Zech Babel trudged into the main room of his small abode to his smiling, though as groggy as he, wife. He kissed her as he passed and went on to the counter, where the blue milk he picked up gurgled into its glass. He raised the canister to smell. "Eugh, that's turned." He tossed it out, and fished a less preferred (and less blue) drink from the recesses of the refrigerator. He sat down and sipped it with a bitter twinge of his mouth each time.

"Good morning," said his wife, Tani Babel.

"Morning," he said.

"Things alright at work?"

"Uh, alright, yeah. Uneventful, you know. They never fly. I wish they'd fly."

"Saves you the work, though, dear."

"I get paid for the work! Saves them the money is what it does. The guys and I have, well,

discussed a strike."

"You can't afford to strike. And what could you even do? Force them to go on more missions?"

"I just as soon would! I'm going broke as it is, time to make a show of it at least."

"Well, good luck." Tani took her emptied bowl to the dishes and kissed her husband's forehead as she walked back to her room for a restful day. Zach stood up, grabbed his coat, and followed the paths and caves to his workplace at the rebel base.

"Hey, Zech! Morning, Zech! How is it, Zech!" came the various greetings of his co-workers as he walked into their office. "Good, you?" was Zech's passionless response to each, regardless how much sense it made. On autopilot, he walked to his locker, removed his uniform, put it on, and grabbed his lights.

Still on autopilot, he plopped himself into a chair, laid his lights onto the table, laxed the zippers on his uniform past regulation, and reclined back as he began to fiddle with a datapad.

"I think you might be getting a little too comfortable with routine, there," said Ref as he sat down opposite Zech.

"I think you're not comfortable enough. It's been a month since the last flight," replied Zech.

"And that's why the strike starts tomorrow! By the end of next week, we'll have daily training flights at least."

"Look, I'm with you. But you know to strike, the boss has to need you every once in a while to begin with?"

"Well, the rebels might not need us 24/7, but when shit hits the fan... We deserve reliable compensation for that, even if our duty is infrequent.

As Zech prepared to respond, the sirens of the base began to blare. "You're kidding me..."

A wide toothy grin spread across Ref's face. "Haha, here we go!"

"There wasn't even anything scheduled for today!"

Ref grabbed the datapad from across the table and swiped to the briefing. "Says here it's, uh, Rogue One."

"There's no such thing as Rogue One!" yelled Zech as he zipped himself back up to regulation, grabbed his lights and flicked them on, and ran next to Ref out to the launch area.

The behemoth of a fighter inched ever closer. Zech took tiny steps back. He waved both his arms rhythmically - in sync, he liked to think, with the mind of the pilot. Let the ship get so close you swear it will run you over if it gets any closer and then let it go a bit more. It was instinct. Zech raised his right hand. Take off.

It was exhilarating. He had forgotten the finesse, the skill, the refinement that the job demanded of him. Every ship he waved - as it crawled so close to him, as it trusted him with its life, as it roared overhead, its takeoff a success - was a journey. One slip, and he could end not just his life, but the pilot's. One slip, and he could end not just this pilot, but the mission. One slip, and he could end the rebellion. It was a thrill of an intensity not suited for every man. Zech had forgotten the joy of aircraft marshalling, and slipped willingly back into its embrace.