolution coupled with an unspoken urgency. Competition flourished— to be the best, to set higher standards, or simply still, to be recognized by those in the upper levels of command. You kept up, battling exhaustion in the same way as your peers, until your threshold could accommodate the workload– as it had the chill.
Sourcing an artificial heartbeat from the footsteps of those who wandered her grounds, Starkiller shuttered with life. The sharp and geometric curve of corridors, winding into different chambers and quarters much like arteries and veins, were all kept tidy with meticulousness. There was a painstaking attention to detail from everything to the polished boots that marched about to the sanitation of consoles and keypads. Everything seemed to have its own place as well— you included. You were safe, you belonged. Contained, as you were, with the tart aftertaste of recycled air still occasionally present on your tongue, in every respect you felt in control. As far as you were concerned, the First Order would claim their rightful place and you would return home with satisfaction from aiding the victors.
And this might have been so, if it were not for fate's nirvanic nature, allowing for too many irons to occupy the same fire.
In the moment, and in retrospect, a supernatural quietness was in attendance about your position. Starkiller’s expected vital signs were at a standstill. Absent was the drumming footsteps of troopers marching about and the near constant flood of sound from the comm. systems lacing the surrounding passageways. Then, there was only you and your ivory-plated associate with everything else, the universe itself included, just beyond the hyaline barrier. Through the transparisteel panel only inches past your face, interstellar clouds of varied hues twisted and tangled over each other, suffused in the great distant blackness. How easily the seemingly delicate sweep of color could permeate the surrounding dark made you feel rightfully small in comparison. In every other direction space was swallowed by infinity, yet, the clouds withstood the mantle in refusal of being devoured. Allowing yourself to be completely drawn into the vista, drifting into and out of your mind in meditation, you and the stormtrooper were happy in your roles of voiceless spectators.
Unknown to you at the time, the moment had been pivotal. Undeniably so. It would all start with one last superficial tick; a pause in what had happened before and what was about to begin. If you had been blessed with hindsight, you wouldn't have stood in stunted silence, in admiration of the view. Instead, perhaps, you might have probed for answers. For explanations, for the secrets that had been solemnly kept from you. You wouldn't have allowed yourself to misspend the time you were graced with. But, you didn’t know then who was just around the corner— and couldn't have known— so therefore wasted away in idle conversation, comfortable that life would carry on just as it had.
“Did you hear that we have a new technician?” You spoke slowly, unhurried. You were still burdened by the illusion of time. With your voice raising into a question, filling the chamber with speech, you gently invited your companion into conversation. Neither he, nor you, turned away from the viewport, as both of you had been memorized yet by the grandeur spread about the sky.
FN-2199, a stormtrooper, looked at the back of your head with a quiet fondness, stolen by his helmet. “Sure did. I've been told the new guy's name is Matt." He paused, shifting his weight from where he stood before adding through a laugh, "Did you also hear that he has no idea what he's doing?”
Finally pulling your eyes away from the swirling interplanetary dust, you switched focus to your armored company over your shoulder, feigning eye contact through his helmet, “So how did he manage to get the job?”
Incompetence and the First Order were not unlike oil and water. No matter of encouragement could make them mix. If you weren't capable of efficiency, it was made clear that you were expendable. The sheer amount of enlisted crew was evidence enough that there was no shortage of volunteers for the cause. You had to prove yourself first to even be considered a worthy candidate for placement on Starkiller. They didn't except just anyone.
The stormtooper raised a hand to the underside of his helmet, giving you the trademark stance of someone formulating a thoughtful response as he scratched his armored chin. Before any word was spoken in reply or otherwise, from around the corridor came the instantly recognizable voice of the technician supervisor, shouting vaguely about how to correctly rewire a calcinator.
“...You’re starting to stress me out.”
From behind you, in the same direction but even more aggressive than the first, an unidentified voice called out as it cut into the undisturbed stillness of the chamber you occupied. You were right to assume the words belonged to Matt, as no one you had associated with would have had the nerve to use the tone he had– Nines included. On the fence between being mortified or entertained, you stifled a small laugh at the outlandish nature of the fresh technician. Considering how he had been so audibly displeased, you could only imagine antipathy washing over the supervisor's face in response to his statement.
The stormtrooper shared your amusement. Without pause, to think or reconsider whatever intention had stirred him to move, he began forward in the direction of the commotion, “I have to see this...”
If you knew FN-2199 as well as you had thought, his curiosity would likely entail more than just harmless observation. Nines, a nickname chosen by his squad mates, was like your planet of origin with all of his predictable unpredictability. Through it all, that may have been what drew you to him; a flicker of personality inside the sterility of order. Of course, there were others that shared his humor but none shared his shrewdness and imagination. Nines had an way about him that allowed him to emerge in idiosyncrasy against the analog of others. Stormtrooper programming would sometimes overextend, able to entirely halt emotional capabilities and behaviors. Nines remained undisturbed and provided you with enough turbulence to keep you from getting homesick.
With the raise of an eyebrow, you prodded, “What are you doing?”
“I’m definitely not going to mess with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
You had a feeling, a gut reaction by the way he had responded. Proclivity that Nines was about to knock over the first domino to initiate a terrible chain reaction as you felt he would do the polar opposite of his verbal admission. It was in the tone of his voice, it was in the way you could imagine his eyes. Tearing yourself completely from your position before the transparisteel, from the spill of stars about the sky, you anticipated a scene as he disappeared from your new line of sight.
And you were right.
“Whaddup, Matt?”
Peeking around the corner, you witnessed FN-2199 kick a small wrench away from Matt as he passed by, creating the illusion of an accident. It skid tawdrily down the reflective onyx floor tiles until it lost momentum and froze, completely out of reach from where the technician had been knelling. The levity of the moment was lost on you, and as your focus would allow, the new technician as well. His minacious expression seemed to catch you as you peered at him from behind, though you had no hopes of tearing your eyes away, becoming trapped in his stare.
Turning from you to FN-2199's back as he sauntered away, Matt’s eye twitched with sudden pestilence behind remarkably wiry, antique glasses as if a greater offense had occurred. His cheeks flushed, pooling with blood inside the hellish pause that held of the time between cause and effect. Finally, he called out, “Hey, you kicked my wrench!” And although he was conceivably a new member of Starkiller's operations by his uniform, the reflective vest layered on-top of a technician's flightsuit, his body language had more to say. Remaining on his hands and knees, his entire body shook with tension. Much like a malign creature in a muzzle, he was unable to bark. The best he could do was mutter to himself, words scraping though through a severely clenched jaw, dark and thick with reluctance, “Jerk-face...”
Jerk-face?
Putting aside his childish reproach, you were able to write off Matt's bizarre demeanor to grant him benefit of the doubt. You felt yourself come forward; culpability by association had motivated you as you gingerly retrieved the wrench. He had, after all, seen you poke your head from around the corridor as Nine's riled him up. You quickly considered, if you were to see more of Matt, you didn't need him shaking with anger at each passing. Even so, Matt watched entirely too closely as you moved about, making no effort to hide his browbeat and offense. You could feel it, but couldn't for the life of you match it or acknowledge it. His stare was heavy.
After you picked up the tool, it weighing far more than it should in your palm, your footsteps slowed in your approach. There was something about him and the feeling only grew as you advanced. Something off, auxiliary and strange, especially in his frenzied eyes as they watched you still with senseless hostility. With the wrench in hand, you could feel a temper emanate from his being, disemboguing and flowing like thick, black tar.
It almost felt like you were choking, like there were hands around your neck. Almost.
As soon as you were close enough, he promptly snatched the tool back from you. Securing it immediately to his fluorescent vest all while his virulent glare remained constant, he sized you up. The temper was still there.
You adjusted the collar of your uniform.
“Thank you,” he said, with transparent insincerity and an expression nowhere near gratitude. He pressed against the floor, rising smoothly into his full height before speech was produced again, “Hi. I’m Matt. I'm a radar technician. New here, first day.” He appeared inflamed but spoke in a flat, disjointed tone. Though the engraved nametag corroborated his claim, "MATT" in Galactic Basic Standard, it did not strike you with verisimilitude.
You were hyper-conscious of his movements, and so much so, that you had began to shuffle backwards as he returned to his feet. Looking up through his corrosive stare that continued to challenge you, you were better able to inspect his face. A stipple of freckles, the slope of his pouting lips. Your eyes traveled over the center of his face, without straying in fear of being swallowed up. Although you had adverted being locked into further eye-contact, at your new proximity, you could see what you had not been meant to— what he had wrongfully assumed no one would.
You saw, with your eyes focusing on his crown, that peaking through the blond curls was a halo of darker hair.
... Is that a wig?
As if he had heard you, his face twisted in some expression as both of his hands tugged at the riotous tangle upon his head. Shifting the piece, without obliging you with speech, he only managed to worsen the appearance as a strand or two of black hair unintentionally fell out and into his face.
You're not really a radar technician, are you?
And in thinking this, you were bound. The thought that should have been in private council with yourself, unaware of your audience, was realization enough. Was motive enough. The voice inside your head had ensnared you and it was at that point where you lost control.
You felt frozen in the spot.
And then Matt began changing. A lethal curve of his lips, in obvious pleasure— but for what, you did not know. His voice had softened, becoming richly deep while deceptively innocent, all while he looked through you in inspection of the path Nines had taken, “I’m going to go have a talk with some folks.”
From next to where he had secured the wrench, Matt’s dominant hand revealed something of greater consequence— that which you had been conditioned to fear. That which you had known brought only destruction and decay. He held instantaneous death, mollified in his grip, no less frightening in deactivation.
It's you.
The crimson serrated blade burst forward, screeching, followed by the crossgaurd blades in slight delay. Brushing past you, with your feet completely cemented to the floor, Matt announced as impetuosity wounded his monotone, “Look, I found Kylo Ren’s lightsaber—!”
