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A Meeting of the Minds
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| Milo_Prosper | Date: Tuesday, 17 May 2016, 11:59 PM | Message # 1 |
 Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 2
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"Thranta One—that's Captain Moorn, of course—will be here with me, overseeing the operation. Thranta Two—that's Lieutenant Cyllara..." Milo Prosper hesitated, detecting a snicker among the assembled pilots in the briefing room aboard the Nebulon-B frigate Delaya. He dreaded these briefings, feeling like a school teacher in an unruly classroom. Prosper simply wasn't the leader 'type,' and he knew it. He was a tactician. An ideas man. Not a charismatic leader of men. "Er, I suppose you know that. Yes—where was I? Lieutenant Cyllara, you'll be on the inside. And Thranta—um, Ensign Shays—will make the rendezvous point."
Prosper knew that these people were more than just their callsigns, and that's what frightened him. It was one thing to devise a strategy, it was another to know that Human beings—or, in this case, Human beings, a Twi'lek, a Sullustan, a Wookiee, a Feeorin, and a Zeltron—could potentially die carrying it out. Prosper's stomach churned whenever a mission was in progress, and the names of the casualties would remain with him as he tried to sleep. Then, he devised another strategy. And another, and another. Because the sooner the war ended, the sooner the Alliance could stop sending these young men and women into harm's way. The sooner, the better, he thought.
He cleared his throat, forcing his attention back to the moment. "That's the operation. Any questions?"
"Yes," a blonde, messy-haired Ensign raised his hand. That must be Axford. "Who is Thranta One again?"
A chuckle went around the room, drawing an admonishing glance from Moorn, the squadron leader. Prosper's shoulders sank. "Very funny," he said, trying to imbue his voice with as much authority as he could muster. "Any more questions, see me. Otherwise, you're dismissed."
As the room began to clear out, Moorn patted his shoulder sympathetically, then followed his squadron mates out of the room. Prosper appreciated the gesture. This was a relatively minor operation, as far as these things went. He wasn't too worried. But that would change soon; Admiral Ackbar had promoted him to Captain and placed him in command of the 13th Roving Line. Prosper was mortified. He protested that he wasn't qualified, and had nowhere near the leadership qualities of, say, General Dodonna, or Ackbar himself. He wasn't ready for the burden of command, he told him. "You can do it," the Admiral had assured him, "You're a brilliant strategist, and command is nothing more than executing a strategy. We need you to do it."
That much was true. The destruction of the Death Star had won the Alliance many volunteers, but despite its fast-growing ranks, the Alliance had become too ambitious in the months since Yavin and had over-extended itself. Now, it was in a desperate retreat across the Mid Rim. Many had been lost, many officers among them—Prosper knew this, and he knew that Ackbar wouldn't ask this of him if it weren't necessary. He couldn't say no, of course. But he was scared; for himself, yes, but more so for the several thousand beings that would be under his command.
He consulted his datapad for a moment longer, remaining in the briefing room in case there were any more questions. Serious questions.
Milo J. Prosper
Rebel Tactician
Captain of the 13th Roving Line, Alliance Fleet
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| Kyrum_Axford | Date: Wednesday, 18 May 2016, 0:18 AM | Message # 2 |
 Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 6
Status: Offline
| "I have another question," Ax said, the levity of a moment ago now absent from his voice. He remained seated as the rest of the squadron got up to leave, his arms crossed over his chest. "Why does Shays get to go on this mission and we don't?"
It bothered him. It really bothered him. Dannon Shays was the only Imperial defector in Thranta Squadron. The man had shot down as many Rebel pilots as there were in this room, and for some reason Alliance Command trusted him more than any of them? How did they know that Shays wouldn't sell them all out to the Empire? And it wasn't just that. Ax was at least as good a pilot as Shays, and probably better. He'd said so many times, and felt no need to reiterate the fact now, especially not with the Captain and Lieutenant Cyllara present.
He and Shays had attempted to resolve their differences in the simulators. When that didn't work, they attempted to resolve their differences with their fists. But that hadn't worked, either. He was done fighting with the man, but the question remained; why would he and the other Thrantas sit this mission out while the Lieutenant's life was placed in the hands of the least trustworthy member of the squadron?
Ensign Kyrum "Ax" Axford
Thranta Squadron
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| Dannon_Shays | Date: Wednesday, 18 May 2016, 1:20 AM | Message # 3 |
 Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 4
Status: Offline
| Here we go, Dannon thought to himself. Another snide remark from Kyrum. He'd been on his way out of the briefing room, and didn't stop walking. He didn't need this. And he had nothing to prove to Kyrum Axford. He acted as if he had a monopoly on grief; he'd lost his mother on Alderaan, but so had Shays. The destruction of Alderaan had changed everything for both of them. The difference was, Axford was strung out on the beaches of Spira when it happened, and Dannon had already made something of himself. Yes, he'd fought for the wrong side. He knew that now. But Axford would have done the same thing if he hadn't washed out of the Academy. The man was irresponsible—it was only a matter of time before he fell back on his spice habit and got himself killed. Or worse, another member of the squadron. And he was too much of a numbskull to see it.
Axford didn't know him. He didn't know Dannon's grief, or his shame. They had both joined the Rebellion for the same reason, because it was the right thing to do. And still, Axford didn't trust him. Most of the squadron didn't. Even Lieutenant Cyllara kept a distance from him. Fine. He was doing his job, and doing it well. (He was quite certain that he was the best pilot in the squadron, parsecs better than Axford.) And moreover, he was doing the right thing. Hopefully, they would see that eventually. But if they didn't, it wasn't his problem.
Dannon made it to the turbolift before anyone else so he could ride it alone. He realized that he'd been clenching his fists, released them, and took a deep breath. A TIE fighter pilot had a short life expectancy, and his life in Blackscar Squadron hadn't been easy. He had done things that he would regret for the rest of his life. But there'd been a sense of camaraderie there; a nihilistic bond that only a TIE pilot could understand. He'd once considered Jarec Rissen, Selaria Utasi, and the rest of the Blackscars his friends. He'd left all that behind when he defected to the Rebellion. It was the only thing about the Empire that he missed. (But, despite what Axford undoubtedly thought of him, Dannon wouldn't go back. Not ever. The loss of his friends was a small sacrifice compared to the one his people on Alderaan had made.)
He was calmer by the time he reached the hangar, and decided to double-check his X-wing to make sure it was mission-ready.
Ensign Dannon Shays
Thranta Squadron
The Alliance to Restore the Republic
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| Milo_Prosper | Date: Wednesday, 18 May 2016, 2:14 AM | Message # 4 |
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Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 2
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| "The fewer ships involved, the better. We don't want to attract Imperial attention," Prosper said, not bothering to glance up from his datapad. He wasn't aware of the intrigue between Axford and Shays, but something in the manner of Axford's question told him the man didn't care much for former Imperials. Tough, he thought. Prosper himself was a former Imperial. The Alliance was full of them. General Dodonna had been a Star Destroyer captain. Even Mon Mothma and Princess Leia had been Imperial senators. The Alliance needed all the help it could get, and it just so happened that Dannon Shays was uniquely qualified for this mission.
"Ensign Shays is familiar with the Dreighton Nebula," he explained. "He's the logical choice." Prosper finished with his datapad and tucked it under his arm, glancing at Kyrum directly. "... Is this a problem?"
Milo J. Prosper
Rebel Tactician
Captain of the 13th Roving Line, Alliance Fleet
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| Aima·Cyllara | Date: Wednesday, 18 May 2016, 3:51 PM | Message # 5 |
 Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 9
Status: Offline
| Operational briefings. To most in the squadron, they were but a routine exercise in patience. Common consensus among the younger, less-experienced pilots was that the Alliance simply felt its rank and file too incongruous, and thus they needed their hands held through every deployment like wide-eyed children. Those more experienced knew better than to take these moments lightly. A well-made plan was always needed when going up against the Empire, even if it was on a simple mission like this. This Captain Prosper, green as me might seem to some, had foresight enough to know the majority of Thranta's pilots were not coddled babes. And so she appreciated how he caught himself, awkwardly or not, and finished up his no doubt rehearsed speech.
She had been too focused on the actual briefing to quell the rumblings of discontent among the others, though as the briefing had finished and Axford had seen fit to verbally cuff a superior, she had punched him--hard--in the arm and exchanged a glance with the Sullustan Ryln, her fellow lieutenant. Those two black, discerning globes the Sullustans had for eyes were often indeterminate in their expression, but there was something about the other pilot's slouch that spoke volumes. It was a blue milk run sort of operation, wasn't it? Then why the lump in her throat?
She followed the rest of the squadron out as they left the briefing room, exchanging a way glance with the still-seated Axford as she passed through the doorway. It was a look the roguish ensign knew all too well. Watch your mouth, her cold blue eyes drove the point home before she made her way down the hallway, exiting out onto a lower deck. The rest of the Thrantas filtered out, splitting off into their cliques as they often did before an operation.
The hangar bay was colder than normal, and she tightened her orange flightsuit around herself as though it would actually help. The chill that ran down her spine was unlike any she had ever experienced before. Not even her first engagement frightened her so. It was one thing to kill Imperials, from the impassive wall of both her cockpit and the vastness of the space around them. She'd be a liar if she ever said a small, sadistic smirk creased her lips every time she saw a TIE explode in atmo. Oftentimes in those cases the Imperial pilot would eject and plummet towards the ground. Easy enough pickings for a laser cannon.
But to go into the belly of the beast like this? The last time she'd allowed herself to be that... exposed, around anyone...
She could still sometimes feel her master's blood on her hands, like a layer of skin she could never remove. She would scrub her palms and fingers until they bled, but nothing ever changed.
She found Shays checking on his X-Wing, his usual ritual after many a snide remark as to his origin. And, were she ever pressed, she would admit that she hated him as much as any else when he first defected. In private, the day he had arrived, she had screamed and thrashed in Captain Moorn's quarters, raging against something neither of them had any control over. His words then had stuck in her mind, and she repeated them now to herself as she leaned against Shay's fighter.
We don't have the luxury of choosing our friends, not in this war.
"Can I give you some advice about Axford?" She finally broke the silence, curling her blue lekku around her shoulders so that they weren't pinched against the metal, her arms crossed over her chest. A very defensive posture, even if she was talking to a comrade.
Lieutenant Aima Cyllara
Thranta Squadron.
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| Kyrum_Axford | Date: Thursday, 19 May 2016, 1:08 AM | Message # 6 |
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Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 6
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| There it is, Kyrum thought. The look. It was probably the same look that the steely-eyed Lieutenant Cyllara would give to Darth Vader if she ever met the man face to face. (Or machine, or whatever Vader was.) Kyrum knew that look well, and knew that it meant his fun was over. And with the rest of the Thrantas filing out the room, he realized that he was out on a limb—the limb of a wroshyr tree, and it was a long way down. He stood, rubbing his arm where Cyllara had punched him. "No problem, Sir," he said unconvincingly, and turned to leave the room.
He was disappointed that the rest of the Thrantas hadn't had his back on this one. Especially the Lieutenant. She'd be the one in danger on this mission, and it was her that Kyrum was concerned about. He enjoyed pressing her buttons, sure, and by now he knew hers about as well as he knew the control panel on his T-65. In both cases, he knew how far he could push her before he'd get hurt. But he, and the rest of the squadron, respected her. With the probable exception of Dannon Shays, the Thrantas looked out for one another, and Kyrum knew he wasn't the only one who didn't like the idea of Lieutenant Cyllara being alone on a ship full of Imperial functionaries—and their security details.
Maybe they trusted Shays more than he did. Some of them had begun to come around to the former squint jockey, but Kyrum was a holdout. It was true that he'd been wasting his life when the destruction of Alderaan had occurred, and that his addiction to spice was probably the reason he was alive while his mother wasn't. No amount of goofing around in the briefing room or over the comm could make up for the guilt that he felt. His mother had never got to see Kyrum do anything worthwhile with his life. She never got to be proud of him. Kyrum hated himself for that, but most of all, he hated the Empire.
Dannon Shays reminded him of every smug, self-important flight instructor he'd known at the Prefsbelt academy. And Kyrum hadn't volunteered for the academy, as Shays had. Kyrum hadn't bombed innocent men, women, and children on Ralltiir, either. And he hadn't shot down Rebel pilots and then expected them to slap him on the back and welcome him to the ranks. He knew there were lots of former Imperials in the Alliance, but they didn't bother him as much as Shays did, and he wasn't sure why.
Maybe what bothered Kyrum most wasn't how different he and Shays were, but how similar.
He jogged to catch up with the others. With Prosper and the Captain busy, Lieutenant Cyllara on a mission, and with he and the rest of the Thrantas ship-bound for a week with nothing to do, Kyrum was sure he'd find some interesting trouble to get into, especially if they could get Lieutenant Telumb drunk on some of the Stanner brothers' famous 'Hangar Bay Hooch.' "Guys, wait up!"
Ensign Kyrum "Ax" Axford
Thranta Squadron
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| Dannon_Shays | Date: Sunday, 22 May 2016, 7:13 PM | Message # 7 |
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Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 4
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| "No, Emthree, you're not malfunctioning," Dannon grunted, up to his wrists in the S-foil assembly of his X-wing, "You heard me correctly."
Another electronic warble from R2-M3 somewhere above him. Was it his imagination, or did it sound defiant? He sighed. "I'm aware that we already ran a diagnostics check on the O4-Z. We're doing it again."
The droid made an incomprehensible noise that was probably the astromech equivalent of a curse word. Dan couldn't blame it (or 'him,' as he'd come to think of M3). He knew that nothing was wrong with the O4-Z power cell. Or the S-foils, for that matter. Cyllara was right; this was his way of distracting himself. His coping mechanism. As long as he was thinking about heat dispersal on the 4L4's or fine-tuning the inertial compensator, he wasn't thinking about Kyrum Axford's sarcastic remarks. No, nothing was wrong with the X-wing. Except an attitude problem with the astromech, Dan thought, smiling despite himself.
He knew that he shouldn't let Axford bother him. Dannon was accountable for his own actions, not anyone else's. And he knew when he'd defected from the Blackscars that he was making enemies out of his friends and wouldn't necessarily make friends out of his enemies. Certainly not with Dannon's service record. (He'd had no fewer than four Rebel fighters painted on the fuselage of his TIE fighter, and on his conscience.) But it frustrated him that in a squadron united by grief—Thranta Squadron was comprised mostly of Alderaanians—Dannon's grief was considered somehow inferior to everyone else's.
Cyllara's voice snapped him out of his reverie. He stepped off the ladder he'd been standing on and grabbed a rag from the back pocket of his flight suit, wiping the grease from his hands as he nodded to the Lieutenant. "Why?" he said darkly, "Do you think he doesn't like me?" Hopefully the levity wouldn't be lost on her. She and Dannon had similar temperaments; disciplined, well-guarded, and hard as Mandalorian iron. But Dan had a sardonic sense of humor that appeared every now and then, whereas he hadn't seen so much as a smile from the hard-edged Aima Cyllara.
Ensign Dannon Shays
Thranta Squadron
The Alliance to Restore the Republic
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| Aima·Cyllara | Date: Monday, 23 May 2016, 1:21 AM | Message # 8 |
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Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 9
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| Contrary to popular belief among the rest of the squadron, Aima did smile. Rarely. When reading a good holobook. All the same, she watched as Shays made his way down the ladder, her eyes narrowing as he spoke. She, like many others, showed very little love for the newcomer. Imperial defect or no, a former buckethead trying to find acceptance in a squadron of (mostly) Alderaanians was already playing a few cards short of a winning deck. She unfurled her arms and stood up straight, allowing her lekku to fall more naturally over her shoulders. Soon she would have to shuck the flightsuit altogether, fitting into more "mission appropriate" attire as Prosper had put it. She shuddered to think what sort of trappings they'd throw her in. Twi'leks on an Imperial cruise ship had one job, really.
It was a job she was painfully familiar with, and the thought made her spine tingle.
"You had to know joining the Alliance, especially this squadron, was going to be rough territory." She kept him, warily, at arm's length. "But he might respect you more if, instead of shrugging it off and walking away, you just punched him one. Axford's a simple enough man. Good in a fight, big talker out of the cockpit. Give back what you get tenfold, and he'll buckle eventually."
It was sage advice from a woman that rarely gave it, but that was only because nobody ever asked. She often wondered if the other pilots ever knew the little things she did for them. Routine, late-night checks of their fighters and vehicles to ensure everything was in top condition. Pulling strings with the mess hall to get their meal shifts rotated to when the food was freshest. The unnoticed sacrifices an ExO makes for the men under them. Because someone had to be the mother of the group, especially this group. Against her wishes, really, she had been saddled with it.
"I want to ensure you and I are on the same page for this upcoming op," she continued, businesslike as ever. "I don't want any slip-ups, I'm putting myself out on a real limb here."
Lieutenant Aima Cyllara
Thranta Squadron.
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| Dannon_Shays | Date: Tuesday, 24 May 2016, 2:40 AM | Message # 9 |
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Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 4
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| Dannon leaned against his X-wing, slung the rag over his shoulder and crossed his arms across his chest as he listened to Cyllara, subconsciously mimicking her stance, no doubt. The body language was apropos, however; they each had barriers that separated them from one another, and from most others. Dannon was intrigued with the Twi'lek as she spoke. And not simply because of her species (although he'd seen few non-Humans in his life and even fewer as exotic as a Twi'lek). No, she intrigued him as a person. Cyllara was a smaller up close than he often thought of her, but she had a immense well of strength within her. It was evident in her eyes. Her gaze was steady. Dauntless. He'd once thought this the province of Imperial pilots, but he'd seen it just as often, if not more so, among Rebels. Cyllara probably hadn't had an easy life. Dannon was curious, but wouldn't dare ask her about it.
Just punch him one. "I've considered it," he said, drily. There had been times—several times—when nothing would have satisfied him more than to land a fist on Axford's jaw. The fact that Dannon would almost certainly lose badly to a larger and probably stronger opponent isn't what dissuaded him. He just hadn't wanted Axford to know that he'd gotten to him. But surely the Lieutenant was right. She was the disciplinarian of this group, after all. She knew how to keep them in line, and Dannon knew he'd be wise to listen to her advice.
Instinctively, he straightened as she shifted the subject to the mission. He clasped his hands behind his back—an insufferably Imperial posture—as he nodded crisply to her. "Yes Sir," he said without irony. She would indeed be exposed to far more danger than him, and it made Dannon as uneasy as the rest of the Thrantas. Truth be told, he didn't have a lot to do on this mission; chart a discreet route into the Dreighton Nebula, rendezvous with Cyllara and the Naboo Queen, and then lead her safely out the way he'd come. That's if everything went to plan, but these things rarely did. Not entirely.
Dannon wondered what the mysterious cargo was they were retrieving. He hadn't been told, and didn't think that Cyllara had, either. They hadn't done much of this cloak-and-dagger stuff in the Empire, but in the few months he'd been with Thranta Squadron, he'd started to develop a taste for it. Perhaps there was a thrill-seeking side to him that he'd never known about. Or perhaps he had known when he'd first chosen the Prefsbelt academy instead of Raithal. He easily could have been an officer, but had opted instead for the most dangerous branch of the Imperial service.
"I won't slip up," he said matter-of-factly. It had never been said of Dannon Shays that he wasn't sure of himself. "I led a four-week astrographic tour of the Dreighton Nebula as part of my training at Austringer. I know it well."
Ensign Dannon Shays
Thranta Squadron
The Alliance to Restore the Republic
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| Aima·Cyllara | Date: Monday, 30 May 2016, 4:49 PM | Message # 10 |
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Trainee
Group: Users
Messages: 9
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| She had to force her smile, a gesture that was already rarely given in earnest. "See that you don't. If all goes well, we'll be slipping out of the cargo hold, package in tow. I'm counting on you to lead me out, for all intents I'll be flying blind otherwise."
After a moment of silence, she found herself wondering why she reiterated these things to him. Shays clearly knew the score, judging by the exceptionally (well, moreso than usual) grim countenance he wore, the way his shoulders seemed to tense whenever she spoke. He was as nervous as she was, though in all likelihood for different reasons. Cyllara, one of the few in Thranta with enough operational experience and general wherewithal to succeed in this mission, was the one really putting her neck out there for a noose to be fit around it. Shays, though, had the entirety of a Rebel squadron breathing down his neck. One false step and it might very well mean transfer to some back-line escort duty.
"I best go suit up," The twi'lek finally said, her exhalation signaling that the conversation had already run its course. She had little to say to Imperials, after all. "I'll see you and the team at the RV point."
She didn't wait for the salute, turning on a heel and making for her quarters. Something dark festered in the pit of her stomach the entire walk down.
"A turncoat." She remembered asking rhetorically. The look on Captain Moorn's weathered face was hard as stone, a dire frown etched across.
"What's done is done, Aima." He had said, fists clenched against the metal of his desk. "We lost Gryggs and Rykes. Thranta needs new blood if we're gonna keep at operational capacity."
She found her quarters easily enough. Stripping down to her civvies, Aima's impassive gaze trailed over towards her cot, where the servant's attire had been lain out for her. A simple garment, brown and white with a flattering hemline and painfully short skirt. The fabulously wealthy loved their gawking, after all. Twi'leks were especially prized. At least her cover was waitress. She had sworn up and down she would never allow herself laid bare for anyone ever again. The lump in her stomach traveled upward, catching in her throat as she changed.
"But Captain," she had begged. Pleaded, or as close as the hard-nosed Aima Cyllara could get to pleading. "Why us? Why us... what did we do?"
"We didn't do anything," Moorn had answered with a sigh. "He's the best man for the job. That's the long and short of it."
"But--"
"It's settled, Lieutenant." He put an end to it with rank, the fatherly tone he usually took with her long gone.
She glanced at herself in the nearby mirror, adjusting her lekku so that they fell flatteringly around her shoulders, her sky-blue skin glistening with sweat despite the coldness of space. Never again would she feel hands on her, she had to promise herself that as she studied herself. Aima concentrated, forcing that rigid military posture away, remembering all the years of her youth. It was hard to appear fragile with the decade of muscle she had added onto her slender frame, but the disguise was convincing enough.
Time to go to work.
Lieutenant Aima Cyllara
Thranta Squadron.
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