AN: Whew, this one's a bit bigger! It took me a while! My original plan for this chapter went out the window and I replaced it with this one. This works much better than what I was trying to make happen. I just have to remember not to force situations and let the characters decide what happens next.

I've done quite a bit of research in relation to this chapter, but just by way of there being so little information available (and none of it strictly classified as 'canon'), I have taken a liberty as to the exact date of the slow die-off of the language in question.

I do not own anything you recognise. And now, on with the show!

This is fresh-off-my-brain and un-beta'd.

I've never been afraid of the highest heights
Or afraid of flying

The Kath Hound, as Doc had helpfully supplied, was a male, as she had helpfully identified, and had therefore been named Boris. At the surprised, and possibly slightly scandalised exclamations from both Doc and Rec at this pronouncement, Magd had flapped her hands at them and tutted. "Nothing wrong with a name like Boris," she said, despite knowing they couldn't understand her.

Boris seemed to like his name, he certainly responded to it. He was more mobile now, hopping about on his giant feet and stubby legs with great gusto, and often great noise. Especially when he ran into things.

He had been permitted, with some frowning from Doc, to have free reign of the infirmary and so Magd had set up a little corner for him with a bowl of water, a pile of blankets, and his dirt tray. It was too long a walk to take him outside whenever he needed to do his business, so Magd made a trip to deposit used soil and gather fresh soil for the dirt tray in her room and the infirmary every evening.

Boris' feeding was also very regular, and in growing amounts. This was taken with good cheer, as no one actually liked the meat goop, and with Boris eating it, the messhall was less likely to be serving it.

Not only was Boris becoming a fantastic garbage disposal – Lindey in the messhall particularly liked him for this fact, and there were many occasions where the hound was called behind the counter to eat whatever scraps were left over from mealtimes. It made her feel better - "I don't have to throw away quite as much, because some people just don't know how to clear their plates!" Boris was also a fantastic distraction for all those admitted to the infirmary. Nox and Pax had been discharged after several weeks, Pax with the promise of a prosthetic leg once he had healed up well enough and Nox with a threat that if he did any heavy lifting for the next few months, the consequences would be Most Unpleasant. Sofirax remained at the back of the infirmary, and his legs became a common snoozing spot for Boris.

Doc was quite sure the reason for Pax's regular hobbling in was not purely for health reasons, and may have more to do with the delightful young Magd, who appeared to have taken up a permanent employment in the infirmary. Not that Doc was averse to her continued presence, or Boris' to be honest. Quite the contrary, she was very pleasant to be around (despite the language difficulties), as well as very lovely to look at.

He'd always been more interested in looking at women than speaking to them, previously, but now that he had met a woman with beauty and brains, he found he actually wanted to understand her. The fates must be laughing at him, truly.

It took a while, but Magd's swathes of bandages eventually became a strip-bandage, more to protect the healing scar than to keep it all together, and he had no more opportunity to admire her delightful midrif. He had actually been disappointed when he had pulled out the strip bandage, and she had insisted on placing it herself, but she knew too much for him to be able to continue her substantial bandages.

So life settled into normalcy, or as much normalcy as a hidden resistance base could get. Recon missions came and went, sabotage, acquisition and patrols. Injuries came and went, and every once in a while Doc saw Zenith scan his purple eyes through the infirmary. Rec remained, a constant reminder of Magd's procarious position.

One evening, an acquisition team returned. They'd been sent to appropriate a transporter full of medical supplies, which had been a resounding success. However one of the young lads - this one Doc didn't recognise, he must be another new recruit – had his arms wrapped tightly around the top half of a GE3-series droid, who seemed to be peering around with keen interest at what was happening. The droid was unceremoniously dumped on one of the first beds in the infirmary, and the boy ran out, presumably to assist with the remainder of the unloading.

Zenith appeared. Doc frowned. His frown deepend when Zenith beconed Magd over and leaned on the bed the droid was on.

"Excuse me!" The droid cried. "Would it be terribly difficult to prop me up? Only I would like to see what is happening!" It was a suitable excuse to be in the viscinity of Zenith and Magd, and Doc leaped at it, grabbing a couple more pillows and stuffing them under the neck and shoulders of the droid to elevate it.

"Oh, thank you, kind sir!" it said. "My name is TI-32-GE3, and I am most grateful for the rescue!" One of its arms twitched.

"Droid," the twi'lek growled. "Try to speak with her," he jerked his thumb at Magd, who was inspecting the droid with absolute fascination. Her fingers hovered above its breast-plate, nose inching closer as she examined it more intently.

"Oh, excuse me, madame, you do not speak Basic?" it enquired, turning its face to watch Magd's inspection. She looked up at it, eyes wide and intent.

So not only had she never seen a twi'lek prior to her arrival, but it looked like she had never seen a droid, or at least a human relations protocol droid, before. TI-32-GE3 – now that was a mouthful – rattled off a few enquiries in different languages, each more obscure than the last, until he came to an odd 'clunking' language. Magd took a step back and … burst out laughing. Boris, hearing the commotion, rose from his slumber and started barking.

When she knelt to give Boris a brief reassurance that her guffawing wasn't anything to be concerned about, she murmured in her odd language, casting amused glances at the droid on the bed. Boris thought this was all grand and escalated his barks into happy yelps, until a stern word from her had them petering into silence.

The droid was blank, Doc noticed in alarm as he returned his attention to it. The eyes were off. Zenith noticed and swore under his breath. One of the droid's arms spazmed and the eyes flickered back to life. It turned to Magd and rattled something off in something that sounded similar to how Magd spoke. She started, clearly alarmed. The droid said something else, and her blue eyes burned with intensity. Her voice was rough when she spoke again, an awful gravel that raised the hairs on the back of Doc's neck. Zenith, sensibly, remained silent, deeply hooded eyes flicking between the droid and the woman.

"Oh my," the droid said after a short silence. "This is a very odd language to find, and it is only due to the access I had to some of the best language databases in the galaxy that I know it."

"What is it?" Doc asked, leaning forward.

If droids could look grave and serious, this droid looked it. "It appears to be an early derivative of Old Galactic, which has not been in regular use for at least fourty thousand years."

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