Chapter Text
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For a communications specialist, you’ve grown eerily accustomed to the quiet.
It’s another temperate, clear night on D’Qar, and stars twinkle like diamonds overhead. You lean back to gaze at their brilliance through the scuffed-up window sitting before you.
The past couple of days have seen an uneasy quiet fall over the Resistance base like a heavy fog. 54 hours ago, three members of the elite Black Squadron piloted themselves off-world to execute a highly sensitive recon mission… You’re not even sure if anybody on D’Qar knows the officers’ destination outside of General Organa herself.
The team’s absence has left the base teeming with anxious energy, especially since the mission in question is scheduled to span several days. In truth, your presence here—in the dead of night, waiting at the comms for any sign of trouble—is mostly a formality, and that only one other officer was assigned to this shift only confirms that fact.
This won’t be the first quiet night you’ve spent in fruitless anticipation behind your desk, and it certainly won’t be the last.
Since joining the Resistance nearly a year ago, you’ve made it your goal to make as little noise as possible—and you’ve done a damn good job of it.
Years ago, life under First Order occupation on Corellia—with your own father working to support the regime, no less—taught you how to fade into the background, only being seen and heard when you so wished. After your parents were gone, though, layng idle beneath the boot of fascism became harder and harder to stomach, and it wasn’t long before you were headed offworld to offer your meager skills to the first rebel outfit that you could identify.
You’ve always been a good listener; perhaps that’s why life behind a radio has come so easily to you.
With the Resistance’s reputation for action, you had honestly expected them to ask much more of you—but you can’t say you weren’t relieved to be granted the comparatively mundane post you now find yourself in.
“ Sparks .”
Blinking rapidly, you glance back over your shoulder at the only other person in the room: one of your colleagues, Chantel, a stout Twi woman with fiery eyes that don’t seem nearly as comfortable in the still of the night as your own. Judging by the impatience lining her features, she must have called for you multiple times without attracting your notice.
You offer an apologetic smile. “Yeah?”
“I said, I’m going to the canteen to grab some caf,” the woman sighs. After retrieving her leather jacket from its hook beside the door, she scoffs on her way out of the room. “I’ll get you some, too… Sure seems like you need it.”
You frown as you watch her vibrant orange lekku trail out of sight.
A natural consequence of keeping to one’s own thoughts, you suppose, is being branded as an inattentive airhead... All things considered, though, there are worse ways to sour your reputation.
What little talk there is of you around D’Qar has you pegged for a quiet, unassuming comms officer with no life beyond your desk. Fine by you—you’re not keen on letting your colleagues get close enough to discover the repulsive associations of your past.
Around base, you’re now known only as “ Sparks .” The allegedly good-natured nickname, usually used to refer to any radio operator, has been so reverently reserved for you and you alone. Memories of your personality—of everything you were on Corellia—were left behind in the blackness of space, and now, even your true name seems lost to time.
Despair at the thought always leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but you have to remind yourself that you’re not here to make friends—
You’re here, on D’Qar, sitting at a desk… To repent.
A peculiar sound begins gently ringing from somewhere atop your desk, causing you to startle to attention.
You look to your primary comms panel in confusion—no lights, no noise—it can’t be coming from there.
Frantically shuffling through the papers lining your workspace, you check your other devices—it’s not the datapad, nor is it your headset. What…?
Your gaze stills when you catch sight of a faint orange glow.
Pushing aside the pile of your discarded jacket, you stare at the ancient transmitter in the corner, dumbfounded.
The thing is a relic of a bygone age, one you have long assumed was merely a decoration… But now, to your utter bafflement, here it stands—blinking light, trilling receiver, as if proudly heralding its own return from the grave.
…Maker, what do you do? Who could possibly be calling you from an antique like this one?
You swallow down an anxious breath, instinctively darting your gaze back to the empty room behind you.
When you return your attention to your desk, your hand stills where it reaches for the receiver. You dart a nervous glance back over your shoulder, only to be reminded that you are alone—uncertain, and as always, alone.
In the dim lighting of the comms center, the blinking light of the radio could be just another star.