Chapter Text
Yavin 4 is hot and sticky and absolutely jam-packed with boisterous, obnoxiously enthusiastic rebels. The pilots are especially loud, and take any occasion to crowd around the watering hole and regale each other with tales of feats accomplished in the sky. They never care to address the underlying impatience though, at least not in front of the officers.
Talks of a planet killer have been circling the corps for months. Most of it is hearsay at best, and downright fairytale-like at worst. The stories make the fighters quiver in their bootstraps, in anticipation and fear; It's all the same to a mechanic like you. When all of the action ends up happening lightyears away, the Engineering Teams tend to become desensitised to the sensational fear mongering, and you are no exception. All you ever see of these inglorious exchanges with the Empire are the clipped wings of the charred starfighters that manage to make it back to base. Sometimes, you're thankful that's all you ever get to witness of battle.
Most of your life on Yavin consists of an achingly large workload with an endless backlog of repair work. Understaffed, the Engineering Teams often have to make do with shoddy work in favour of moving on to the next piece of scrap. It's never been in your belief that any job should be left half finished though, and that belief has given you multiple sleepless nights at the hangar and a host of physical aches and pains. The droids you work on, though, report next-to impeccable function, and the pilots prefer to come to you for repair work, so you'd say the trade-off is well worth it.
The monotony of your days is only broken up by official visits from High Command, and those are few and far between. Sometimes the jovial Mon Calamari Admiral would pass by with a joke or three, and a bottle of Corellian wine to sweeten the deal. Bail Organa often stopped for a moment to confer with Fay Drolla, Lead Engineer, and only spared a glance at the team before moving on. Generals Dodonna and Madine were to be updated frequently on the status of the navy fleet, and were quick to order mechanical improvements and repairs that were sometimes impossible to complete within their limited timeframe.
You've only ever caught a glimpse of Chancellor Mon Mothma once. Her arrival at Yavin had been tumultuous, and the impact of her departure from the Senate had been felt even here in the outer rim. As soon as her ship had docked, the rebels had lead a rousing cheer for the senator, who for her part looked slightly abashed. Then she was whisked away, and the day returned to normal. The only other signs of the Chancellor you've witnessed were flashes of auburn around the dinner tables, and the occasional plume of white robes as her entourage escorted her to and fro around base.
Which is why the sudden appearance of the Chancellor at your workbench is so eerily strange. Compounded by the fact that it is currently the dead of night, and the only other life form in the hangar happened to be a passed out Bothan pilot on a stool by the gates, you were feeling perturbed, to say the least. The woman stood by your work table, dressed down completely in a casual half sleeve top, loose-fitting tactical pants, and a slightly amused expression on her face. A very regal face. You remember yourself.
You jump up from your seat, the RA-7 arm in your hands clattering to the floor as you straighten into full salute. The sudden movement combined with how your spine had been stuck curled up for the past day sends a sharp twang of pain up your back, which you manage to hide adequately. The woman across from you seems to notice anyway, if her sudden wince has anything to do with it.
"At ease, please," she says, bringing her hands up almost apologetically.
You clear your throat, trying for a smile.
"Chancellor-" The woman holds her hand up, and your mouth clamps shut.
"I apologise for the disruption in your work," her eyes scan the table, taking in the heap of scrap lying off to the side. Her gaze returns to you. "And for bringing more."
From the look on her face, you take your cue to stay silent.
"I'm in the market for an amateur pilot, and from what I've heard, your skills in the cockpit match your skills with a wrench."
You're not sure where she heard such clearly infactual information, but she keeps talking and you're not one to interrupt.
"I'm... I'd like to be useful in more that one aspect of rebellion. If Coruscant has taught me anything," she crosses her arms and rolls her eyes in such a practiced way only an exasperated politician could achieve it. "I've been woefully unprepared in the face of danger. Something to be rectified immediately, I think."
You're beyond taken aback, but recover quickly enough.
"Of course, Chancellor, but wouldn't an official pilot be more qualified? Perhaps General Dodonna could assist-"
The Chancellor's eyes flash in both warning and alarm.
"No." She steps a fraction closer, her thighs hitting the table as she leans towards you conspiratorially. "This is all off the record. No squadron support, no babysitting. I just need someone capable with the controls."
The woman steps back, surveying the starfighters docked within the hangar.
"We can start with a Y-wing if you prefer," she says as she points to a down-trodden bomber near the rear. "I trust you're more than capable of keeping it up to code for our purposes."
"I- Of course, we can definitely start there." You attempt to seem more confident than you feel, and you're not feeling it at all.
"Excellent. I'll give you a day to prepare what you need. We'll meet here tomorrow night, and remember, ultimate discretion." The conversation seemingly over, the Chancellor bows her head slightly with an eager smile plastered across her face, before turning away and walking out the hangar gates.
You sit stiffly back in your forgotten seat. The RA-7 arm assembly has come apart onto the floor, spilling wires out like a fried nervous system. You feel as unravelled as it looks. In such a short and disquieting exchange, you hadn't had a chance to explain to the Chancellor that no, you're not a pilot at all. The contract has been sealed, metaphorically speaking, and somehow you're to learn the ins and outs of piloting warcrafts within the span of a day. The blood all but drains from your head, and it takes a few breaths to recenter yourself.
To your right, the drunk Bothan pilot lets out a horrendously loud snore that jolts you back to the present. Your eyes narrow, a plan forming in your mind. Perhaps all hope is not lost.