3-19 ELBOW DEEP

You find Master Corr within the Halls of Healing as expected. It’s late now, your misadventure having taken the majority of the day. However, that does not mean the Halls are any less busy. After all, there are still hundreds wounded to tend to; if they’re here, then they wouldn’t normally be getting discharged in a measly two days.

Outside, bodies still burn. The Jedi who fell at Geonosis are still being given their final send off. You scrunch up your nose, the smell of burning meat wafting up and down the corridors despite the funerals taking place out in the open courtyard. So many have been burned — with many more left to go — that the stench has saturated the air, clinging to the walls of the Temple and the clothes of those passing into the Temple.

You’ll have to get used to it. It seems everyone in here already has.

Master Corr leans against a wall, wiping blood off the countertop. To her left is a trooper, dead, despite her best efforts.

It’s weighing down on her. Every life lost is a burden to bear, no matter how hard she tries to keep it off her mind. She’s a Jedi. She cannot help but care, especially for the clones whose plight is already weighty and bleak.

Master Corr peels off her gloves, wrapping one inside the other and dumping them in a biohazard bin. She then pulls on another pair, retrieved from a hidden pocket in her medical garb. Disposable gloves for Mon Calamari aren’t exactly popular, especially with how they tend to interfere with the suction holes on their hands. Thus, it seems Master Corr has to hoard the gloves to herself when possible, for she’d have a difficult time finding more in an emergency.

You can’t help but stare at the expired trooper. Even from afar, you can make out the grisly details: multiple holes in the chest cavity and a huge chunk of his skull missing. It’s impressive he survived long enough for Master Corr to see him, though that doesn’t mean much anymore.

You’re not sure what to do at the moment. You stand outside the Halls of Healing, merely looking in. You don’t have the proper dress to enter, and you’re sure you wouldn’t be let in just to “visit.”

Finally, you make your decision; you’ll come back tomorrow. You’ll find Master Corr first thing in the morning and offer your help once again. This time, you’ll keep your promise. No more traipsing around, Master Corr needs you.

And so, you turn and head off. You’d best get some rest. Today was long enough, especially with all that excitement. Tomorrow may be longer still.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

The nameless marines proceed with speed, caring not for who or what gets in their way. They have a mission, a substantial time limit, and an annoying Navigator to satisfy. It seems that working fast will solve all their problems.

Their feet pound across the floor as they race through corridors fast enough to slam into opposing walls as they turn corners. Every so often, they come across heretics, combatants or not, who are rendered into an ugly splash of red in an instant.

“Have you found anything yet?”

The lead marine doesn’t even slow as he responds. “No, ma’am.”

He spins, firing his boltgun directly down the barrel of a cannon, somehow packed into the hallway he passes. The rounds already loaded into the cannon explode, triggered by the boltgun round, sending shrapnel and body parts flying.

He doesn’t blink, merely pausing to survey the carnage for a fraction of a second, then turns and begins running once again.

“Tick. Tock.”

“Ma’am, I thought you said you knew where it should be.”

The Navigator blinks, freezing in the middle of her lengthy stretch. She frowns, leaning against the stone balustrade. She closes her eyes, hiding the view of the flickering stars from sight, and casts her mind back down to the servo-skull.

The marine ducks, just barely avoiding the headbutt. It takes all of his restraint not to pound the skull into powder.

“No talking back! And, yes. I do know the area. I dropped you into it!”

“This… is a rather large area ma’am.”

“You saying my aim is shit?”

“No. Your information however—”

“Shut up. Follow the skull. This thing has more brains in it than you do! For the love of… “ she trails off into a long sigh. “Didn’t I tell you to grab someone and just interrogate them?”

“Yes, ma’am, but they don’t speak.”

“Have you asked them nicely?”

“We don’t ask heretics. But, yes, we did interrogate some as you asked us to, and they literally do not speak.”

“And why not?”

“It appears their tongues have rotted out of their mouths. We have an infestation here.”

“Eugh.” The Navigator shivers. “Alright. Fine, then. I’ll do the job for you. Follow the skull like I told you and protect it. Don’t you dare lose it! If you do, I’ll look to you for a replacement.”

With that, the skull rotates in the air, humming with an electronic resonance. Its internal auspex sweeps, sending the Navigator the requisite information. She sighs again, turning around sliding down, her back against the balusters. Her tail squeezes through a gap and hangs freely from the balcony.

“Karking hel. Why do I have to do all the work around here? Imbeciles…” she mutters.

“Ma’am?”

“Let me focus. You’ve gotten everything all turned around, and now I have to fix your hamfisted mistakes. Now be quiet and blast anything that shows up into pieces, unless it’s carrying our target.”

Now then. What to do?

The Navigator looks down, down, down — far down to the planet below where her skull and marines wait. Battles rage upon the surface, the surviving guardsmen having regrouped and begun assaulting any nearby entrances. Surprising, really. She’d expected them to all have perished within the first ten minutes of touchdown. Shows what can be done with enough bodies and faith.

She can’t rely on either right now, though. The Navigator looks further down into the complex, past the guards, past the smashed hallways and heretics, past the skull and marines.

Machinery. Heretics. Monsters. More heretics.

Piles and piles of bodies, rotting and creating a breeding ground for maggots and disease. Piles and piles of weapons, their maintenance and efficacy highly questionable.

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Piles of living people, squirming about as they bury themselves into each other’s entrails. Ew. No.

A shame that it’s far enough down that only more sizable munitions could strike it from orbit. Unfortunately, that would obliterate her skull and minions on the way down. She’ll have to hold off until later.

And…

What is that?

A room, large and spherical like her sanctuary, but its internals are blank — blocked off from her Sight.

How could that be? Nothing escapes her gaze!

Well, it certainly looks promising. That may be it, but how to get there?

The Navigator traces a series of paths backward, leading up toward her servo-skull and the dull marines. There seems to be several different options, most of which are terrible, stemming from being far too long. Others are too small; while the skull will fit easily, those clumsy, fat marines will barely be able to shove their own heads through some gaps. Not ideal.

She finally narrows it down to three.

Number one: run past or through rooms filled with armed heretics. Thousands of them swarm through the tunnel-like passages of the complex, reminiscent of eusocial insects. They bring comestibles and armaments and reinforcements to those fighting closer to the surface, then return with spoils of war that enrich the hive below. A fight it will be, but one four marines can easily take. The only problem is ammunition. The marines can carry a lot, but not enough to break their way through all the defenses while maintaining the supplies in case of emergency. They would be able to make it to the target, but if they find something there, they may not have the materiel to take care of it and return.

Well, in the event of that, the skull could probably make it out just fine via one of the smaller, safer paths.

Number two: go past those strange rooms. Sure, the room of guns isn’t exactly the strangest, but the other two are definitely going to be a problem in some way — she can just feel it. Unattended bodies, left to rot when she knows that monster is present… That’s not going to be a good time.

And that other room? Best left unsaid and unimagined until they get there. Hopefully the marines can find some sort of incendiary weapon on their way down.

Number three: have the marines run away! Only long enough for her to drop a big fat kiloton shell in the area, that is. However, if the target isn’t in that one room, and is somewhere else, then it’ll never be found again and the whole operation will be a failure. And, it’s not even guaranteed that the damage won’t reach that room. While she’s good, she’s not that good. She’d have to be practically omniscient to know how much destruction she’ll inflict with a macrocannon on one room, hundreds of meters deep in a buried fortification.

She’d be willing to risk it though, as the other plans just sound so tedious!

She chooses.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

“So, did you have any fun?”

Master Corr’s all smiles as usual, but behind that, you can sense the stress. However, she’s not about to let it out on you — not on her favorite Initiate! Her question is sincere, and you’re thankful for it.

“I did,” you say. Yet, you still must apologize. You did her wrong and you recognize that. And so, you do profusely.

Her response however, is a shrug. “Xena, I understand. You did what you needed to. Don’t beat yourself up over that. As long as you have a good reason for something, can you truly be blamed if you minorly inconvenience others?”

You’re about to respond, but she cuts you off with a gurgling giggle. “Heh. I know, I know. Yes. But, I do not blame you for your choice. I would have done the same, and I know I ain’t gonna be blaming myself! So, it’s fine.”

“Thank you, Master Corr.”

“Oh, don’t thank me just yet, Xena! I know you, you semi-responsible rascal. You’re also here to volunteer again, aren’t ya? I doubt you’ll be willing to even speak to me tonight after I work you to the bone!”

You hesitantly nod your head. You certainly were planning on it, but now that she’s couching her forgiveness with that “threat,” perhaps you aren’t so sure anymore. It’s too late though, for she immediately seizes your arm and starts dragging you toward the Halls, forcing you to tell her of your exploits on your way there.

Master Corr is always going to be Master Corr, a fact that you’ll give thanks for.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

“Good mornin’, trooper!” Master Corr chirps. The man sitting on the medical bed nods, stoic in outward demeanor, but filled with confusion inside.

He’s so very conflicted — his emotions a mess.

You pull the curtain closed as Master Corr steps forward, chatting to him as she prepares. In your hands is your datapad which you’re now remembering belonged to the Halls of Healing in the first place. You’ll make sure to put it back this time, before you leave.

You swipe your finger across the screen, navigating by memory without your sight. Master Corr circles around the front of the bed, drawing the trooper’s attention long enough for you to pull your head band down and check the trooper’s “name,” listed on a board at the foot of the bed. You find the profile in the datapad, noting down the date, time, and Master Corr’s name.

“—can you imagine it? What a wonderful time that would be!” you hear. Master Corr keeps the man’s attention on her, away from the suffering so plain in his mind.

He sits awkwardly, his right leg gone midway up the thigh. He pushes against the bed with a hand, steadying himself as his head swivels to follow Master Corr’s movements. Occasionally, his eyes flick toward you, wary of the other intruder in the room. You push the headband back up into place, cautious of accidentally hurting him with the gaze of your warp-eye.

Master Corr continues to chatter as she gets to work on him. She performs a quick checkup, using both standard and Force techniques.

“Tsk, tsk, young man. What have you been told about scratching?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“No. Don’t apologize. Just don’t do it! The stitches will only be there for a little while longer.”

“Yes’m.”

“Xena,” Master Corr turns to you. “Come here. Help keep the boy’s mind off the itching while I check through the others. I’ll be back in thirty minutes or less.”

“Uh, you’re leaving me here?”

“The patients around here don’t need much tending; just some checkups. All the hard work has been done on them, but we need to ensure they’re recovering. I don’t need you for that so I’ll come get you when we’re moving onto the next section. You alright with that?”

It’s not like you have much of a choice so you nod, then turn toward the trooper as Master Corr slips out.

The boy — no, the man — is confused.

Curious, uneasy, mournful, grateful, scared.

Young.

He’s younger than you are, yet not, at the very same time. It must be hard. You know it would be hard for you.

“I was born to fight. I was born for this,” he suddenly says.

You jump at his voice, unsure of whether you’d been speaking out loud or making your thoughts known directly. You struggle to find something to say. Something. Anything.

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.

“Why?”

He has a deep, but also soft voice — a strange combination, accentuating the paradoxical nature of his age and maturity. You keep your stammering to a minimum as you grasp for a reason.

“Because… because you shouldn’t have to do this. You’re in an awful position through no fault of your own.”

“But, without a war, what reason would I have for existence? Look, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. I’m alive. I might be able to fight again.”

He sits, chest puffed up proudly like a bird, but wobbles with the lack of support. You look up, and then in.

He’s putting up a brave front.

He sits in an unfamiliar environment, separated from his brothers, worried about others and deep down, so very sad for the ones he has lost.

But, he’s also grateful. Grateful that he wasn’t left behind. Grateful that there are people who are willing to keep him alive and return him to wellness as best they can.

Perhaps it isn’t really a “front.” He is brave.

And so, you’ll not bemoan his future — his past; his life — in front of him. You’ll speak to him as he is, and as you are.

“I’m Xena,” you finally introduce yourself with a bow.

His pose slackens as he blinks in surprise. He teeters worryingly, but fortunately catches himself before he topples over. He then smiles and awkwardly bows in return.

“CT-1061. It’s nice to meet you.”