Some Days More Than Others

[Untaaura Verratoa]

Goddess, she wanted to answer that question. Not just to herself, she knew exactly what she'd say, because she'd spent every moment alone occupied in that thought. Alone, and hoping that somewhere out there, she was listening. Sometimes she felt so close Untaaura could reach out and touch her. Other times, Untaaura felt so cold and alone that she was beyond the reach of anything.

But it was one thing to talk to the dead, and another thing to speak of the dead to the living. She knew the consequences - not just for herself, but also for Kuurramaai, or at least her memory and everyone else she left behind. Those consequences were terrifying.

"jI..."

She bit at her lower lip, and shook her head.

"...jI can't talk about jit."

And the knowledge that she had to continue to say nothing cut deeply.

[Arnan Jsorra]

Interesting. It was a question that Arnan was accustomed to people struggling with. More often than not, the answer was I don't know, and that began a journey of exploring feelings and regrets that often proved beneficial. Untaaura's response was different. It was not that she didn't know how to answer, it was that the answer was one she couldn't bring herself to say. Were this a trial, such a refusal would be damning, but this was different. It was an ongoing frustration of his work with members of the military: that knowledge that despite his assurances that their sessions were confidential, and despite the protections that doctor-patient privilege offered, he would still have to write a report at the end of it all, part and parcel of their ongoing medical records with the military. Any potential trust in him as a therapist and confidante was compromised by distrust in military hierarchies.

Worse was the fact that in some situations, it was right for him to break that confidence. In the military more than any other occupation, people's emotional state and struggles could be a danger not only to themselves and others, but to the mission, to security, and to the delicate balance of peace in the galaxy. An answer to his question that began with I forgive you could expose wrongdoing, addiction, and a swathe of other things that could compromise the Major's ability to perform her duties, or compromise the military's faith and belief in her ability to do so. For a culture like the Cizerack, an answer that began with I love you could potentially be even worse. Such things were private, and not the military's duty to address or police; and yet, by trying to avoid an admission that might damage her career, Untaaura ran the risk of doing exactly that.

Arnan chose his next words very carefully, slow and gentle, but earnest.

"I understand your reluctance, Major. I really do. But you should know that if there are issues and traumas that you can't bring yourself to speak about, I have to report that; and often, the fact that you are withholding something can look worse for you than the actual reality."

He hesitated.

"That said, you should also know that I am beholden to Alliance regulations, not Cizerack ones. Regardless of your own culture's beliefs and opinions, there is nothing in the Alliance regs that requires me to report your personal preferences; religious, political, or otherwise."

[Untaaura Verratoa]

Of course she'd considered that out the moment he framed the question. A confessional to an Alliance doctor, outside the Cizeri network, was possibly the best way to get all this off her chest, but it was risky as hell. Policy change, clerical error, or an outright lie might undo her, and all the secrets she shared with Kuurramaai could just as quickly become privy to the Commandant. That would destroy her career overnight. Worse, it would destroy the reputation of a woman who'd already given everything she could to her Pride.

"Okajy."

Untaaura drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. She laced her fingers in her lap, sitting calmly as she stared Jsorra dead in the eyes.

"jYou want to know what jI'd tell herr jif sshe werre aljive. jI'd tell her jI love herr."

She waited to see if there was any emotional tell that might indicate she'd erred. Shock, disgust, pity. They were all toxic.

"jIf jI told a Cizeri offjicerr that, sshe could rreferr me forr djisscharrge, and jI'd be out of the corrpss, jusst ljike that. Sshe could take all thjiss awajy frrom me. jI'm a marrjine. jI've been a marrjine forr fjive jyearrss, jI've gjiven sso much. jI could be gone jin a week. Can't hack jit, pack jit up and mussterr out. No honorrable wrrjit, no veterran benefjitss. Jusst ljike the lasst fjive jyearrss of mjy ljife djidn't exjisst, sso jI could do what?"

Untaaura gave a soft laugh, drooping her head towards her hands.

"Beforre jI enljissted jin the Jaani'sarri, jI went to unjiverrsjitjy. Grraduated wjith a ljiterraturre majorr. jI wanted to be a wrrjiterr."

[Arnan Jsorra]

Confession, and then deflection. A smokescreen of thoughts and distractions to somehow hide the significance of the words she'd uttered. It was sentient nature to do such things, to speak a truth, and then to try and diminish it, undermine it, defend against the hurt and rejection that might follow - or worse, to safeguard against what might happen if you learned the other felt the same. That was an eventuality denied to Untaaura. There could never be a positive outcome to her confession: only the potential loss of a career that she to tightly as a definition of her identity, on top of the existing loss of someone she held dear. It was a lose-lose situation, and she had chosen the outcome that pained her more, but harmed her less.

Military academies often trained officers to face no-win scenarios. They deemed it important to confront their soldiers with a situation that could not be resolved perfectly, to teach the importance of prioritisation, protocol, and morality. To Arnan's mind, such scenarios were steaming horseshit. Each school subscribed to a different school of thought, a different definition of what the right outcome in those scenarios was best. A Republic school would always value the lives of civilians, even at the cost of a ship and crew; an Imperial school would regard those civilians as acceptable losses, so long as the mission was completed. A Mandalorian school would expect soldiers to fight and die with honour; a Bothan school would urge them to fight and survive by whatever underhanded means were necessary. Worse, Arnan rejected the very premise of a no-win scenario. If a scenario could not be won, the fault lay with the scenario, and with the perameters that had been set. If victory was impossible, then your definition of victory was wrong.

"There is a poem."

His tone was careful, and gentle, body shifting just enough to peer beneath Untaaura's drooping head and attempt to engage her eyes once more. For another patient he might have offered different wisdom, but for Untaaura, given her education, it seemed fitting.

"My love for you is not a gift to you: it is a gift to me."

He let the words linger in the air for a moment, his silence giving them their due, letting them sink in for himself as well as for her. They were a mantra, a reminder he offered himself from time to time; an affirmation and reassurance that he was allowed to feel joy and comfort from the memories of his lost love, even if the man responsible for them was gone. Perhaps a confession of that would be a comfort to Untaaura; but again, circumstances restrained him from sharing that information. Therapist, not friend. It was the lesson he had found hardest to grasp.

"I forget whose words they are, but they have always been a comfort to me. It is easy, when we have lost someone that we love, to feel only pain. Worse, because that love endures, the pain we feel endures as well. But love is complicated, and multifaceted. It is not just a desire that can be satisfied only when it is reciprocated. Love is joy, and comfort, and purpose, and those facets still exist even if that love is not returned, or if the object of it has gone from our lives."

His brow furrowed as a small breath left him.

"You cannot tell her that you love her. So tell yourself, instead. Stand in front of a mirror, and confess to yourself how you feel about her. Give yourself permission to love, and permission to mourn. Give yourself permission to let that love be part of who you are. No one need know how you felt, or how you feel. It doesn't matter: it's none of their kriffing business anyway, and any regulations that say otherwise can get stuffed."

[Untaaura Verratoa]

She wasn't sure of the verse the Doctor recited. It certainly wasn't Cizeri classical, and it wasn't anything she'd gleaned in coreward studies. But like good poetry, it was a spark that lit upon larger thoughts and feelings. Untaaura fixed her eyes upon the ash tray as simply a place to let them rest, and she tried to apply the doctor's words to her situation.

"jIt'ss not that jI haven't gjiven mjysself perrmjissjion. Not rrealljy. jIt'ss morre that jI...jI don't want what we arre to exjisst underrneath a rrock. jI don't want to keep jit to mjysself, to be forrced to sswallow jit down when ssomeone asskss about Kuurramaai and how sshe ljived. How we ljived."

Untaaura raised her head.

"jIt'ss funnjy. The ssjiegess werre...awful. Sso awful. But jin a wajy, thejy werre purre. jYou could be jin a wajy that jyou can't be back jin the worrld, becausse none of that sshjit matterred therre. We werren't open about what we werre, Kuurramaai and me, but jit wassn't a ssecrret. jYou can't keep ssecrretss jin a foxhole. But nobodjy gave a sshjit about all that sself-rrjighteouss crrap. We werre all too bussjy thjinkjing we werren't gonna make jit. Fuck jit, jyou know?"

The Major traced the patchwork of compounded scar tissue on the right side of her face with her fingers. Her expression seemed distant.

"Ssometjimess jI wjissh jI wass stjill therre. Sso much djidn't make ssensse, and jI don't ssleep verrjy well because jI can't sstop bejing back therre jin mjy head. But the unrrealjitjy cutss both wajyss. Therre arre rruless jI ljived bjy therre that jI had to, becausse jI'd be sscrraped up and sshoveled jinto a box jif jI djidn't. jIt'ss sso harrd to unlearrn. jI got sso ussed to the ssoundss of the jungle. The bjirrdss, the jinssectss, the frrog crroakss. jI learrned what jit meanss when jyou don't hearr them, becausse the jungle knowss when sshjit jiss about to go down, and jyou get thjiss frrozen lump of drread jin jyourr sstomach. jYou wajit forr an ambussh, forr jincomjing, forr everrjythjing and nothjing good. Then jI bljinked, and jI'm back jin a ssafe sspace. Ssafe and qujiet, and the rruless arre djifferrent agajin. How do jI talk about that and not talk about Kuurramaai and what we had, becausse sshe wass purre and good when ljittle elsse wass?"

She licked her lips, and returned to her habit, preparing another cigarette.

"jIn the worrld, thejy call people ljike me and Kuurramaai Kaau'tahoii. That'ss jit. Perrverrtss, devjiantss, maladjussted. jI know who sshe wass, and jI love herr and jI won't everr sstop. jI won't let them call herr that. Not everr."

[Arnan Jsorra]

There was a line in his occupation, that you did not cross. A level of familiarity. A level of honesty. You could bring yourself to that line, but if you planned on crossing it, on walking out into view before your patients, you left your baggage behind the line. Your opinions. Your politics. Patients were not here for a friend. They were not here for religious or moral guidance. You didn't tell them what youthought: your job was to guide them towards understanding what they thought. It was vital. Fundamental. At times the line was crystal clear, all walls, and gates, and border control. At others, it was an imaginary line on a map, in the midsts of a jungle you had no hope of navigating, and you simply did your best.

At times though, to not cross the line was to ask the impossible. Yes, you could hold to your training, and your medical principles, and do your job. You could hold back the words that might have made the difference. You could respect patient confidentiality over patient well-being. Such things were the epitome of your duty and obligation as a therapist. But what about your obligations as a healer? What about your moral imperatives as a human being, or whatever other species you happened to be? What about your duty, as a living breathing being, to not sit back and let someone suffer purely to abide by rules and protocol? It was the same mindset that turned just following orders into the archetypical excuse of the morally bankrupt. To hell with our orders.

Arnan leaned forward, gently snatching the cigarette from Untaaura's lips before it could be lit: not a protest, just a vie for her attention.

"This isn't the Cluster. This isn't the Sieges. This isn't a jungle, or a foxhole, or some ass-backwards ball of rock in some ass-backwards society. Love is love, and if anyone has a problem with that? Fuck 'em."

His eyes squinted, the words not quite coming out the way he had intended.

"Obviously not literally. I just mean..." His brow furrowed, words trailing off into revised consideration. "This is the Rebel Alliance; or at least, it's meant to be. If we can't hope, and love, and accept each other for whoever and whatever they are, then what's the fucking point? And if your people don't want and respect you for exactly who and what you are, then you need a new employer. My people don't give a shit about that, and we'd be happy and lucky to have a woman like you."

[Untaaura Verratoa]

The marine lit up to the coarse language, it was framed in her own personal jargon. This human doctor actually seemed to give a shit, and what he said was interesting to her. But still, she wasn't sure if he could fully understand. That was still her hill to take, even if she only gained ground inch by inch.

"jI apprrecjiate the ssupporrt, Doctorr. jI rrealljy do. But jI can't jusst not be a Marrjine, anjy morre than jI can sstop bejing a Cizerack orr a woman. jI know we'rre defendjing a worrld that'ss farr frrom perrfect, but jI can't sstep awajy. jI fought forr ourr jidealss. Kuurramaai djied forr them. That hass to mean ssomethjing, even jif jI get losst jin the woodss frrom tjime to tjime."

Untaaura sighed, again passing the blade of her hand over her crop of hair.

"jI have a harrd tjime ssleepjing. That'ss not a gujiltjy concjience thjing, jI don't thjink. jI mean herre sspecjifjicalljy. The qujiet getss to me, and jI'm wjide awake, sstrrajinjing to hearr ssomethjing. Mjy, err..."

She gestured to her docked right ear.

"...jI don't hearr well out of thjiss ssjide anjywajy, but when jit'ss all qujiet, jyou expect ssomethjing bad."

[Arnan Jsorra]

It was a disappointing reaction. Arnan didn't often feel that. He supposed it was easier for him, a refugee from Jedha, to accept that the past was the past and that there were ways to define himself independent of the world that had once been home. Untaaura had an opportunity to redefine herself. She had the opportunity to choose what Kuuramaai's death meant, to recalibrate her sense of what she was defending to encompass a larger ideal. It was a struggle that so many new members of the Alliance seemed to contend with: abandoning the isolated, secularised, tribal mentalities that the Republic and Empire had forced so many worlds into. Many saw the Republic, the Empire, the Alliance, and interstellar confederations of their ilk as a plague, here to rob them of their unique individuality. To Arnan's mind, so much conflict and animosity in the galaxy could be clensed forever if people would just learn to focus more on that which made them the same, rather than that which made them different.

Of course, it was not Arnan's job to argue with the Major about her worldview, nor to force her hand into acting in accordance with his own. He compartmentalised his frustrations, burying it behind the veneer of professionalism.

"I'm sure there must be ways to work around that," he mused focusing on the subject of the Major's sleepless nights. "Many of my patients struggle to sleep without the sounds of the ocean, or the wind, or the jungle, and have had varied success with ambient noise generators. It would be a little unorthodox, but I'm sure you could manage to get one programmed to simulate the kind of ambience you find comforting. You might even find that leaving a holonet broadcast playing will provide you with all the background noise you need, though I can't personally speak to the quality of anything the Free Planets net might have to offer."