How To Save A Life

"Thanks, Corporal," Glayde muttered, his voice subdued; lacking in the enthusiasm he might otherwise have managed to conjure into his words. He wasn't one of those irritatingly friendly officers, who insisted on trying to get all up-close and personal with the troops, being all smiles and charm, sharing drinks and stories in the bar as if they were all best buddies, and then somehow expecting to command respect from people who thought he was just another generic private. Glayde didn't do that: any overtones of friendship he projected towards his comrades were always geniune. Even so, he wasn't the gruff and grizzled, personality transplant kind of officer either. Subordinate or not, these people were sentient beings, after all.

Today, the effort didn't come. Didn't feel appropriate to even try to lighten the mood. Back in the Stormtrooper Corps, he'd managed to avoid the responsibility of ever having to talk to the family of a soldier who'd died. In the Rebel Alliance, well, most of the people he'd worked with had no family, or their family already believed them dead. Fitting then that in this case, the situation was a little obscure; a little reverse. This time you see, the officer under his command was very much alive; it was the family that was dead - or part of it, at least. In the box the Corporal had just delivered was the last remnants of the family of one Lieutenant Charlotte Tur'enne; and to twist the strangeness further, it was they who were going to talk to him.

Glayde waited until the Corporal had departed and the door had closed behind him before he popped the seal on the container and lifted the lid aside. A datapad rested inside; glancing at it, he skimmed a brief covering letter from Colonel Dalgas, explaining the container for what it was. A cryptic reference pulled a frown to the Major's brow - Watch this first: I thought it was addressed to me, but I think it's meant for you.

Curiosity piqued, he rummaged through the container for the corresponding item, confirming the aurebesh reference code to ensure that the holodisk was the correct one. Settling down behind his cluttered work station, he slipped the disk into the desktop holoplayer and, with a deep breath, hit play.

Cresh Company, 5th division 5th regiment, a specialized taskforce that did, well, frak-knew what half the time it was so covered in the words: Top Secret. Infiltrators, saboteurs, assassins, but more often referred to in less than favorable terms. All commanded by a man whose very presence would demand attention and respect, ugly rumors aside. The holo image took nothing away from his ability to entirely captivate a room. Lt. Colonel Jhoren Rask sat in what looked like it had been a makeshift briefing room.

"Record states I should probably start this off with my damn name and title, but if you're watching this, you know damn well who I am. Or more to the point, who I was." A loud and shape exhale from his nose let off the trace of amusement he found in his own statement.

"At least, if you're watching this, I better as hell be dead and if that's the case, then there's a damn good chance the rest of my company is as well. All except one, and if I know that kid she'd have been damn happy to go down with us as well."

The Lt. Colonel took a deep breath and sat back, leaning against the wall behind him. "Which I suppose is why I'm making this damned thing in the first place. I don't like the thought of having to record this, but I know one day our luck will run out. All the boys know it too. They call my group suicidal, we take on the worst of the worst missions and not a one of us would have it any other way. All my boys have lost just about everything to the Empire and yes, I was more than willing to let them take back from those Imperial bastards in whatever way they often saw fit. And while I could go off on some rant about how I dare anyone to find me an honest soul who thinks they aren't deserving of it... that's not what this is about. It's about what they all wanted and that was for someone to get their personal effects who was going to give a care for them. A few months back there wasn't a soul in the entire galaxy. My first version of this damn message actually was to make a request on their behalf that it all be loaded up in an old freighter and blown to bits, but now they had other ideas."

His weight shifted as his shoulders rolled back. "I let one of my soldiers go not too long ago. Practically an unheard thing considering I've hand-picked all these kids and yes, I caught a ton of flak from the rest of them just for thinking it. But the request came in and I knew I had to let this one move on, despite how much I didn't want it, despite how much her and boys protested it when it happened. Either way, it's to that solider that all these items are to get sent to: Charlotte Tur'enne. I hope by the time this message is viewed that she's gotten her act together and isn't just a Junior Officer anymore." Rask had to pause and laugh deeply a bit.

"But this message isn't for her. Everything else is, and you better damn well see it gets to her. No, I'm directing this little bit at whoever has the task of being her Commanding Officer when this finally gets out. Tur'enne's been nothing short of a daughter to me in the time she served in Cresh, just as all the others are like my sons. I've done everything in my power to make sure that kid didn't get a raw deal when joining up and like hell I'm going to have all that fall apart just because I'm dead."

"Tur'enne will push your buttons at times. If you haven't figured that out by now, trust me you will. She'll find where they are and jab you when you least expect it. Feel free to do the same back at her, I get the feeling it's her way of showing you she respects you in some form or another. That being said... there's some official things I need to clear up that having her under my command I feel the need to let whoever has that honor now to know of..."

Rask was silent a while, wrinkles forming at his brow as he thought of his next words. "Cresh picked Tur'enne up on Corellia during one of our missions. We were there to destroy a small Imperial communications base that had been set up in a warehouse. Simple mission, easy enough. We hadn't expected to find that the damn Imps had been the target of the Corellian resistance movement a few weeks before, nor had we expected to find that the frakking plastic soldiers that survived had taken a prisoner from that failed attack. It was my Captain that came across her. Kid had been worked over like I haven't seen in a long time... I won't go into details, I owe her that amount of respect towards the situation. I will say that the boys thought she was dead when they first found her, though. Either way, when she was healed up she wanted to join us. I wasn't about to tell her no... I've kept her from having to go through the usual paperwork and shit that the Alliance thinks is important. Psych evals and all that crap. It didn't take me long to find out my instincts on the matter were spot on. She's unorthodox, questions orders, and can often be a damn pain in your ass... but I will tell you now I've never had to mistrust her instincts on a mission, and she's always done what needed to be to ensure we were successful."

The man sighed heavily and sat forward again. "It's probably pretty stupid of me to put this in any form that can actually get out, but there you have it. But I want this known outright, she may never have had to go through the hell that was proper SpecForce training... but none of us have ever been through the hell she has either. You have a damn good solider on your hands and you're a fool if you don't keep it that way just because I didn't go through normal routines to have her become one. Most of her records have been falsified to prevent anyone from knowing she's never had a proper evaluation prior to my making her an Officer in my unit and I went through a lot to make sure that it was done without raising any alarms. I'd appreciate if you didn't go blowing any whistles and destroying all my efforts. I'm only saying this because I have a lot of damn respect for anyone who leads a SpecForce group and think you had the right to know what you have with you."

A nod of his head came before the expression on his face softened. "One last favor I have to ask is that you give Charlie my best. Kid means a hell of a lot to me and the boys and I know she feels the same way about us. If we're gone, I can't even begin to imagine what it's going to do to her when she finds out. Hopefully having all these things from the boys will soften the blow."

His gaze moved back away from the focus point of the holocam to beyond it, a nod given to the one handling it and the recording ended.

The glow faded automatically, the projected display disappearing from view and taking Colonel Rask's grizzled visage with it. He didn't notice: stared blankly through the air where it had been with eyes that didn't see. His mind was elsewhere, reliving the details that the Colonel had imparted.

John didn't know what to think. He wasn't sure he could remember how. Some sort of numbness had crept over him; urges to say painfully redundant things like: 'My gods, Charlotte: I didn't know.' Of course he didn't kriffing know. That was the whole point. He struggled with the new reality that the revelation made; struggled with the notion that it shouldn't have changed things, but did. She was such a unique individual, with such unique problems; she needed more than leadership from her commanding officer. He supposed they all were, and all did.

Though he'd been told that her old Company had been practically family to her, he hadn't realised just how close and literal that bond was: or indeed, how much it had flowed in both directions. Colonel Rask had seemed nothing short of paternal, and while his words had been recorded in an empty room, months ago and lightyears away, he couldn't help feeling that they spoke, absolutely dedicated to them, those steely eyes peering direct into his soul, scrutinising to see if he was worthy of caring for someone that Rask had thought worthy to be a part of his family.

Glayde allowed him an admittedly arrogant moment of comparison. Though on a smaller scale, the unit Glayde had crafted here was similarly hand-picked: those who Glayde believed to be the best and the brightest; or at least, those he had worked with before, and trusted to a degree to continue doing what they had. He supposed then that it made him the father to these people; or at least, the idiot elder brother left in charge because there was no one else around to play the responsible adult. He'd done yelling at grunts before. He'd never done family. Not even back home. Things with his father had been- well, the guy was hardly a role model he could draw from. He couldn't search through memories for inspiration on how to be the kind of leader that each of the individuals on his team needed him to be.

But he could look to Rask.

Dragging himself from his reverie, and his seat, his attention returned to the container - the effects that he'd been asked to pass along to Charlotte. They weren't personnel effects, or miscellaneous articles anymore. They were books. They were photographs. They were albums; a pair of patched-up spectacles; a pocket knife adorned with lettering that made it look to Glayde's untrained eye as if it were from Naboo. There was a cracked and battered mug - much loved, if the number of times it had apparently been glued back together was anything to go by - decorated with the emblem of the Corellian Dreadnaughts; Glayde smiled at the thought that the Fifth had contained a smashball fan with a discerning taste in teams.

Suddenly he found himself overcome, desperate to learn everything about Colonel Rask's makeshift family, and the people he had allowed to be part of it. Maybe through their legacy, he could learn how to take care of the members of his own.

He thought of the crux of Rask's message; a request that Glayde take care of one of those members in particular. His eyes settled on the holoplayer with determination. "It's a promise, Colonel," he assured, sliding the disk free of the device and exchanging it for another that he'd retrieved from the container. He settled down into his seat again, and prodded the device into life. "I just need you to show me how."

As the holovid flickered to life, the blue figures shown almost entirely out of focus as the general cacophony of a handful of voices filling what could best be made out as a mess hall sprang to life. There was some cursing, soft in nature but clearly heard over the rest of the noise before everything finally came into clear view, revealing a group of men in a small circle playing a game of sabacc. Even though he wasn't centered, nor even fully in view, the figure of Lt. Colonel Rask could easily be made out as he let a boisterous laugh come from him as he apparently won the hand.

Finally, the voice of the one who had been cursing before came in louder, filled with youth and a general optimistic feel. "Finally. Kriff, never thought I'd get this thing working!"

The figures playing cards became larger as the operator of the holo-camera walked towards them. Rask glanced up as he was approached a bit and pulled a cigar from his mouth and gestured towards the lens. "Corporal Wendin, just what in the frak do you think you are doing?"

"Diary of sorts, sir! I used to record just about everything back home, haven't really gotten a chance to since I joined up with the Rebellion, but I found this old piece of junk, fixed it up, and well... it seems like it'll work!" The voice of the narrator snapped back.

Rask shook his head and let another small laugh leave him. "Hope you show us all in a good light, son."

A hand briefly came into view, belonging to Wendin as he quickly saluted the Lt. Colonel. "You got it, sir."

The card game continued as the voice of Corporal Wendin spoke up again. "Well guess I should start this mess by introducing the guys here... first we got the Colonel, of course. Then next to him is Captain Mardesh, then Corporal Cole, and Specialist Karrado..." As the names were said the men each reacted. The Captain raised a heavily tattooed arm and waved slightly, keeping his eyes on the cards. Cole and Karrado both responded with a lewd gesture and a laugh a piece.

"Then we got Sarge Terrek... and Corporal Norith, he's our medic." Wendin continued, another small wave came from the Sergeant, but the medic looked up after he backed out of the current hand and shook his head.

"Oh come on, Wendy. If this is a diary of sorts do you really need to go with all our names?"
"Why not?"
"You afraid you'll forget us?" Norith pursed his lips in a pouty and obviously mocking way before batting his eyes and then let the facade drop, gathering a few laughs from those sitting closest to him.
"Like I could ever forget an ulgy mug like yours, Cypher."

A round of taunting "OOooohh"s was started by the recipient of the comment himself before the others chimed in.

Rask was the one who brought it to an end as he tapped the table. "Alright you goons, enough of that. Mardesh you in or not?"

"Yeah yeah, Rask. Didn't realize you were wanting to lose your creds that fast."

Another bit of laughter came from the group as they were moved away from, becoming smaller in the holo image before the entire world suddenly was turned end over end, adjusted, and then the single figure of the young corporal became the only thing able to be seen, the sounds of the card game and others elsewhere in the room still apparent.

"You see? That's what makes us better than the rest. We all know our places on the field, but when it comes to downtime we're just us. Officers, Non-coms, Captain, Private... just a bunch of words. That was one of the things that Rask told us when we first joined in: There's a time and a place for that sort of thing, but when we're not on assignment we're just family. Probably a damn right dysfunctional one-"

The Corporal's little monologue was interrupted by an outburst of cheering to his left. A wide grin spread across his features as he returned his attention to the holo-camera. "Guess the Dreadnoughts just scored. Corporal Langley's the only one who thinks they don't got what it takes to take it all the way this season, but what the frak does he know? He's one of the Alderaan boys and despite them being good men, they know precisely kriff when it comes to smashball."

More ruckus from both the group playing cards and the others paying attention to the game drew another smile from Wendin who glanced over to the former again. "Alright, well, I aint missing this one for the world. So for now this is Corporal Tony Wendin, signing off!"

The image distorted, another bout of cheering erupted and the holovid came to an end.

A flicker of a smile ghosted across Glayde's face at Wendin's smashball comment. "You're right, Tony, they don't," he agreed, liking the young Corporal already. He echoed the sentiments of the squad, judging from the time code - more than five years ago now; christ - and had even thrown credits in along with his support of the Dreadnoughts. He expected that the Cresh boys - aside from Corporal Langley, of course - would have been as shocked and appauled as he was at that surprise 3rd period change of pace that had caught the 'Noughts off-guard, and secured a win for the Imperial Center Buccaneers.

He shook his head, remembering a little whistfully the days back then. He was still a Sergeant, if memory served; though it hadn't been long after that someone had made the genius decision to step him into dead man's boots and make him the Lieutenant of his Squad. It had all been downhill from there, really; leadership, responsibility, paperwork -

And Mara. A stab of regret twisted in his stomach at that. She'd been young, and he hadn't. That was always a bad mix. And sure, it had been fun; innocent enough too, as far as he'd known. On every occasion since, they'd worked well together, almost as if their mines were in tune. But lately things had been off, and with everything that had been going on recently, Glayde had to wonder just how much damage their history together could wind up doing; not just to the unit, but to 'the family', too.

"Count yourself lucky, Colonel," he muttered in the direction of the holo-recordings, "That you didn't have to deal with an ex-girlfriend in yours."

His attention returned to the container of effects again, the recording set aside as he inspected more of Cresh's personal items. He started guessing at who they might belong to, based on what he'd seen; could have sworn he'd seen the Captain idling with that lighter in the background while they'd been playing cards, for example. He mimicked the Captain's gesture: flipping the top open, flicking it closed. It felt oddly satisfying. He resisted the urge to toy the flint, and test if the container still held good gas; it was Charlotte's now. Not his place to try.

The tin of deathsticks was hers too, not that he'd ever seen her light one up. It was dented and scarred, but still shone like new: loved, he guessed was the proper term. He flipped it open, eyes falling on an engraving on the inside of the lid, spelling out words in ornate, flowing letters.

To my Jhoren. Stay safe, my love. - Elayne.

Jhoren Rask. Elayne was a wife, he guessed. He hadn't red the man's file - hadn't had cause to, until now - but given the way that Rask had spoken, and given the way he acted towards his unit, and Charlotte in particular, he guessed that he was a family man. Was a family man. Glayde knew a man like Rask would have hated having sympathy directed towards him, but Glayde felt it anyway. He'd lost parents; he'd lost a sister. But never a wife; never a child. Or children, maybe. With gentle care, he closed the case, and vowed to put not just faces, but lives to each and every one of these new names he was learning.

Something heavy caught his attention; with a heave he pulled free the durasteel sheet, and turned it over in his hands. Looked like an armour panel from an Imperial speeder: a shot-out Imperial speeder, if the blast twisting towards the edges, and the peppering of blaster scorch on the back was anything to go by. Someone had gone to a great deal of effort to turn it into a picture frame; the image inside was hardcopy, rather than a holostill. It was a little faded, but the faces were still clear: sixteen smiling, scowling, or lewdly gesturing members of Cresh Company. Sixteen, because they included one extra young woman, surrounded by her brothers in life as well as brothers in arms, the broadest grin he'd ever seen plastered across her face.

The sight made a leaden weight form in his gut. He couldn't remember ever seeing Charlotte in that good a mood; couldn't really think of a smile that hadn't been forced, or wasn't marred by other emotions in some way.

Beneath where the picture had been, a handful more data recordings nestled. He lifted them gently free and, setting the photograph up so that Cresh could watch this miniature recital of their lives as well, slid the next data disc into the reader, and hit play.

"Hey... hey is it going to work or not?" The voice of Corporal Wendin came as soon as the typical blue glow of the holovid came to life once more. Though the voice was all there was, no actual figures or shapes to be made out.

"Relax, Tony... I think it just got knocked around a bit. I told you not to leave the silly thing in your bag. You know the way those Starkos boys throw things around."

"Well, yeah, but I figured my gear would provide some padding!"

The other voice chuckled before speaking up again. "Yeah well, lesson learned right?"

A sharp click was heard before the figure of the Corporal suddenly registered, his face etched with the fretting that had been clear in his voice.

"There we go." The other voice spoke up triumphantly. "Good as... well, as it ever was. Didn't even need to get you any replacement parts."

Tony Wendin's face lit up as he reached out to take the holocam. "I owe you one, Mikky!"

"Damn right you do."

"Wendin, L-T, stop fraking with that thing. Rask wants to run through the op again." No sooner had Wendin got the holocam back in his hands than it swung over to the image of Captain Mardesh who waited a beat before speaking again. "Come on, ladies. Don't have all day on this one."

As he turned around and left the room the holo image slowly panned to the individual who had been in the same room as Wendin to begin with. He shrugged his shoulders and stood up. "Alright Corporal, you heard the man."

"Hey L-T, you think I could bring this along on a mission some time?"

The image of Lieutenant Janek smiled and shrugged his shoulders again. "Maybe. Just not this time. Now, you heard the Captain, let's go."

As the blue glow of the holovid faded out, so did Wendin's voice as he begrudgingly agreed.

No sooner than it faded out than the glow returned, the image of the same Lieutenant reappeared, sitting in a chair that seemed to be leaning up against a wall near a door. The smile had faded and he was pressing his thumb and index finger against his forehead, rubbing in small circles as if trying to alleviate a headache.

"Hey L-T..." Wendin's voice didn't cause the man to move. "How... how's that kid?"

A heavy sigh left Lieutenant Mikhail Janek and his hand lowered. "I don't know, Corporal." Another heavy breath was taken as he began to crack the knuckles on his right hand. "I just don't have answers right now."

"If there's anything you need..."

Janek looked up and let a small smile come to him. "Nah I'm fine. Though, probably not the best time for that." He motioned to the holocam. "However, Norith is patching up Tardun right now, I'd like to see the footage of that later, should be worth a laugh."

"You got it Mikky!"

The images blurred into the vague shapes of a hall lined with various doors, some sort of commotion was heard before it got louder with each step that was taken by Wendin before finally the image swung into a door, the images of Sergeant Sam Tardun and Corporal Cypher Norith came into view. And just as the Lieutenant had said, Tardun was on a table as Norith appeared to be attempting to tend to the man's leg that had been seared with a blaster shot.

"Will you STOP moving, Sarge!"

"Frink you, Norith. I don't need this. It'll be fine."

"Yeah, like you'll be saying that as you hobble around later whining like a baby. Now sit still!"

"It's just a scratch! Rask even said so."

As the men argued, Tardun continually tried to make a move to leave the table, the cringes that came to him gave away the fact the injury hurt far worse than he was trying to let on.

"Well it was Rask who told me to make sure you got healed up. I only need to slap some damn bacta on it and wrap it up."

"And I'm tellin' you I can handle it myself."

The laugh that came behind the holocam caused both men to turn to face it. Sergeant Tardun was the first to speak up again.

"Oh you think this is funny, huh, Tony? Come here so I can give Cy something really to fix." He raised his fist and shook it slightly to emphasize the point.

"I'd love to see you try. Hopping on one leg to try and catch me... that might even make a highlight reel!"

"Frak you, Wendin."

"You aren't going to be fraking anyone if you get a damn infection, Sam." The medic chimed back in, having manged to actually begin treating his patient with Tardun's attention focused on the Corporal.

"Tony... if you don't turn that damn thing off right now, I'm going to make you eat it!"

"Aw, come on, Sarge... you look good in blue graininess."

"Tony..." There was a clear warning in his voice as Tardun sat up again and Norith pulled away from him, clear victory in his face showing he'd managed to finish his work... which left the Sergeant free to make good on his threat.

As Sam stood up, the look in his eye was a mixture of the remaining pain in his leg, mischief, and a hint of malicious intent. He lunged forward, Wendin cursed and the holovid cut out.

The smile on Glayde's face felt strange as he paced down the corridors of the ship, memories of the various Cresh recordings he'd watched thus far playing out in his mind; there were more to watch, but right now he had an errand to run. A mission, in fact.

It seemed wrong to draw amusement from the exploits of people who were dead; felt disrespectful, somehow. But then, the whole point of the recordings was that they were funny as hell, and through watching, he made the members of Cresh become alive in his mind; stropped them just being a meaningless casualty report. These were people; not names. Flesh and blood; not just faces in a photograph. And yet, the Alliance had it backwards. To the Rebellion, they were casualties of war; martyrs to the cause at best. Even their names didn't mean anything: "Cresh" was just a designation, and would be recycled to a new unit in due course. Another team of Infiltrators would take up the name; maybe even take up the mantle; but those that went before would just be dead and forgotten.

The notion twisted in Glayde's gut like a knife. Cresh's legacy would live on in Lieutenant Tur'enne, and now in his own memory; but that was it. Hardly seemed just; hardly fitting. Sure, people died for the Rebellion every day, and no one person was more valuable as an individual than any other. If he could, Glayde would have found a way to honour each and every one of their memories. That was something he couldn't do; but for Cresh, there was a chance he could make a difference.

His fingers settled on the chime outside Dalgas' office; the door opened at an instruction from the Colonel, and Glayde stepped inside. Platitudes were changed in a series of grunts and nods; the two spoke to each other often enough each day to make anything more seem superfluous and worthless. Hell, the Colonel barely even peeled his eyes away from the report he was reading initially, until he finally raised his gaze to fire a questioning look in Glayde's direction.

"I know you've been evaluating candidate units for the Regiment," he began, advancing a few slow paces to stand within arm's reach of his desk. "I know you've already selected a unit of Pathfinders and of Marines as our Aurek and Besh." He hesitated, retrieving the datapad from behind his back, and settled it down in front of Dalgas. "I'd like to submit an Infiltrators unit for candidacy."

"Frak frak frak!!! That kriffing HURTS!!!" Wendin's voice came loud over the audio before a ruckus of laughter followed.

What quickly followed in view was an actual visual of the brown-haired, young faced, Corporal sitting in a chair as a rather scruffy looking man rolled his eyes and went back to work on a tattoo on the left side of Anthony's chest, just over where his heart was.

Captain Mardesh's voice came from the side. "Quit being a wimp, Tony. It aint no big deal. You keep fidgeting though and he'll probably muck it up and have to do it over."

The holovid's view panned over to the Captain who held a mug of what appeared to be a dark beer in his hand. He saluted his Corporal with the beverage and laughed as another curse from Wendin came from off screen.

The one operating the holocam laughed too, another young voice.

"Be careful with that thing, will ya, Owen?" Wendin asked in an almost pleading tone before letting out another marginally pained yelp.

"Will do, Tony!" The over enthusiastic voice of Corporal Owen Langley replied before the view began to pan over the other members of Cresh, most still with their shirts off, comparing tattoos that all were in the same place Wendin was receiving his artwork in.

The marking was the official designated logo that Cresh Company, the 5x5, had been given. Even the twin brothers, Privates Kyle and Joran Starkos seemed pleased with the replication being exact. Rask himself was tugging a plain t-shirt back on somewhere in the background but the quick view had revealed that he too bore the same marking as his specialized task force.

The only odd person in the group was a young blond girl, her hair pulled back into two short pigtails who watched the tattooing of Corporal Wendin with a strange satisfactory smirk on her lips, giggling slightly every time the man let out another note he wasn't exactly enjoying the process.

The holovid operator took a quick jaunt over to the girl as she sat on a stool in the tattoo parlor, she smiled slightly as Langley approached. "Hey Ryschcate... where'd you end up getting yours?"

The blond girl brought a finger up to her lips in a mysterious and mischievous way before the figure of Lieutenant Janek suddenly was behind her and shook his head. "You've got better questions to be asking folks, Owen. Maybe the new L-T will be kind enough to show us all later."

Janek's voice had been teasing, but a swift (although obviously gentle) elbow to his gut from Tur'enne brought a halt to it before the girl leaned against him slightly as he placed his arms over her shoulders loosely.

Lt. Janek nodded back to where the curses where coming from still. "Aren't you supposed to be recording Tony getting his tat anyway?"

Langley gave in, quipping a quick apology before the holovid's view turned back to Wendin just as the artist was finishing up on the tattoo. Wendin showed off the Cresh Company logo adorned on his chest with pride.

Off to the left, Captain Mardesh's voice could be heard once more. "Nice there, Tony. Alrighty boys... Next!"

Corporal Wendin reached forward to grab the holocam and it's view went dark and silent once more.

Glayde stepped through the doors. He tried intently to clasp the datapad in a manner that would seem inconspicuous and casual, but in truth his knuckles were white, and his clenched grasp was truely testing how appropriate it was to call the material duraplast. He couldn't help it, and that simple fact frustrated him no end. The pad contained a simple gesture towards one of his new subordinates, almost paternal in its novelty.

Yet, if that was the case, why did it matter so much?

He told himself that his concern was purely towards self-preservation. Had he misinterpreted the Lieutenant's personality, she might take offense. Having read the incident report of what had transpired when her brother did the same, he would certainly be justified in his concern for the structural integrity of his face. But that simple an explanation didn't quite ring true, and honestly, he didn't have the faintest idea why he felt so nervous.

He forced his concerns aside, focussing instead on the incoming shuttle; engaging in the game from his childhood of running through the various command sequences that the shuttle pilot would be inputting to make the craft behave the way it did. Kill power to sublight engines; coast the shuttle in on repulsorlifts only; a squeeze of reverse thrust to kill the forward momentum; extend the landing gear; rotate to starboard; braking thrusters again; reduce power on the repulsorlifts gently until contact; kill repulsorlifts; kill main power.

In his mind, phantom limbs flicked the various controls on an imaginary console that would bring those operations to pass. In sync with his closing motions, the whine of the shuttle's drive sequence dove from it's high pitch, through a low rumble, into silence. A tug of a smile, self-satisfied at his timing, crept onto his face. No time for that, though.

He could have waited, he supposed. Found her some other time. Called her to his office, maybe. That would have seemed too formal - made too much out of his gesture. He needed to catch her in passing, but in their line of work - and with her usual antics - there was seldom the time. So here it was then, his only opportunity: catch her as she stepped off the shuttle from her most recent assignment.

He watched her as she stepped out of the shuttle's inards, onto the boarding ramp. His muscles tensed, preparing himself to spring into action should he need to defend himself against a tired, frustrated, and mission-weary Charlotte. "Lieutenant," he called, an upwards jerk of his head both drawing attention to his presence, and offering a crude greeting, beckoning her over.

There was a myriad of things that Charles had planned to do as soon as I get back... immediately speaking with her superior was not one of them. A long breath was let out through barely parted lips as her feet led her towards where her mind was already sprinting away from.

The mission with Starborn had left her feeling, at best, drained. Yet given the circumstances that she had left to the mission with, she'd been pretty damn drained to begin with. Charles wasn't quite sure what was keeping her from being a complete and total emotional mess at that moment but was damn thankful for it anyway.

Needless to say, the usual fight in her had been put on its ass, so there wasn't even an attempt made to try and hide the fact that her trip away could never really have been confused for any sort of vacation.

"Something I can do for you, Sir?"

Sir...? When the hell did Charles ever call Glayde 'Sir'? If that was any gauge to go by then this conversation was going to be a long one... or maybe a blissfully short one. Charles didn't think she had the luck to even begin to hope for the second option.

Glayde wasn't sure which contributed more to the brief spark of amusement in his chest: the fact that she'd called him sir, or the subtle hint of surprise in her eyes after she'd caught herself doing so. There was something else, too, but he wasn't even sure there was a name assigned to that particular emotion. It was that weird, slightly heart-warming feeling, when you feel yourself sighing a little and smiling a little because someone went and did something so quintessentially them. It was familiarity, he supposed, and the warmth of reassurance and comfort that came from that; but the description didn't sound quite right.

A myriad of words in Basic to describe the size of the headache this unit keeps causing me, he mused to himself, And yet not a single one to describe that. Go figure.

He pushed his thoughts aside, diverting himself back to his current task. A hand ran swiftly down his jaw, wiping away any potential trace of a smile while he carefully adjusted his brow into a frown. "I don't want to keep you long, Lieutenant: I just need to give you this." Siezing the appropriate moment, he handed the datapad in her direction, eyebrows shifting a little as he offered additional explanation. "Transfer orders, direct from the Colonel. Wanted to make sure you got them as soon as possible."

The weight of her bag on her shoulder suddenly seemed very heavy and her mind slammed itself back to the series of events that happened before she had left on the force-forsaken mission that Celeste Starborn had dubbed her worthy of.

The bag's strap was adjusted on her shoulder and she eyed the datapad for a bit. Things stacked in her mind as if she was viewing everything in rewind, the mission, the day before leaving for the mission where she had found Alexander outside of Captain Tallen's quarters, the day before that when 'Mister Tur'enne' had pretty much earned her eternal ire, the days of off-duty punishment that she could only remember some of, the conversation with John. 'I want you to stay.'

"Right..." Whatever disbelief she could muster was let loose in the single word as she eyed the Major again and took the datapad from him.

But the look on his face had been fairly serious. You didn't kid about that sort of thing. Transfer orders. She didn't bother to look a them before the anger seeped its way to the forefront of her thought process.

"Why?" All the reasons associated with that couldn't have been more clear and in typical fashion Charles didn't give a damn if Glayde could sense every bit of it. The where didn't matter at that moment.

There was another feeling that Glayde didn't have a name for: but given how it felt as if a black hole had opened up in his chest, he hoped against hope that he'd never need a name for it, because he never wanted to feel it again.

Here was him, rehersing this conversation in his head to make it into a scene worthy of one of Onashi's trashy novels; and he was pretty sure, after the thirteenth or fourteenth time of mumbling what he was going to say under his breath as he walked down the corridors, that he'd hit on to a winner.

If that was true, why had it all gone so wrong? Why was Charlotte standing there with a look on her face that made him want to sweep her up in his arms, hold her close, and find some way to undo the terrible wrong he'd inadvertantly afflicted?

His face, and his shoulders fell; his eyes did too, unwilling to allow himself to look at her anymore. He had to swallow hard to loosen his suddenly swollen throat enough to find his voice. "Just read," was all he managed to say.

She wanted to spit out a firm no and demand he tell her, demand he actually say what this was about rather than taking the easy way out. But the lingering exhaustion from the mission to Nelvaan crept its way back up into her, coating her entirely to where she simply gave the Major a blank stare before her shoulders slumped and her eyes went downward to the transfer orders.

The usual verbal pomp was glossed over, Charles had read that bit not too long ago to pretty much know all the overly technical words for you're getting shipped off with another crew. But when she came to the heart of it, the actual information, she was forced to stop... to read the information again...

At first she thought there must have been a mistake. Then that it was some sort of cruel joke. Then back to the mistake...

"I'm... being transferred... back to Cresh?" Taskforce Unit Cresh at that, Fifth Division-5th Regiment, where she had come from, where she had considered was her home with the alliance before Dorn.

Charles looked up slowly, all questions of how the hell she could be transferred to a unit full of dead men plain to see.

Another glance was given to the datapad and it hit her. A sudden vision of dropping her bag and running over and throwing her arms around the Major was thought of and immediately shoved away.

"You... you did this?" The question of why was considered, but her own mind answered it enough for her. Her lower lip was bitten slightly before she managed to spit out what was lingering on her tongue. "...Thank you."

The bag on her shoulder was readjusted once more, not that it felt particularly heavy any longer, more just to keep herself from doing anything stupid. A deep breath was taken and a smile that wasn't quite forced came to her.

"So, how's this gonna work? I can't exactly go running about the galaxy all on my own..." The smile became a smirk. "And unless the Alliance has figured out how to raise the dead..."

Glayde kept his responses simple, and his tone reasonably neutral, not wanting to push his luck any further; even so, he couldn't help the faint quirk of a smile that crept onto his lips and into his voice, more from relief than anything else.

"Officially, you'll be on detatched duty with Dorn Force, serving as an embedded member of my team," he explained. "Unofficially, the status quo pretty much remains the same. I just -" His brow twitched, eyes falling away as he struggled to put his motivations into words. "- I thought you might, you know."

He sighed, frown deepening. With a struggle, he managed to drag his eyes back to hers, but his forehead remained deeply furrowed. "Cresh was more than just a unit; more than just soldiers. More than just good men. They were a family. Your family." That word resonated in his mind, dredging up memories of his lost sister that only made his mind more confused.

He finally managed to gather together some resolve. "Without you, the name 'Cresh' gets recycled to another unit, and it fades away into a memory. With you, we get to keep the name, and the legacy, alive. I wanted -" He trailed off, again. "I wanted to make sure you had that chance."

It didn't feel natural, the resounding sense of gratitude and all other thoughts along with it. This sort of thing didn't happen lightly. Having a single member in a unit just didn't happen. And yet, Glayde had managed to pull strings and make the impossible possible. True, it wasn't as good as if he'd somehow managed to find out that documents had been falsified and all members of Cresh were alive and accounted for... but it was damn close as far as Charlotte was concerned.

The usual sentiments of you didn't have to, I'm not worth this, and such went unsaid as for once Charlotte had the better mind to realize when something would be distasteful.

Any sort of signal of military respect seemed out of place as well and the previous mental image of herself hugging John danced in her mind once more. She kept it in check... barely.

"Thank you... again. I... I really mean that."

As someone who had spent the majority of his career - heck, the majority of his life by this point - wearing some variant or other of the duraplast body plates of an Imperial Stormtrooper, and much of that conforming to the to-be-feared and to-be-respected stereotypes of an NCO, emotional situations were hardly Glayde's forté. They weren't alien to him, and he was hardly a droid: he just didn't know how to deal with them.

Adjusting to the Rebellion had thus been hard. While many of the freedom fighters who worked their way into the Alliance had experience in some military or another, far too many for his liking had stumbled in from other walks of life, and didn't have an acceptable concept of formality and discipline. Rather than force it upon them however, the Alliance relished in its liberty and diversity, perhaps purely because it made them such a stark contrast to the Empire, and the Imperial mentality. Thus, it was the veteran soldiers like himself who had to find a way to adapt.

As he stood there, insides squirming awkwardly as he struggled to concieve some sort of appropriate response, he realised just how far he still had to go towards that end. He couldn't segregate his military and emotional instincts here, like he could have with the Empire: that just wouldn't fly, particularly with the team he now worked with. He couldn't be the hard-assed bastard who commanded fear; he needed a different kind of respect.

At a loss for an alternative, he retreated into deflecting her gratitude with casual whimsy. "Don't mention it, Lieutenant," he offered, with a brief flash of a smile. "I wouldn't do any less for any other member of my team."

While his expression remained constant, inwardly he frowned, a question lingering in the back of his mind. Would I?