The First Days

[Meatslopper]

Chapter One: Hearing 

---

---

Esme remembered the vibrations of her mother's footsteps, the drum of the Imperial Doctors finger upon his notepad and the visual stimulation of a flow of gestures a moment ago that formed a basis for her understanding of language. She knew other people talked differently, the light taps on the shoulder, the silent motion of lips, she could read then if she focused but the mere fact she needed to focus, set her apart from those around her. It wasn’t unusual at this point, she’d gotten used to how she’d been treated. Her Father often led her by the arm, as if she was blind, not deaf but she deeply appreciated his guiding hand. She knew it wasn’t to last. The moment she’d fallen into an inky blackness might be the last time she truly perceived the galaxy in her own way but… she wished to hear it as they do, to feel a part of their world, not just her own. It did not occupy her thoughts in motion but on those days where she was set adrift on her own, without a guiding hand and her thoughts spiralled, threatening to consume her, she found an overwhelming curiosity, to see the vague, invisible lines that tethered the world around her. To be lost in their flow. 

She was deep in her thoughts when a tap on the shoulder drew her eyes.

'Listen.' Her Mum signed, her kind smile warming her. 

'I am.' She lied.

'It’s important.' 

She watched the Doctor, he was a prim and proper Imperial. He had slender but noticeably sharpened features, his stern blue eyes watched her with disappointment. She smiled awkwardly and nodded, as if to appease him in conversation. He translated as he spoke.

-hope that they will meet the needs of your family, out of respect for your decision to serve the Empire. 

“I do agree.” She answered flatly. She’d been told her voice was monotone, a single tone, dry like ash, depending on how cruel the intention. 

She’d run this scenario a hundred times over, even now she felt her nerves flutter. She hoped she hadn’t revealed it in her voice, her body language? She’d never been all that good at lying, always wondering what gave it away. What if they didn’t work? What if she felt no differently, would it have been worth it, just to know it all wasn’t within reach. 

I just need to inject this, you won’t feel a thing. The doctor signed, as he held a large mechanical injector. 

“Well I’m ready, I’m alright,” Esme assured.

She felt his hand, she felt herself tense, and then she felt the cold steel and the jab that followed. It was slow and sure, but with it her control was taken from her and it felt strangely alright. She fell quietly into darkness looking for a guide. She didn’t dream. As the shadows wavered and returned her to reality, her vision dancing, her thoughts hazy and a cold wind drew across her flesh, there was the vibration of a door opening, it’s mechanism stabbing at her as she understood it but she didn’t hear it, or if she did, she didn’t understand what sound was like. By the time she had entirely come to she was still being signed at, still being asked to define sound, to define if she heard and her family stared at her expectantly. They awaited that single recognition of sound, a moment of immense joy, of immense wonder and amazement, she’d looked for, for so long. She found nothing or nothing she could recognise. 

'Give a thumbs up if you hear this.' The doctor signed, as he adjusted her implants. 

The frigid steel of her cybernetics felt odd upon her flesh, the itch upon her lips, her foot twitched, as she sat. She wasn’t sure and she was expected to answer. She gave a tentative thumbs up to please them. It sent her Parents up in arms, they seemed overjoyed, happy and comfortable and for once she lied well, she lied that she knew, but the Doctor looked at her and saw through that lie. 

'You’ve been through a lot, come back in a few days and we’ll fix any problems.' 

Her Dad took her arm and led her from the temporary field hospital and led her out into the snow. The day on Orsus was frigid, the white blanket of snow lay as far as the eye could see, across the top of a million broken buildings, their glass shattered and cracked by war. The planet was broken and she knew it would take years to heal. It had brought it upon itself by its refusal to surrender, she surprised herself, that thought took on a more oppressive shape than she imagined, she dismissed it, wishing that it hadn’t come to this and that the Empire would have extended leniency and thought to long term development.

It was strange how quickly she fell into her thoughts. It helped push back the disappointment from her first session with the cybernetics.

The earth rumbled with footsteps, she felt the vibrations as Imperial Soldiers hurried by in a jog, sure of their direction. There was something else. Esme clutched at her head, as something overcame her, a slight tingle, a drift that poked inside her mind and she glanced up suddenly to something she had not seen, a Speeder. It was hovering by. She glanced quickly at her Parents, both looking with concern in their eyes.

“Are you alright?” one said, as she looked to watch her lips and gestures.

Esme found her tears spilt freely. 

Something touched my ears, like… a vibration, a… She couldn’t describe it.

The Speeder. Her dad signed reflexively, his eyes wide. You heard it, didn’t you?

She heard it. She heard it! She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t even know how or what or what she heard, sure it was the Speeder, but what noise did it even make? It drove into a skull buried itself inside and that moment of awareness stabbed at her. It kept stabbing at her, so she listened, eager for more and more. 

The instance she got “home” she found herself in front of a mirror.

“Es-may.”

“Es-mee.” 

“Es-me.”

Every time she said it, she felt it, Esme. It was her name and no matter how many times she sounded it out, it felt strange between her lips, wonderful yes, but so very strange, the sounds they made, a soft hiss curling pushed from between her lips with a gust of air and an affirmative thump, projected bluntly. The cybernetics formed connections she could never dream of herself, they turned every distant gust into a hurricane, one that expanded, expressed itself beyond her own mind. 

“Hi.”

“Hi!”

It pleased her immensely, the sharpness of the phrase. She gleefully adjusted herself in her chair, as she went to speak again more distant whispers started to appear. The thing called sound, it awoke her through her bones, they quaked, as a million things beyond her vision started to roar, the cacophony thumped around her and as it died, as she clutched at her implants, each one firing a dozen sparks into her mind again, it left her with a far softer, a far more distant tune.

It was hard to make out the words, she barely understood what she was hearing anyway but it was sublime. 

She listened and was lost in their flow. 

“The herald-prophets sing…”

---

---

[Meatslopper]

Chapter Two: Touch

---

---

"I see that you care for your families. Good, because today I give you one great offer that only a fool would not accept. I am raising a Militia with only the truest sons of Orsus, those who hope and look forward towards a Red Orsus within the Sith Empire. But the Republic wishes to destroy your hopes and threatens the safety the Empire is stoutly providing for you and yours."

"Will you let your young’s fight for you, or will you do what is necessary to secure a better future for yourselves? Join me, join me as we colour Orsus red within the Empire."

---

---

Esme hadn’t heard these words, at least not from their source but they’d been repeated to her when she’d asked, apparently it had clung to the minds of her fellows just as the crimson Twi’lek had to hers. He was an imposingly muscular figure, marked by tribal tattoos that snaked like a spider web across his red flesh, as vibrant as his robe. It had slung loosely over his armour. Apprentice Orgkez had taken control of an overzealous Imperial Sergeant and turned their treatment upon their head. 

It wasn’t the only gift he left but she only found that out when she signed up to the Sons of Orsus herself. It was freedom. The Speeder thrummed beneath her, its vibrations rippled through her body, that she knew but the hum extended from her and spiralled in the space around her. It was the freedom of purpose. There was no path but forward, passing through the streets with crates at her back, as Soldiers in their own duties milled upon the streets of Orsus. She managed a passing glance at the flash of crimson blades, sizzling through the air, faster than she could tell, as Sith Masters trained, drilled through hard sparring, she could never keep up with… she was glad they never asked.

She slid up alongside a formation of five. The Sergeant assigned to teach them and four of her colleagues. She set the engine to standby and locked the bike, swinging her leg off it, her boot landing in the cold slush. 

“Sarge! I uh, brought you your supplies!” 

The Imperial looked at her with a look of disdain before huffing down his nose, “Do I have to babysit you? On my command, you will get them moving to the depo and be back here in ten minutes, faaaall out!” he snapped at Sons of Orsus, who quickly pivoted on their heel and carried around to their duties. She silently turned to hers as well but the moment the sergeant vanished an overly friendly Rattattaki, knowing her hearing often hurt shouted in her ear.

“Boo!” 

She jumped and almost dropped her crate. Corvos, as he was known, was their designated leader, large, boisterous and the only one with any combat experience, a former deputy. He was almost everything she could have admired… but he just… he lacked something. He chuckled loudly, clearly pleased with himself and she politely as she could smiled back. 

“Esme,” he said with a grin, “how’s militia life treatin’ you?”

“Oh, uh, well, I’m well…” she answered tepidly, pushing along a crate to where they were mustering supplies. It still felt weird to her ears. Her own voice…

“Lady, gotta shout it proud,” he grinned, “the Republic can’t hear you.”

“Well, I’d kinda sorta rather they like not,” she smiled, “if they were that close… I think we’d already be dead.”

He chuckled loudly, as they set their crates aside aside their comrades. In a large pile they’d been collecting, as an Imperial Private did his duty for the Quartermaster, noting down supplies on his datapad.

“If they were that close, they’d be corpses,” he grinned.

“Well… Wait, well then, they still couldn’t hear me,” she answered, drawn into the ruckus forcefully by a hand that clapped down upon her shoulder. 

“Corvos,” Illia, a Militia recruit who tried too hard to mimic the Imperial accent, her voice strangling each ‘T’ and spitting out each ‘l’, “try to focus, we do have a job to do…”

“Bet the Republic are scared of us, stacking our crates,” the third, a Ongree, named Ixzka said, a weird species with a mouth the wrong way up on his forehead and two eyestalks extending from his face, weirder still was how he had chose the Empire.

“Aliens… Offworlders,” the Private complained to himself, “this assignment cannot end fast enough.”

Many years ago, aliens had served under Naga Sadow, another time, Exar Kun, in the Empire’s history, Darth Malgus the traitor but in their search for a leader, she was surprised how resistant this Sith Empire was to them but it was not up to her to change their minds. She had chose to join them, it was their decision and their leaders knew better than her. 

“You heard em both, they’re alike in that, they wanna go home,” Corvos adjusted the rifle strap on his shoulder.

“That isn’t what I said Corvos,” the Ongree said.

“Are you talking to me, Alien?” The Imperial Private snapped, looking up sharply.

“What if I am? Private,” he gestured with his hand and a mocking bow.

“I’ll…” the young Imperial Private started to say in a tone of frustration, only to lose faith in himself as he looked upon the monster of muscle that was the Rattattaki stepping towards him, “well, I’ll talk?”

“Talk? Hah, all that for just talking,” he smirked, “well, we could always use the company, what you say, you join us for a little celebration, huh?”

“Yes, sure, I suppose you and your offworlders are celebrating our recent Imperial victories over Sector 26.”

“Gees… How spineless can you get,” Illia said with a slightly condescending smirk.

The Imperial found his nerve and his sense of humour, “If you pull hard enough, I can be pretty spineless.”

Esme smiled at that, she couldn’t keep it from her lips. It wasn’t a polite smile, it felt real, it felt genuine, like she’d joined another world where that was somehow funny.

“Well, well, I hope you’ve at least got legs, at least lad, heard there was a cyborg been kicking your ass.”

“I heard that Sergeant Stinson beat him the other day.” The Private answered defensively, “besides, he’s from the Empire, alien. Oh and a Sith. It’d be disrespectful for me to beat him.”

“Hehe, Sergeant Stinson couldn’t even beat me at half-pace, he’d probably even get beaten by Esme, I think someones been feeding you some low quality bullkark.” Illia said with a snicker. 

“I’m not so sure I could beat him…” Esme chimed in, reminding everyone she was there. 

Corvos continued, “I believe in you,” he grinned, “at least you could beat this here Private.”

“She could not!” he answered defensively, “I wouldn’t be beaten by a teenage girl, I have Imperial training, you know!”

“So do we. We’re practically the same rank, just without official citizenship,” Illia chimed in. 

“Yeah, Esme! You can do it!” Corvos slapped her on the shoulder. Ow. 

“I reaaaally don’t think I could beat him, Corvos.” She tried desperately to say.

“Fine, you want me to prove it? I accept your challenge, tomorrow, at dawn, alien.”

“Are you listening?” Esme tried to raise her voice, “gees.”

“What’s your name Private, so you can’t run away?” Corvos crossed his arms. 

“Private Leo Hyde,” the Imperial said finding his shoulders and a cocksure grin, “you a betting man, Alien?”

“Hell yeah-”

“We can discuss bets tomorrow, we’ve got to go,” Ixzka interjected, turning his head to face the way out, “unless you want the Sergeant to get mad.”

“Right, right, duty calls,” Corvos grunted, “but she’s coming for you, tomorrow.”

Esme felt like she had been dragged into something. She wondered if Corvos intended to embarrass her, as they silently fell back into formation with a growing number of Militia men, all around her. She couldn’t flake though, despite her misgivings, that would just let her comrades down even harder. 

---

The next morning was like a tidal wave. It struck her and never let up dragging with her through breakfast, as they warmed themselves by heaters and ate rations. She found them filling and on most occasions enough for her but today, she had to be encouraged to eat by her Father, who otherwise kept a distance. She thanked him for his help when they were done and slipped off to join her fellow Militia men in PT. The sections of the camp cordoned off by Soldiers for their various routines were filled with a variety of mostly human men. They used whatever they could find as equipment, some was Imperial standard, some idiot with more strength than brains was trying a lamppost for pull ups. Among those dressed in a grey, black, colour scheme of standard dress, some even imprinted with the Imperial insignia. 

There was a group waiting for them, Private Hyde and a few of his buddies. He seemed more confident in his group and she was hesitant to approach alone but scooped up by a group of her own, Corvos at the helm.

“Private Hyde, I think she’ll kick your ass today…” He says adjusting the rifle strap on his back.

“Her?” One of the men says, staring at Esme, “I wouldn’t trust her to punch her way out of a hologram of a bag.”

She heard whispers behind her.

“Shouldn’t we have someone better? We’ll embarrass ourselves at this rate…” It was Trimba, a talkative man.

Illia responded with, “Probably, but like it’s not a big deal anyhow, it’s good training either way, competition makes us stronger… like the Sith Lords say.”

“She may not look the type!” Corvos said, taking an awkward role as her incredibly boastful unofficial spokesperson, each positive word making her cringe, as she was sure she would not live up to a single one, “but she could beat a Rancor in an endurance run, anyday.”

“Rancor? Really…” Esme muttered to herself.

“Sure…” The Private muttered, “how about the rules?”

“First over the line,” Corvos said, with a small wink.

“Let’s say… Fifty credits for us if we win?” interjected another Imperial, with a grin.

“Deal and deal,” Corvos said, “and if we are first over that line, you have to say the Sons of Orsus belong in the Empire, oh and since you’re so confident fifty credits to each of us.”

“Deal.” The Private said confidently. 

They drew out a start line in the snow with a vibroknife. Esme’s chest hammered as she nervously drew towards it, until recently she rarely went outside, she was screwed and everyone knew it, probably even Corvos, who’d made it his mission to force her here. What for? Who knows. He’d pressured her here and she had worried, he’d do a lot worse if she refused. The posturing continued long into them reaching the start line. It was a race around the camp, something she’d drilled since signing up… but for her that was weeks ago.

It could be worse. It was just some more competitive training. 

“Three.”

It could be worse. She would just embarrass them. She’d be beaten so easily they might not even consider her fit for duty.

“Two.” 

She was guaranteed to lose. This man was faster, stronger, better built. She looked at Corvos, why had he supported her? Did he just want her to fail for a joke. He winked back.

“One.”

How could she win this? It wasn’t even endurance… not that she’d win that either. It was simple, run and lose or… 

“Go!”

They sprinted from the mark, as the Imperial Private took the lead immediately. He was already past her, already too far away and approaching the corner around the tents it was unsurprising, she had no faith she could beat him, then she stopped ready to surrender… but something caught her mind, a flash of inspiration. Think. 

She turned around, jogged back over the line and won.

An uproarious laughter spilled from the bystanders, both Imperials and Militia found it incredibly funny and for a moment she was paralysed as she was swamped by her fellow militiamen. Corvos clapped her shoulder and she found herself laughing in spite of herself, in a slightly mocking display, several of the militia pretended to be amazed by her speed and stamina, she'd apparently been so fast she was almost a blur. 

“I think you lot owe us fifty credits,” Corvos blurted out with a grin.

“Like hell we do, you cheated!”

“First over the line…” Esme muttered. 

“First over the line.” 

He was still holding her shoulder. It was a small contact, meaningless to him beyond a gesture of friendship but to her, it meant the world. She guessed she could find a place here after all, a place to be a part of something, a part of a greater whole and something little, something that whispered in the back of her mind told her they now thought so too.

---

---

[Meatslopper]

Chapter Three: Taste

---

---

Esme had tasted beer once. She’d never liked it, it was sharp and stung the back of her gullet and she’d wondered why the adults seemed so fascinated with it. In her deployment on Vykos, she’d stopped asking that question. In fact, she wished she could be just a little less sober just about now, her teeth sunk into a pillow as a needle etched into her back, a lance, the mark of the 7802nd Cavalry Division. The dull throb of where the neddle passed only matched by the anticipation of the spike of pain to come. The ability to bear punishment came with time. It came easier when she wasn’t heckled by a gathering crowd, she numbly ignored.

“Smile Esme,” Corvos bellowed loudly with a cocksure grin from the bed next to her, “we’re Lancers now.”

It had seemed a good idea at first to join the same unit as Corvos at first. She wasn’t so sure now, she thought sardonically, and he wasn’t the worst. Private Illia might be the worst to follow on from basic, she found glee in her every yelp, no matter how he tried to hide it. Illia hid it behind the banter but she didn’t like her and Esme couldn’t figure out why.

“Well, some, more than others,” Illia who’d been berated for her phoney accent hadn’t given up and by now, it had lulled into a more natural Imperial cadence.

“So you, you infantile pillock,” Sergeant Yam remarked, completely straight faced adjusting his rotund glasses.

“I think we should introduce a policy for whining while you get your tattoo, separate the weak from the chaff,” Illia smiled.

“She hasn’t complained once!” Corvos called over..

“Uh, no, I don’t think I have at least,” Esme managed to get out while crying in agony.

“She probably just can’t like, get it out between the chorus.”

The Tattooist was halfway through what she presumed was the 0 on her back when there was a thunder of footsteps and a voice that echoed through the chamber, as a Private she didn’t recognise sprang into the chamber.

“We’re heading to Agamar! We’re heading to Agamar! It’ll be just a week, they have a plan.”

She wouldn’t get that beer.

---

Just a week he’d said. She hoped so, She’d wrapped up her back with kolto bandages and hopefully, that would settle the dull pain, as she wrestled with her pack. Settling into a comfortable spot among the ranks of the leaving Speeders. There were rows upon rows of them, all doing their final checks, as Officers wandered in between. They awaited at a landing pad, soon to be bundled up within the hangar bay of the VT-22, Light Troop Transport. The Dark Resolve was a brick of a vessel at its core. The underslung hangars formed the main body of the vessel was a trapezoid, with its armoured bow joined beneath an overhanging angular frame, that jutted all the way backwards to the engines, where it hooked around, forming jagged pyramids striking outwards from the superstructure. Its cockpit is a different blocky segment, looking down on them from above. It drew closer and closer until its shadow engulfed them. She felt the wind beat at her through the armour and she tightened her hands upon the controls and listened to the thump of her heart. On Vykos, she faced desidents and traitors. On Agamar she’d face the Republic for the first time since Orsus, she wasn’t eager to face them again but she would because that’s what she was told to do.

“You ready, Roi, Illia?” Corvos roared over the winds.

“I guess?” She answered meekly, likely not to be heard.

“Well of course!” Illia cried.

Sergeant Yam Semaj hushed them, “Will you be quiet!”

Then the order came. Passing down a chain larger than she could imagine she watched as, row upon row, of black Speeders, kicked their engines into gear, their whine and thrum, a chorus to drown out even the great thrusters of the Dark Resolve above. It stung her ears, as their fumes stung her throat. She followed her orders.

---

Flak shook the transport. Cacophonous explosions followed them all the way towards the surface and she could practically taste the tang of energy in the air and her own sweat that wet her lips. Only Corvos seemed at ease and just barely. The silence was killing him. It was out of their hands and that was comforting but only to an extent, their entire unit, everyone here, could be wiped out before their bikes struck the earth. The first line of cavalry and the shuttles behind. Gone. In an instance, it was all down to luck.She was just waiting to see where that coin fell. She itched the back of her helmet absentmindedly and tapped the hilt of her lance against the steel. It had been her hope that the war would be over before she ever blunted it on the Republic but even she had realised the unlikeliness of her goal.

“Company!” A voice yelled, “Company! Attention!”

There was a clatter of lances as they drew straight, the point of the weapons rising to the heavens above.

“Company! You will perform readiness checks!”

Shield Generator check. Speeder check. Powered Lance check. Comms check.

“Company! On my command you will start your engines… Begin!”

She felt her Speeder rumble beneath her. Imperial engineering at its finest working to pass, a roar that quaked through her entire body. It’s thum as natural a way of sound as the scream of hundreds of engines in a cacophonous concert, that called for the battle ahead.

“On my mark, company will advance and engage the enemy!” he called, “you know the plan, clear us an LZ, take out those artillery so our shuttles can land! You are the best this Empire has to offer. You can do it, this world will give us inroads into the Republic. Let’s burn it down! For the Empire!”

“For the Empire!” The Company echoed. As one of them, Esme spoke.

They opened. The hangar doors opened. They revealed blue of the sky and only one word became audible in her ears.

“Charge!”

They did. The sky was blanketed with smoke and fire as a friendly VT-22 beside them burnt, a flaming metal meteor tumbling to earth. She thinned her lips as they rocketed downwards, another blast of artillery wiped a nearby speeder from the sky, its remains flung backwards barely even shrapnel, buffeting against another. There was little to control. She ducked barely beneath another that had been lit aflame, its fire resisted by her armour, its smoke filtered by her helmet. It swung away as its rider tried to cling aboard only to be shed, meeting his end, skewered upon a Binka Tree. They came down hard. She pulled back on the controls the muzzle of the craft lifting back, as the repulsors pushed out beneath her, cushioning her as best it could. She slammed into the dirt beneath, her engines kicking out rightwards, jarring her craft. They carried forward and the lines reformed.

“Form up on me!” Yam shouted to the Squad that remained.

Together they lanced across the field.

The Republic had quickly set themselves up at the edge of a village, surrounded by trees and farmland that shook beneath the repulsers of their speeders, whirring by, barely a blur. They were greeted by the shrieks of blasterbolts. They had a hard time hitting anyone at such a pace, those that did hit, refracted from steel or were absorbed by shield generators. The Empire returned fire, each bolt streaming from an underslung assembly. Esme watched with a tinge of sadness, as a Republic trooper was thrown in a lucky blast of sparks as one of her shots connected. Then she sees the artillery, their lines shield, nestled within their defences and the village, each blast, sending flak or plasma into one of their ships. She feels fine because it was necessary. The flaming meteor of the VT-22 caught up and its wreckage ploughing into distant trees and setting the forest ablaze. Their spear points are bloodied, some by oil, as artillery pieces are torn into and hers by the blood of a Soldier, as she impales him instinctively without a thought. All this death. She would make it count, as she swerved her speeder, she threw charges upon a flak cannon and at the slightest touch, she pushed off again, further in, chasing stragglers as they fled and she listened, tasting smoke and iron, as behind her the artillery goes up in flames.

Illia hurried to her side, Blaster in hand, armoured charred. She hadn’t even realised the point of her lance had saved her until instinct fell away. She’d heard the words, did the actions, but she felt so distant, she was free.

They surrounded those that surrendered, as shuttles started to pour in and regulars rushed out. The day was theirs, but Agamar wasn’t won yet.

---

---

[Meatslopper]

Chapter Four: Scent

---

---

Specialist Esme Roi smelt the stench of smoke, the heat of the fire and the sounds of screaming mortars as they hurled towards the enemy. It was upon a small ridge the scouts had made their nest. They huddled bodies buried deep in the brush as they looked out upon a tiny village consuming nothing but rations that provided sustenance and not taste. She didn’t mind, her partner in this watch Illia however was rather frustrated over the lack of taste. Illia’s distaste of her had grown, yet their Squad Lead, Sergeant Yam Semaji found it amusing or a futile team-building exercise to jam them together. Maybe he just thought because they came from the same world they liked each other, a classic example of Imperial ignorance. Whatever the case Esme would have resolved it if she could. She just didn’t know why Illia disliked her, she’d have very much liked to have resolved it already. There was no need for any of this, it reminded her of school. She shuddered, she recalled her classmates chiding and the shoving when she couldn’t understand their jeers. Illia was no different, even here, overwhelmed by the stench of corpses of the burnt face of Agamar she couldn’t escape annoying someone. Everytime she hoped to fit in there was always another Illia to sour it.

“These rations are absolutely terrible, right?” Illia complained, “the least they could do is give us something, anything with taste…”

“I-I guess?” Esme stammered and looked through the macros, “…it’s, like it’s fine. We eat what they give us, no real use complaining.”

Beyond the treeline, a mushroom moved but before she could say anything, it revealed itself a Mugruebe, this small animal spotted with a hanging jaw and two tiny arms, its large stocky legs bounced it away, it was an oddity of Agamar and reminded her of Gizka back home.

“Gees…” Illia muttered, “aren’t you a broken record? Is that really all you can say? Are you actually like stupid or something?”

Esme weathered the insult placidly, she always had, scratching at her clump of hair.

“Maybe I am… Look, like can we just focus on the task at hand? We don’t have to get along, you know…”

Esme scrawled down on flimsiplast the shift in the environment ahead. It was open ground leading from the trees to a remote village, where the Republic's presence had yet to be confirmed; they were the point of a fleeing infantry company, who were charting a road back to a muster point. They were all running at this point, the glory of Agamar, a jewel ripe for the taking, had turned sour and after months of fighting the Republic was finally being pushed all the way back home. She’d thought on many occasions that some of the strategies here were ill-conceived, but every time she did so, she bit it down after all, what did she know? What could she change? Was it even her place to try as an outsider, an offworlder? No, it really wasn't. So whatever, right? She’d followed her orders wherever they took her. Someone else had a plan and she wasn’t going to be the one to ruin it.

“I just want to talk,” Illia said after a time, “I’m losing my mind out here, come on…”

“Well, like maybe, we could talk without you insulting me at every moment, gees.”

“Pleaase, couldn’t you at least lighten up, it’s just a little bit of banter.”

“Banter… Right… Look can I just like ask you something?”

“Ask away, Roi, ask away,” Illia rolled her eyes.

“Just… like, look, why don’t you like me?” Esme asked.

Illia blinked and taken aback, Esme felt surprisingly direct for once in her life. The jives rolled off her but this incessessity of them made her curious, yes she was curious, that’s what she framed it as in her own head. Illia took a long moment before answering this open confrontation unexpectedly, even after their years or so of service together.

“I don’t not like you, but… Come on, you don’t really fit in here do you? Any other normal karking person would just insult me back, move on, right? Why don’t you? Where’s your fire…”

It was Esme’s turn to be taken aback, she sketched a detail she’d just noticed to identify one of the trees on the map absentmindedly fiddling with the flimsiplast as she didn’t answer for a time. She’d done everything she could to be one of them, apart of the squad in more than name, their tattoo lay unfinished upon her back, Corvos liked her too much, but Illia couldn’t accept her and that as always hurt. She was jealous of Illia, the way she seemed to meld into the unit in a way she often didn’t. Sometimes, just sometimes, she was caught in a perpetual awkwardness with her comrades.

They trusted each other.

They liked each other.

What more could she do?

“I try to, I really do, I follow my orders, I listen to our Sergeant, just what more can be asked of me?”

Before she can answer, the Specialist smells the distant exhaust fumes, through the forest, as the branches quiver and the brush rumbles, emerging from the far-side two Republic Speeders accepted welcomingly into the city. That was just the information they were here for.

Illia, their Comm Specialist, tapped their comms, “This is Howl 2-4, to Howl 1-1 how copy, over?”

“Howl 2-4 this is Howl 1-1, loud and clear, what’s the sitch?”

“Two Republic…” Illia glanced at Esme.

“…ISA-23 Model Speeder Bikes…”

“Entering through the Dargan Villages South Gate, we have confirmed tangos, over.”

“Copy that, hold position and see if any more scum rear their ugly mugs, out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Illia lowered her fingers.

Had she been expecting a reprieve from their duty? She seemed remarkably discontent, as if she still after all this time serving expected an immediate reprieve. Esme had learnt the lesson that there almost never was a long time ago but some people really are just stubborn learners. They watched until night fell. There was scant activity to report, though a Republic Squad were seen passing through the same gate, that was to be summarily reported by someone else. They were calm, and relaxed, they relied on several Probe Droids that passed around the perimeter at random times and the extendable eye from the wall surface. They’d tucked away well enough that they were relatively confident they nor their Speeders had been spotted. How could they tell? The Republic would have reacted if they’d seen anyone of the squad.

Esme didn’t get it, the Republic had engaged the Balmorra Company in this region, they’d driven them off in a direct confrontation and now with the Empire licking their wounds, this was the best roadblock they could offer? It’s almost like they were letting them leave…

They were letting them leave.

“I think they’re just… letting us go?” Esme murmured to herself.

Illia turned her helmet to Esme, “I guess you think it’s a trap?”

“Look, I don’t really know, I mean it could be, or it could be exactly what it looks like, they are just letting us go…”

“And why’d they do that? They had Balmorra practically by the balls.”

“I think it’s because they’re smart, they probably don’t want to fight us either, we inflicted heavy losses on them as well you know, like they know we don’t want to fight, they know we’re leaving, so why fight?” Esme scratched the back of her head.

Illia shook her head, “A nice theory I suppose.”

The comms came in again, “Howl 2-4, this is Howl 1-1, we’re ignoring this, Balmorra Company are moving past, keep an eye out for probes and follow on after, out.”

Of course her CO had figured it out too. If she was smart enough to work it out, they could as well and there was no point delaying to engage this minor force, if they didn’t want to fight here either. So they waited this time in silence awkward but Esme barely noticed it. Through the thermal optics of her helmet she could see the shapes of Balmorra Company slug through the night, they crept past, slowly but with a distant glimmer. The Republic no doubt saw them too, for they responded with multiple probe droids that ascended skyward from the village, it was not a sign of engagement but they were watching them. The low thrum of their repulsors, the warbled muttering of their transmitting thoughts sent a shiver down her spine. They’d learnt to have a healthy respect for probe droids, a favourite of the Republic Commander, they’d haunted their operations since they’d landed. They’d lost men to probe droid blasters only for them to scamper away or dropped grenades in foxholes. They were harder to deal with than people thought. None of them had been close to her, so she was lucky, but it had taught her a lesson, basic or her Spec course had not prepared her for.

Fear the Probes.

But for now they were just keeping vigil and it was time for them to move too.

“Alright, let’s just go,” Illia muttered.

They withdrew from the brush in which they sheltered, into a sheltered clearing, dragging their packs with them. They found their speeders hidden by sheets, mesh and dozens of twigs, mud and grass, that made them near indistinguishable from the forestry that surrounded them. Esme was proud of her work until, Illia spoke.

“We really could have concealed these a little better, don’t you think?” Illia muttered as she packed the mesh into her bag.

“Maybe… I suppose…” Esme replied halfheartedly.

Illia glared at her for that response and she found herself clueless as to why, like she'd answered? She’d conceded Illia the floor and she somehow didn’t like her? What more could Esme ask for some normalcy between the pair.

“Gees…” Esme muttered as she swung a leg over her speeder.

Illia blinked at her, “Really?”

“What?” Esme asked.

“Never mind.”

‘Never Mind’ couldn’t she just tell her, why she didn’t like her? What was she doing wrong? Esme had spent most of life unable to have this kind of conversation, why did Illia have to be so just frustrating about it. Esme let it lie again, ultimately there was no point bringing it up and no point now.

They mounted their Speeders and the moment the go ahead was given, they tore off into the forest at impossible speeds, the world whizzing past them as trees and forest floor shifted beyond, the rustic browns and greens a flurry into the distance the wind breaking over her helmet, felt through its ventilators against her skin, the vibrations rippling through her body. Despite her small laments there was no destination but forward. If she’d been alone in these woods, on this planet, she might have been lost and at night, in the dark, got herself into an overthought mess but here, amongst her squad? She felt no fear because her direction was clear, answered by the flash of her viewscreen. The freedom of purpose, not lost, little need to choose, just follow the marker

Follow the marker they did. Until at last.

“Hault! Identify yourself?!”

The sentries slowed them to a crawl just beyond the Imperial LZ, where they mustered, they lent on their bikes and propped themselves on a leg.

“Specialist Illia.”

“Specialist Roi.”

They took their helmets off, and it all aligned perfectly well in the sentry's mind and so they passed unassailed by opposition into the LZ. Just on time, not to catch a break but to finally leave this place, there were mutters amongst the men, Corvos and Illia amongst them of shame and embarrassment, as if it all this venture was for nothing, the eagerness that had called them here long gone after months of weary fighting. Esme didn’t really get that. She just went where they told her, it wasn’t her fault, wasn’t their fault it couldn’t be, this was a burden the commanders bore, their leadership, that she trusted could make mistakes not that she blamed them for it, it happened but it was also kinda how it happened. No Squadie unless they were distinctly terrible would take that blame. This is why, she told herself, she would never command. She’d certainly screw it up worse than them. To command was to take the burden of others upon your shoulder and she was thankful for them holding hers, she was comfortable and confident even to depend on them and their decisions.

But she had to remain alert because now they were in a full dedicated retreat and in no danger of counterattacking. The Republic could choose now to harass them, so she didn’t engage much in conversation, only dropping her offhandedly commentary before walking to the edge of the group.

“Hey, we just do whatever they tell us I’m pretty sure they have a plan, I mean who like even knows what fronts we are alleviating by being here, you know?” Esme murmured to Corvos.

Corvos grinned, “Hah. That’s a positive way of looking at it.”

Something just felt off.

She was probably just overthinking this, she was always overthinking things, getting them wrong, getting in her own way. The wind was blowing amongst the trees as Dragonfly Shuttles descended upon them, to liberate them from the ground, the rustle of the trees. She almost gave up her vigil, they were supposed to be some of the first out. But she had a responsibility to her comrades and if her hunch was well founded…

There. Another Probe Droid.

Esme felt a sudden flash of danger and drew her pistol.

“CONTACT LEFT! PROBE DROID!”

And she fired, illuminating the tree with a vivid crimson glow and though missing her first and second shots, scoring bark, her third landed dead on and it tumbled, as a chorus of other blasterfire echoed later, some catching it on its trip to the earth below. There was a resounding explosive as its payload landed in the forestry. The blast rustled the brush and sent a shockwave barreling over the Soldiers, shrapnel shredded parts of the trees and tumbled leaves from themn Specialist Roi exhaled deeply and whipped up a frenzy of Soldiers suddenly checking the dark closer, panicked, another one might arrive at any time. Corvos was by her shoulder, peering out into the murk.

“Good karkin’ work. How the hell you’d know?”

Esme didn’t really have an answer when she stammered out, “I literally… I guess kinda just thought about it, and I guess I just kinda like figured it’s what I would do now…”

Together, they boarded the shuttle. Together they ascended up to the ISS Blood Spear, a real Harrower, their very real flagship. A marvel of Imperial engineering so far beyond her grasp of understanding, she’d long to learn a small fraction, long to simply see its bridge and gunnery deck. There the air was clean, pure Imperial air not that of sodden bark and pine stench, intermingled with the iron of blood, ionised blasters and ever present smoke and embers permeating the wartime air.

What more would they ask of her?

Whatever it was she would answer.

---

---