Open Space and Hyperspace

Dresden sighed, wishing he had a drink. It was going to be that sort of conversation.

"Maj-Riplian, look. I never wanted to be a god. Hell, it wasn't my idea to start calling myself one. That was you people."

He sighed and began to kneed his temples. This was the sort of thing migraines were made of. Or at least they would be, if he could get them.

"You say that generations upon generations have fought without me, but the simple fact is that I've always been here. Me or someone like me has been shaping civilization since before civilization was even a thing. I didn't ask for this. None of us did. You ask how I feel to be done with this crap? Fucking fantastic. Not a big fan of the dying thing, but if it means that I can be shut of all this, then fuck it. I'm gonna do my last little piece and then I'll pass the torch to the next son of a bitch."

The former Shard wasn't sure why she was asking all this, but he suspected she wanted intel. Well, she could have it. He rounded on the shadow.

"What possible reason could you have to care how I feel about it. Information? Trying to suss out my weaknesses? Figure out how I think? I depress you, do I? Well, here's some chills for your spine. I don't care what the huddled masses think of me. I don't give a flying fuck, in fact, about how disgusting you find the need for my existence. I'm going to this because it needs to be done, and then I'm going to die. Does that answer your fucking question?"

He wasn't yelling. His voice wasn't even really raised. But the exasperation, exhaustion, all of it was bleeding through. Had she asked him a few hours before, maybe a few hours later, perhaps the answer would have been different. Perhaps he'd have given his passenger a more genuine answer. It was too late for that now, however.

Dresden snorted.

"Bullshit. You were on Onderon because Diva had you by the short and curlies. I don't believe for a minute you'd have let yourself end up in that position if you could think of a way around it."

The former Shard absentmindedly reached for a drink that wasn't there. Alcohol had become his primary coping mechanism as a human, but he knew better than to drink and try to pilot a ship at the same time. It was one thing in an HRD, where the alcohol wouldn't really alter his perceptions or damage his fine motor skills, but that wasn't a risk he could take in this body. There wasn't a drop of liquor onboard.

"Shit."

After checking the instruments to make sure they were still on course, Dresden locked down the controls and left the cockpit, walking right through the illusion on the way out. It was getting late anyway. He wandered around the ship aimlessly for a few minutes, making sure that everything was in working order and that the gear was all stowed properly. He wasn't really paying attention, and so was rather surprised to find himself standing outside of his guest's cabin.

"Ah, what the hell. Might as well."

He stepped through the threshold. The fallen Whill walked over to the wall, and leaned his back against hit. He had the thousand yard stare going, drilling into the wall opposite of him. After a few minutes, he finally spoke.

"You want to know what I think? I think I'd rather be anywhere but here, flying off to some damn fool mission that'll almost certainly end with me dead on some Force forsaken planet. I think it would be wonderful to say fuck it and fly off to somewhere quiet, where no one will bother us. Don't know about you, but I could certainly use a vacation."

There was a sort of desperate longing in his voice. It was obvious that he had seriously considered doing just that, and probably still was.

"But that's not going to happen, is it? Even if I did, what possible reason would you have to stick around? Curiosity only goes so far. I guess I could drop you off somewhere first, but then what? I'm going to die. I'm fine with that, but I don't want to die alone. Then there's the plan. Koko could pull it off without me there, but that's not her responsibility. It's mine. So what else is there to do, other than to march forward into the night?"

It could have been a few minutes. It could have been a few days. Time had no meaning for the former Shard; he was thoroughly trapped in the moment, his mind empty of all but the desperate desire of a dying man clinging to his last best hope for something he had never known. The smile didn't bother him. He didn't know any better. Hell, he was probably grinning to match, lost in the sea of sensation and feeling. He had heard organics describe the precise circumstances he found himself in now in all manner of flowery language. It hadn't made any sense before, but now...

Before he had a chance to completely lose himself, a small voice spoke in the back of his mind, reminding him that the huntress was injured, and not lightly. Dresden conceded that the voice had a point, and broke contact. Best to let her heal before exploring this new found intimacy. It never occurred to him that she might be playing him, or that there were any outside forces at work. And frankly, if that were the case, he wouldn't care. His body and heart both agreed that, whatever else this might be, it was wonderful.

"Riplian, I...uh. Well. Ahem."

The number of times Dresden had been at a loss for words over the centuries could be counted without removing one's shoes. After a moment, he got something resembling a coherent thought in order.

"That was...thank you. Perhaps when you're a bit more healed, we could see where that path goes, if you'd like. For now though, it's getting late. It's after..." He consulted his chrono. "2300. If you get a good night's sleep tonight, you should be able to start walking a bit with a crutch or a cane tomorrow. We'll be on Dressel the day after."

"Sleep well, my huntress."

Dresden left the woman to her own devices, returning only briefly a few moments later to deposit a cane next to the bed. If she had to make a run to the latrine in the middle of the night, she should be well enough to do so under her own steam. The faux wooden stick was made of a similar material to the stock of her musket. It should be familiar enough both in weight and texture for her to use it without undue discomfort, and it would save her the indignity of asking him for assistance.

Meanwhile, he made his way to his own quarters, dreading what was to come. Despite the lingering hormone rush of the events of the evening, the former Shard knew that he was likely to face the night terrors that had started him drinking in the first place. The memories of his life as a Shard hadn't bothered him much at the time, but filtered through the human mind, with its unique definitions as to what counted as a traumatic experience, he found himself quite unable to sleep for his first few weeks as an organic being. Drinking himself into a stupor every night helped, but that wasn't an option now.

But fatigue was fatigue, and Dresden was far enough into exhaustion that he drifted off not long after disrobing and climbing into his own bunk. Whatever terrors his dreaming mind would present, he had no choice but to face them.

It was the battle of Destrillion. Despite his tendency to serve a greater cause, even Eralam sided with the New Republic against the Vong invaders. The Jedi had no knowledge of the Shard demigod. Had Luke known of his existence, he would have taken steps to bring Eralam under control or eliminate him. The Shard had no desire to fight the leader of the resurgent Jedi. Instead, he offered his services as a noncom to the beleaguered forces of the galaxy's best chance at surviving the onslaught.

And so he found himself on Destrillion, leading a single platoon to cover the evacuation. Eralam knew that to be captured was to be subjected to a fate worse than death; the Vong hated both Force users and droids. He counted as a double abomination in their eyes, and would take appropriate measures to "cleanse" the impurity he represented from the face of the galaxy. First and third squads were wiped out in the initial invasion, overwhelmed by a barrage of thud bugs that had punched through armor like so much tissue paper. Second squad was at the spaceport, providing cover for the evacuating refugees. They were to hold out as long as possible, and would evac on the last ship out of the system. That left fourth to stall an entire invasion force. The squad leader was dead, killed by a coufee that had taken his head off as he relieved himself in what had seemed like a quiet moment.

Eralam had been the platoon leader, but there really wasn't much of a platoon left. Corporal Khamdy was the ranking NCO of fourth squad. She had only been promoted a week before, to fill in for the Alpha fire team leader, who had suddenly found combat duties to be vastly more difficult as a triple amputee. Only 8 of the original 12 remained. They were to hold the line for an at least three hours, in order to give the refugees time to evac. For two hours and forty-five minutes they had held, suffering multiple injuries but no additional losses. Eralam's argent blade had played a large role in this, cutting down the Vong projectiles and allowing the rest of the squad to lay down a withering barrage of covering fire. A lone battery of projectile artillery, a lone remnant of the planetary militia that had defied orders to stay behind, had kept up a constant stream of shells raining down on the enemy position, until a squadron of coralskippers had sussed them out and obliterated them to a man. Those brave bastards had singlehandedly kept the squad alive, but now they were dead. Bereft of support of any kind, forth stood no chance of making it back to the evac site. This was their final stand, a suicide mission if there ever was one.

They didn't mind.

Eralam knew little of emotion. He couldn't fathom how the brave men and women of the squad felt, knowing they would die soon. He was mildly disappointed that his mission to keep the galaxy balanced upon the fragile precipice of order and decay would go unfinished, but he knew the Force would pass the mantle on to a worthy replacement. But these...children, for that's what they were, had no such hope. Corporal Khamdy, at 19, was the oldest of the bunch. Unwed, with no children to carry on their genetic legacy, this last stand would wipe her existence from the face of the galaxy. It was the same story with the rest of the squad. And yet, they were joyful. Laughing. Joking. They hollered insults at the occasional lone warrior that occasionally would test their lines, playfully calling him names as the Shard distracted him long enough for the squad to cut him down. The knew they were about to die, but they didn't care. The refugees would owe them their lives, but would never know their names. Would never know the bright futures that would have awaited them had they chosen safer professions. They could have been doctors, inventors, innovators. Their demo man, a combat engineer by the name of Devin, was as talented with musical instruments as he was with shaped charges. He had written a full symphony over the last few months, hoping only to see how it ended before he was snuffed out. Private Hobbs of Coruscant was a celebrated writer before the war. His work on the nature of sentience had caused quite a stir before he had volunteered to fight the invaders.

Corporal Khamdy and Corporal Staim, who had been promoted only a day after his new squad leader, were both talented singers. Staim had a rich baritone, and Khamdy sang soprano in her community's choir. Devin would play the guitar at night, and the two would weave a haunting melody that reached even the silicone soul of the Shard. Hell, even the Vong seemed touched, and had actually sent an envoy offering the three positions as musical slaves to their priest caste if only they would surrender. That the rest of the squad would be offered as sacrifices to purify them had been, in the mind of the invaders, the icing on the cake. Devin had composed a colorful ditty shortly thereafter, detailing exactly how the Vong's mothers had enjoyed relations with robotic sex toys. That had been a tough night.

And now, with 15 minutes left, there was some hope. Eralam had sat his team leaders down and explained that, after the second to last transport was away, the others were to beat feet to the last. There would be room, and he could hold off the invaders long enough for them to get off. The team leaders offered their objections to sacrificing their platoon leader in such a manner, but they were too grateful to protest much. And frankly, they knew of his prowess in combat. If anyone could buy them the extra time needed, it was the fallen Whill.

Five minutes left. The fighting was intense. Fallen Vong were stacked almost seven feet high around the trenches. Eralam was fighting like a being possessed, determined to spend his last ounce of energy fighting to save these brave and beautiful kids, determined not to let their bright sparks of potential be wiped from the galaxy.

Three minutes.

Two.

And then the shells came. Instinctively, Eralam threw up a defensive barrier around the trenches, hoping to protect his boys and girls from the bombardment. But the shells were of the Vong, and his shields were useless. They didn't explode on impact. Instead, they spewed noxious yellow gas, so acidic that even the alkaline ablative coating he had sprayed on his chassis had trouble coping. A few had managed to don respirators. The lucky ones hadn't; they died quickly as the acid ate through their heart and lungs. Khamdy had always been quick with her mask. Like everything else she did, she practiced and practiced until she could beat the standard by a significant margin. Perfect NCO material. Eralam made it to her right after the gas blinded her, eating away her eyeballs like a spark through a dry leaf. Her skin followed suit, and as she whimpered in pain, he was unable to offer more than a quick blow to the head, shattering her skull and killing her instantly. He sought out the other suffering soldiers and ended their pain as mercifully as possible.

Even with the crystal sharp memory of a Shard, the next few minutes were a blur. The cold detachment that had dominated the outlook of the fallen Whill gave way to something that had, up until this point, been completely unknown to the Robot Space Ninja: rage. Fourth squad leader, Staff Sergeant Brian Hillock, would be the last living thing to witness the Shard until sometime after the invasion. All he saw was a black and silver blur, cutting through the ranks of the advancing Yuuzhan Vong like a hot knife through butter as his ride to freedom zoomed overhead. He swore he could hear the anguished screams, far too mechanical to be anything alive.

It was to that sound that Dresden awoke, drenched in a cold sweat as he bolted upright in bed, his throat raw and his vision blurred from the tears that streaked down his face. Destrillion had been a bad one, but there were a hundred others that could haunt his dreams. He checked the chrono. It was 0436.

For those wondering how a semi-immortal robotic warrior learned to cook (breakfast, at least,) bear in mind that he spent several weeks living as a bachelor in a body with a rather high metabolism. Also bear in mind that, while no one could accuse him of being a hedonist, Dresden liked certain things to be a certain way, and rather enjoyed some of the finer things in life. So if he wanted a breakfast cooked a certain way, in the proper portions and with the proper ingredients, he had to do it himself. Thus, a spark of culinary talent was fanned into a bacon and egg scented flame.

Like that vast majority of folks across the galaxy, the former Shard had a habit of cooking way too much for just himself. This paid off because, groggy though he was, he had quite accidentally made enough for both himself and the Major, plus BLTs for lunch. Though she should technically be able to walk by this point, the Shard was feeling rather gentlemanly for some odd reason, and prepared her a plate once he sensed her mind clawing its way from the depths of slumber, chasing the bacon from dream to reality. The portions were on the large side, set somewhere between recovering patient and bulimic binge eater. If she didn't finish it all, well, the beauty of breakfast is that you can dump what you don't finish in a bowl, throw it in the fridge, and nuke it at any time during the day and it will still be delicious.

Dresden very nearly whistled as he approached the door to her cabin (again with the nautical terms, sheesh,) but decided against it when the mind-numbing rage began to radiate from within.

"Hmm."

Was it a morning thing? Perhaps she didn't like waking up. He had met many a soldier like that; they wouldn't speak in anything other than grunts and projectiles until after their third cup of brew.

"Best to lead with the coffee."

He took the mug off the tray, taking care to keep the nearly eye-wateringly strong aroma wafting steadily into the room with a touch of telekinesis. The arm came through next, a peace offering of the caffeinated variety.

"Morning."

Right. The hand survived, so it should be safe for everything else. Dresden entered cautiously. Though the Major's expression was calm, the fury inside radiated off her like heat from an overworked gun barrel. This wasn't normal hatred of the world as a result of waking up. The former Shard couldn't read emotions well enough to pick out anything specific, but this didn't feel like the general malaise he was used to. This was more...focused. Specific. Beyond that, there wasn't much he could tell. Best tread carefully.

"Morning. Thought you might enjoy some breakfast in bed. Gonna be a rough day today," he said pleasantly.