Chapter Text
Wrevil stared at the datapad, scratching at his head and trying futilely to hide his bewilderment. This was wrong, so very wrong. He blinked and stared at the list of transfers again. No changes. Accepting that the officers at the academy were bumbling fools, he placed the datapad onto his desk with a burdened sigh. Each year the soldiers and young ensigns sent to the Devastator grew younger and younger each year. No longer did they send the aged, wiser men to navigate the perils of Lord Vader's command and temper, but there were far more bodies sent to the morgue as the war waged on.
The young, fresh-faced boys seemed to think Lord Vader was a myth of sort, propaganda to strike terror into rebels. But Wrevil had seen far too many of those smirking faces to only end up lightless, pale corpses weeks later. As the transfers administer, he felt an obligation to every new soldier on the Lady, but he knew he couldn't keep everyone in line. As the war began to escalate in the past few years, he quickly learned they desperately needed new passion and arms for their front lines. It was a painful 'survivals of the fittest' on the ship, but it could not be helped. Wrevil had tried many times to beg the academies to at least send the men to far kinder ships or commanders before throwing them under the storm of Lord Vader's fist. He expected nothing less than the most pristine men on his vessel—from the pilots, the stormtroopers, to medical—nothing less was acceptable.
Wrevil turned to his neglected cup of caf and drained it in a few gulps, wincing at the cold, bitter taste. The rush of caffeine kicked in after a few moments, and he felt more aware of the pounding ache behind his skull. Looking around his disorganized office, he scoffed and thought to ask the cadet assigned as his assistant for help. She was shy, and he barely let her out of room in fear of what would happen if she ventured to far, but she was good at the tedious task of filing away his many reports and notes. Straightening his uniform and hat, he pressed the button to open his office door and headed to the officer's cafeteria for a well-deserved meal. He wasn't that old, having been out of the academy for only five years. But he thanked his lucky stars he wasn't some poor ensign or someone too far up in the ranks. No, he was proud to be a mere lieutenant, with his decent pay and tasks. It wasn't the most invigorating work, but it was better than a poor bomber.
He nodded to a few troopers and fellow officers he passed by walking down the hall. As he neared the elevators, he felt a ding on the smaller datapad in his hand. Grumbling, he waited till he entered the empty elevator and started moving up before he pulled out the dreaded device. Sure enough, the academy had forgotten to add the list of transfers from the engineering and medical corps. He hummed as he read over a short list of junior engineers, focusing on the superb grades of one particular student. He was halfway down the list of young nurses and surgeons coming to the Lady as he stepped off the elevator mechanically. Wrevil almost missed the list of new doctors coming with the year's load of new recruits, he hummed in surprise when he saw the age of the second of the three doctors coming in. The young girl's picture showed her face was full of a wide, toothy smile, rather than the often proud or even terrified profiles of most soldiers. She'd finished the accelerated program to become a doctor since she was fifteen.
It seemed the plague of youth had now seeped into the medical wing. Wrevil forwarded a quick note the the chief doctor, warning him of this new predicament.
He'd have to keep this girl trained to safe lives alive.
***
Luke and the other medical students—no, now graduates—sat in their seats, buckled and fidgeting as the ship began to land in the docking bay of the Devastator. They had somehow survived the torturous schooling for five years, only to be thrown into the front lines without warning. Luke smiled at the surgeon across from her who looked on the verge of a panic attack.
"We'll be all right," she assured him. It seemed to make him only grow paler.
Beside her, Tawn scoffed and tugged at his collar. "Please," he said, rolling his eyes, "we'll be constantly stressed and blamed for any higher up idiots we can't save. Knowing us, we'll be lucky if we survive our first year here."
Luke glared at him, but knew he was right. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. She was supposed to get a position in one of the clinics on Naboo. One of her teachers had put in a good word for her, and she's had everything planned. That was, until she found herself drafted to the front lines. Luke bit her lip, gripping her stomach as the ship landed and made her nauseous. She's flown a few times, but space travel was cold and sickening.
As their commanding officer announced their landing, Luke quickly pulled off the safety nets and straps on her white uniform and grabbed the bag she'd been issued. She had another bag of mementos and a few clothes her aunt had forced her to take but she never got to wear, but they would be placed in her quarters later. Luke swung her small medical bag onto her shoulder and rolled her shoulders back. Tawn, for all his swagger and blunt ways, seemed reclusive and shocked the door began to lower.
"You think you're ready?" mumbled Luke as they walked forward, backs straight and feet marching as any soldier.
Tawn blinked and shook his chin ever so slightly. "Are we ever ready for this assignment?" he hissed.
Luke backed away and swallowed hard as they stopped, all standing at attention. The chief medical of the whole Star Destroyer walked their way in swift strides, face blank and hand crossed behind his back. Luke caught his high rank and graying hair, wondering how long he'd been here.
He inspected them for a minute before clearing his throat. "You've all been brought to the Devastator for one reason only: you all are in the tops of your class and marked for obedience. The latter is the key to your success here, not high grades. Over the last four years, you've been through the training and the schooling to get here. I will tolerate no mistakes. If you not qualified to a surgery or task, back off. I won't have any rookie killing someone off in pride. Come to me for any questions, but don't be stupid. You know what you're up against."
His voice was hard, commanding their every thought. He seemed stressed and worried, as if someone was about to shoot him. Luke frowned at his anxiety and choked hers away.
"You will spend tonight settling into your quarters and reviewing your posts. Tomorrow, you will get in touch with your supervisor and get to work. There is no weakness tolerated here and no orders to go against. Am I understood?" He lifted a brow at the end.
"Sir, yes, sir!" all of them shouted, Luke a little weaker than she wanted to admit.
The chief doctor nodded and marched off.
Their officer directed them forward, and Luke resisted the urge to get back on the ship and fly off. Regardless of what she would face, she needed to make this work.
There was no other place to go.