【Ｌｏｃａｔｉｏｎ：
ＤＳ－１ Ｏｒｂｉｔａｌ
Ｂａｔｔｌｅ Ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ
Ｐｒｉｖａｔｅ
Ｈａｎｇａｒ １８３１】
SHE SWORE THERE WERE STILL GRAINS OF SAND IF SHE brushed under a certain grove in her scalp. Above a ridged ear, hidden behind a sandy layer of hair revealed a raised crescent scar—caused by a piece of shrapnel hurled from the Dug, Setur in an act of spite. After the extensive, exhaustive hours servicing the Dugs to the—illegal—weaponry on their Pod, she'd been firm on the price that year.
That standard day she'd been let off early to clean herself up. Following the bludgeon to the head, Sebulba had pilfered her newly- purchased tools as retribution. It would take months before she would obtain half of what Sebulba stole...
Thank the Force, I no longer have to service that karking arrogant poodoo.
Rivulets of water cascaded down the delicate contours of her backside, hints of flora saturating the steamed air. The fine oils gifted from a female comrade coated razed skin, bearing scars from enslavement; ruthless lashings endured for a sharp tongue.
Life as a slave had not been for the faint of heart.
It had been a malicious world where freedom was dangled as a commodity. Ridiculed by those who preyed on the weak and drove a hard bargain to sate. In the grit of seedy alleys, humanoids and sentients were shackled, and subjected to unscrupulous vagabonds to be sold. Seniors that grew frail in nature collapsed in the streets from starvation after life in the spice trade sucked them dry. Their bodies were left stacked on a cart and dragged off.
Forced under laborious conditions, the children would peddle the streets for a peggat, left to suffer if the quo wasn't met by the merciless fist of a voracious merchant.
She thanked the stars fate had charted a different course for her as pinkend, bare feet stepped out onto the cool floors. Steam enveloped her body as she tightened the starched towel around her.
Soft, hazel eyes reflected in the mirror. The fan overhead cleared away the fogged residue unveiling a dust of freckles across raised cheekbones no longer gaunt from lack of nutrients. To the bow of her lips, smooth rather than parched from a dry climate. The curvature of her eyes bore a sense of openness, swiftly overshadowed by the hard countenance in an arched brow.
A tribute to a rigorous upbringing.
Fingers brushed the softened curve of her jawline as a touch of femininity. It startled her of the young woman gazing back. Rather than a gangly teen soiled in grime as she'd glimpsed—fleetingly—once through oiled puddles, and translucent surfaces on Tatooine.
Her C1 commlink suddenly chimed from the sinks ledge.
Straightening, Ayen grabbed for the small cylindrical device. Masking all thought, her lips parted above the mic grill. "Lieutenant Ayen... speaking."
"Lieutenant Ayen," came a brisk voice, a hint of annoyance detected in their gravelly tone. Evidentially due to her lack of surname. While it had been quite the adjustment for the officers, she couldn't honestly recall if she had one. "This is Grand Admiral Tarkin speaking..."
Wait, what? Oh feck.
Normally she answered to Commander Officer Sterling. The balding man whose gruff projection was distinct, had jurisdiction over her department and the engineering sector.
This was not normal protocol.
Admiral Tarkin was far above her pay grade. A Moff of his own sector. He was in league with the Sith Lord whom she'd unintentionally garnered the attention of.
Wait... The color drained from her face as her gut churned. Oh, Corellians hell...
"—report immediately to sub-hangar 1831, stat."
Her private hangar?!
As her stomach soured, Ayen swallowed her refute with a curt nod, "Yes, Grand Admiral, right away, sir."
Suddenly she had to use the fresher again.
... ...
The banded collar felt too stifling against her neck.
A bead of sweat dribbled from the lining of her cap straight down her spine. Blast, did she hate this uniform. It was too constricting and wrinkled easily. If the three-bar plaque—which defined her rank— wasn't polished or pressed pants tucked neatly into knee-boots, she was sent back to her quarters until up to code.
Humiliation ensured, that it only happened twice before.
Holding an erect posture and hands folded against her spine, she re-focused her attention on Grand Admiral Tarkin.
Light hair was meticulously slicked back from a high forehead, the width said to hold a strategic brain. Donned in a crisp carbon-gray uniform with a decorated chest denoting his high status in the Empire. He was notably held at an even higher rank than the Supreme Commander. A mouthpiece to the Emperor, himself.
"—Lord Vader's ship sustained damage. Extensive repairs will be required upon his imminent arrival."
His voice held a cold, austere authority. Unwavering steel blue eyes narrowed beneath thin arched brows. A hollowed face and a hawkish nose. He reminded her of a circling falcon, surveying the group with a calculative intelligence.
Thin lips pressed into a hard line as a vein in his temple twitched. "I expect the utmost efficiency from you four, specifically as was requested. Regardless of the late hour, there is no room for error..."
Wait requested...?
It was rumored Lord Vader had been sent on a mission after a renowned Jedi was sited in the Outer Rim. For weeks he had been gone, leaving her punishment suspended until his return. Even though her team had been swamped with new upgrades to the TIE fighters, she'd remained on pins and needles.
Even from afar he's kept an eye on purpose... kriffing hell...
From the left, two fair-haired Dantooine twins towered over her. Piercing blue eyes flashed with disdain at the Admiral as he paced agitatedly.
Zev and Mac.
Flanking her right was Ceru whose almond eyes remained wide with caution. Undoubtedly absorbing every word as the tremors through his body intensified.
Shit, she'd have to rectify that and fast.
"Now," Admiral Tarkin whirled around on a polished heel, tilting up the square of his chin. "I expect the ship ready for inspection by the next rotation."
She could see the cogs turning in the minds of her colleagues as this revelation was delivered. She witnessed the stress slowly thread through each expression beneath the brim of their caps, as it was mentally calculated.
Harsh lights overhead cast the Grand Admiral's face in cold sterility. The docking azure lights refracted off his imperial insignia. In the cleared out landing hangar with one of the elite, the tension thickened. It tainted the sanctity of their place with how he looked down his nose. More than the control stations that overlooked the bay from surveillance windows above.
It was as if they were no better than scraps thrown down the garbage chute.
Ayen bit down on her tongue, hard. At least she hadn't been assigned to strictly, a TIE hangar. With the ships racked overhead and gantrys constantly being patrolled by security. Examined as if under a microscope and too similar to how she'd felt as a slave.
Steeling her resolve, she felt Zev and Mac's eyes on her as she raised her chin cooly, "It will be done, Grand Admiral. My team is fast and efficient at what they do if you check the reports."
And you can bet your prude arse on that. Though she didn't say this aloud, it was obvious her team was well acquainted with their boss's implied, fiery line of thought.
Zev started to cough, concealing a laugh. Mac nudged him with an elbow, the corner of his brothers lip curling.
Ayen shot them a look. Now was not appropriate for their tomfoolery.
It was Ceru however, who spoke up in haste as the Admiral's eyes narrowed. "You can count on us, Grand Admiral. Ayen means what she says."
His head cocked to the side, eyeing the soft-spoken boy.
Ayen had to fight the urge not to elbow him in the ribs.
"Lieutenant Ayen," the Admiral corrected sharply.
She felt more than saw Ceru flinch as his hands shifted behind his back. "Of course," Ceru swallowed, "lieutenant, my apologies sir."
His nerves were going to get them in a detention cell block if she didn't rectify this.
"Grand Admiral," she cut in smoothly, re-directing his attention as her eyes hardened. "It will be of no trouble as Officer DeGwaye has stated. Consider it done by the next rotation. You have my word."
The Admiral eyed Ayen like a hawk as if to question her authority. He was about to refute—
When the sub-hangar's wide, bay door whined open. Revealing the vast chasm of the galaxy, silver starlight outlined their newest model of a Lambda-class shuttle that leisurely descended.
Ayen felt her blood run cold while Ceru stiffened beside her.
Lord Vader had finally arrived.
Well then, I wonder what will happen. So how are you liking our Ayen so far?
I tried to get rank and protocol right so I hope it lives up.