The renewed conflict between the Galactic Republic and Sith Empire has been approaching a boiling point. The two sides have danced upon the precipice of open engagement, awaiting the final spark that ignites the next hot war. But as weapons prime and tempers flare on the ground, the coldness of space offers little respite.

In its attempts to push back against the encroaching Imperial armada, the Senate commissioned an elite strike force composed of pilots willing and able to defend Republic space. A squadron of heroes, outfitted with advanced technology, to serve as a symbol of hope. A symbol of the Republic's resilience, of its fortitude, of its commitment.

Inspired by the exploits and heroics of Dagger Wing, ever since that group's mysterious disappearance in the last war, many have pledged their resources and offered continual support to the Navy, hoping another group would fill the void left by the legendary squadron. Those hopes were answered six years after the Treaty of Coruscant.

Torrid Squadron was born.

Senators provided funds in the hopes of sharing a bit of the group's good publicity. Admirals provided guidance, directing the squadron to where they were needed most. And pilots provided an ever present pool of recruits for any newly opened slots on the team.

But openings were few and far between. In their years of continued operation, Torrid Squadron had not suffered one casualty, new members coming only when an old one voluntarily stepped down. The twelve pilots operated without error and with utmost precision, defending the Republic's borders and retaliating against those who would upset the peace.

But the treaty was crumbling under the heels of the aggressive Empire. As worlds changed hands, as resistance groups lashed out against their oppressors, it became clear that the Cold War was coming to an end, and the need for the Republic's elite could only increase in the time to come. And so, Torrid Squadron stood ready to face whatever threats it might encounter.

No matter the source. No matter the cost.

11 ATC

Within the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace, a military convoy traversed the stars faster than the speed of light. The central and largest craft, a Wanderer-class transport. The elongated tube of orange and gray metals was a stripped down version of the Republic's Thranta-class corvette, trading its offensive capabilities to instead act as a high-mobility medical facility. The cargo: over a thousand refugees seeking sanctuary as their world steadily slipped into secessionist hands.

Supporting the transport were its escorts. Its protectors. Torrid Squadron.

Twelve Gallant-class starfighters, advanced single-pilot vessels modeled after the Republic's trademark Liberators. Each fighter possessed a chassis that was large enough to accommodate a hyperdrive and astromech droid. A chassis that was painted a vibrant red to accommodate the squadron's stylized persona. Wings unfurled, the vessels adopted their trademark T-shaped design as they traveled beyond the speed of light. And on the edge of each wing, laser cannons ready to tear asunder all but the most fortified and shielded craft.

Torrid Leader took their place at the head of the formation, as much as a formation could even be had in the alternative state of being they found themselves in. Inside the cockpit, the Human examined the dials that rest in front of him, monitoring the constant stream of data presented through the various viewscreens. The man possessed the grizzled visage of a man in his late thirties, years a majority of which had been spent embedded in galactic strife. Below the neck, the squadron's uniform red and white flightsuit. Thick. Stocky. Utilitarian.

"Tessa, status report," the Human spoke up to no one in particular.

"Convoy currently on schedule, Commander Nolante," a soft, feminine voice announced over the starfighter's internal speakers. The voice possessed an even, almost monotonous, flow. It belonged to TS-AA, 'Tessa', the squadron's collective astromechanical droid interface. Twelve physical units. One shared programming. The squadron's secret weapon. "Estimate 126 minutes until drop into realspace."

"Acknowledged," said Nolante as he engaged team-wide communications. "Torrid Squadron, report in."

"Torrid Two, standing by." Haron Gregard, Human male, age 32. Executive officer under Commander Nolante and Imperial defector. The man's regal tone and posh appearance was at odds with the established image of a hotshot Republic pilot, but his unmatched skills in a starfighter granted him a place amongst his comrades.

"Torrid Three, standing by." Rol Dunn, Kel Dor male, age 35. The majority of the orange-skinned pilot's face was hidden under a set of black goggles and the antiox breath mask that covered his mouth. The alien's voice was utterly deep and possessed an electronic tinge as it passed through his mask's speakers, a voice that commanded all who heard it to take notice.

"Torrid Four, standing by." Dala Kaarn, Zabrak female, age 36. The pilot possessed a vocal tone matching her stern demeanor as well as her intimidating appearance. Her tanned face was adorned with a series of markings and tattoos crisscrossing her skin, rising up and beyond the crown of horns that sat atop her head. A fierce and dedicated combatant.

"Torrid Five, standing by." Ono Seraak, Togruta male, age 30. The pilot looked as vibrant and energetic as the vessel he sat in. Bright red skin with dotted white patterns which extended to the pointed headtails that draped over his shoulders. An eagerness rest behind the alien's eyes, even as he sat still, even as he traversed the stars.

"Torrid Six, standing by." Bella'varao, Twi'lek female, age 28. The pilot's soft features belied her proven determination and thrill for combat. Far from a being of luxury, her pale green skin was not pampered toward drawing the attention of any interested parties. With her headtails safely tucked behind her, she hardly considered herself a Twi'lek, or even a person, more an organic extension of her starfighter.

"Torrid Seven, standing by." Fen Kayda, Mon Calamari female, age 33. The amphibious pilot possessed a slick, reddish-brown skin tone and the typical fish-like features attributed to her species. Large, elongated head. Bulbous eyes. Thick, webbed digits. Not soft spoken, so much as conservative with her tone, one that was well-suited to the calm, calculating mind she possessed.

"Torrid Eight, standing by." Marvus Verandii, Devaronian male, age 38. The pilot's red skin and devilish features were right at home within the brazen starfighter, and his sly demeanor seemed tailor-made for the life of an elite starfighter pilot. The one the ordinary citizenry adored, and the one more than capable of riling the ire of his superiors.

"Torrid Nine, standing by." Breks Delgo, Duros male, age 33. The pilot was a man of contrasts. His voice possessed a natural grit and coarseness, but his nose-less face offered an utterly smooth visage. His cool blue skin was at odds with his piercing solid-red eyes. His current calm would be overridden by his passion in the heat of battle.

"Torrid Ten, standing by." Rem Altess, Human female, age 29. Designer of the squadron's TS-AA interface. The pilot seemed a contrasting mirror to her commander, bearing none of the physical or emotional baggage of the conflict with the Empire. Her features suggested an ordered outlook, one of duty over personal flair.

"Torrid Eleven, standing by." Dreb Renub, Sullustan male, age 32. The pilot with gray skin and mouth flaps that never seemed to stop flapping. Whatever events his black eyes witnessed, his tongue had already offered its own take on them. The bard, the jester, always a tale ready for telling, regardless of if its recipients desired to hear it.

"Torrid Twelve, standing by." Wess Soraldo, Mirialan male, age 34. The pilot possessed an uncompromised stoicism. His green skin possessed a series of geometric tattoos, telling the tale of his passing into the realm of adulthood and becoming a decorated pilot. A soldier's soldier, doing what he was trained to do, how he was trained to do so with utmost precision.

"Alright," Nolante said over the comm. "We've over an hour before we drop into realspace. From there, it should be a clear shot to the station where the refugees will disembark."

"What kind of danger were they expecting that they requested an escort from Torrid Squadron?" asked Marvus, an utter lack of severity in the Devaronian's voice.

"They weren't expecting any danger," Nolante replied. "There's been some reported incidents with pirates in the area, but nothing for us to worry about."

"One of the senators who secured us funding also happens to represent the refugees we're escorting," Haron added. "He and a few others plan to be at the station when we arrive to personally offer us their thanks."

Marvus chuckled over the comm. "Ah, of course. Senators and their publicity. We're supposed to put on a show."

"He says… with delight," said Seraak, a calm warmth to the Togruta's teasing.

Marvus cracked a sharp grin unseen by his fellow. "You know me, I'm all about putting on a show. Getting to do it without getting shot at is an added bonus."

"You're a credit to the Navy, Marvus," Soraldo offered, completely deadpan.

"It's a shame we won't have time to sign autographs and give out voiceprints to the refugees afterwards," Kaarn suggested, oozing with sarcasm.

"It truly is," Marvus replied, a contrasting sincerity in his voice.

"Assuming everything goes according to plan, does the admiral have another mission lined up?" Bella'varao asked. "One that actually helps the war effort?"

"There are more ways to help the war effort than blowing up Imperial space stations and trespassing cruisers," said Fen, her words possessing the usual bordering-on-cold delivery.

Bella replied with a quick chuckle. "Yeah, but they aren't as fun.”

"Speak for yourself," Dunn muttered.

"I always do," Bella declared.

"Can you guys keep it down? Some of us are trying to get some shut eye," Delgo's groggy voice sounded off over the comm.

The Mirialan released a heavy sigh. "Surely it's against regulation to fall asleep piloting a damned starfighter.”

"We're in hyperspace, so technically Tessa's piloting," Delgo replied. "Besides, watching the swirly blue tunnel gives me a headache."

"Some Duros you are," Renub joked, the other pilots offering their own laughter.

Within the cockpit of Torrid Ten, Rem ignored the chattering of her squadron mates, her attention focused on a peculiar reading on her console. "Commander, I'm picking up an abnormality with our flight path."

Checking his console, Nolante saw the same reading. "As is mine. Tessa, shed some light on this?"

"At once," said the droid. "Running diagnostic…"

"Could it be a mass shadow?" Haron asked.

"Impossible," Rem quickly replied. "We're on an established and well-monitored hyperlane. Any gravity wells along these coordinates would have long since been cataloged."

"The abnormality is probably with the reading rather than the route," Delgo suggested. "Starfighters aren't known for hyperspace travel."

"It seems like-" Rem started, before being cut off by the violent shaking of her vessel. The other ships in the convoy experienced the same as the hyperspace tunnel surrounding them collapsed. The streaks of stars on the horizon relaxed from their stretched state until they were mere dots on the endless black canvas. Torrid Squadron and the transport had unexpectedly dropped into realspace. And as the pilots recovered from the shock, they realized they had, in fact, been pulled out.

Flanking the Republic convoy on both sides was an Imperial dreadnought, Harrower-class. The two massive, wedge-shaped ships ran parallel with the Republic transport. Sharp metallic death, dozens of turrets and point-defense systems lined their every surface. As the ships floated motionless, Republic and Imperial alike, the pilots of Torrid Squadron stared outside their cockpits with wide eyes and trembling hands.

"Commander, we got two Imperial capital ships within firing distance,” Haron called out.

"Commander, I've got no control," Marvus added.

"Me neither, I can't move," Delgo followed.

For each pilot it was the same. No matter what they tried, their ships followed none of their commands. They were held in place with nowhere to go. Panic began to spread amongst the pilots as they quickly realized they were powerless and firmly within the grasp of the massive dreadnoughts. Chaos was overtaking the squadron, with no one to guide them.

"Uh… Commander?" Seraak spoke up, looking for some modicum of insight.

The commander had none to offer.

Trapped between two of the most powerful ships in the Imperial fleet, the commander of Torrid Squadron, for the first time in his career, didn't have some plan of action, some trick up his sleeve, some way to get his squadron and the transport out of this predicament.

"Sir, we can't just sit here, we have to do something," Haron advised, struggling to maintain his usually calm demeanor.

"Right," Nolante said, snapping out of his stupor. "Haron, try hailing the Imperials. Dunn, get in touch with the transport's captain. Kaarn, inform the Den of our situation." The three pilots acknowledged and went about following their orders. "Tessa, why can't we move?"

"Our convoy appears to be trapped within the combined tractor beams of the dreadnoughts," the electronic woman answered. "They are holding us in place."

"Not only that, but they're somehow acting as an interdiction field," Rem explained. "They dragged us out of hyperspace and we can't jump back in until we're out of it."

"Leaving us stuck in place as they blow us into space dust," Fen coldly offered.

"Not quite," Rem replied. "Whatever they're doing to keep us in place is utilizing all of their power. The interdiction field should dissipate if they try to power their laser batteries."

"Then we just have to give them a reason to fire on us," Soraldo stated.

"Wait,” Seraak called out, “we don't even know why they stopped us in the first place.”

"They're Imperials dreadnoughts,” Renub quickly replied. “What do you think their purpose is?"

"They could be after someone aboard the transport," Delgo suggested.

Bella practically shouted at the Duros, "like we'd hand them over if that were the case!”

"Whatever they want, they're not telling,” Haron explained. “Neither ship is responding to our calls.”

There was an uneasy moment of silence, one that was broken by the Kel Dor's electronically tinged voice. "Commander, I've got the transport's captain on comm.”

"Patch them through," Nolante ordered. A moment later, a small hologram began to light up from the squadron leader's console. The faded blue image of the transport's captain appeared, presenting a trembling Human garbed in officer's attire.

"Commander Nolante!" the Human yelped. "What's going on? Our ship won't budge and our engineers can't fix it!"

"We've been locked down by the Imperials, captain. Have they tried contacting you?"

"No, why? What do they want?"

"I'm afraid we don't know," Nolante admitted.

The brief exchange was cut short by Seraak's voice spilling into the squadron leader's cockpit. "Uh, Commander, I might hazard a guess. I'm reading new energy signatures."

"Imperial interceptors," Haron added. "The dreadnoughts are deploying full complements."

"How many?" asked Nolante.

"One hundred and counting," Haron replied.

Nolante returned his focus to the holographic image before him. "Captain, bolster your shields and keep your hyperdrive primed.” The Commander paused, before lifting his gaze toward the roof of his cockpit. "Tessa, we can't deal with those fighters stuck like this."

"If I divert power to the engines, we may be able to overcome the effect of the tractor beams," Tessa explained. "But because of the dreadnoughts' relative mass, there's a chance that attempting to move out could tear our ships' hulls apart. And should they survive, the shields could be irreparably-"

"I don't care, do it," Nolante ordered.

"Sir," Kaarn spoke up, a softness in her otherwise fierce tone. "Word from the Den is that there are no available reinforcements in the sector. We're on our own."

Nolante dipped his head as he felt everything quickly slipping from his grasp. But as he tightened his grip around the starfighter's control, the Commander drew and released a deep breath. The man raised his head, sharpened his gaze, and focused on what lay before him. "Torrid Squadron, defend the transport and take out the fighters!"

"Aye, sir!" the pilots replied.

Within each of their ships, Tessa went to work giving their engines just enough of a boost to escape the Imperials' hold. Each pilot's fingers wrapped around their vessel's controls as they watched the dreadnoughts' complements of interceptors emerge from their hangars, black and gray gnats fast approaching their positions. HUDs and dials flashed and flared as the ships' artificial intelligence worked toward freeing the Gallant starfighters.

"Boost ready in 3… 2… 1…" Tessa voice rang out in each cockpit. With a sharp ping, the pilots received the confirmation they so eagerly awaited. With a flick of their wrists, the pilots of Torrid Squadron surged forward, breaking loose from the dreadnoughts' hold. Just as the Republic fighters took flight, the Imperial interceptors had already begun to close the gap. "Equalizing power flow. Status report: Engines at 96%, Weapons at 82%, Shields at 23%."

"It'll have to do," Nolante muttered. "Tessa, engage Bifurcation. Torrid Squadron, circle the transport and watch each other's backs. Defense Arrangement Besh."

The Republic starfighters diverged into two groups, the odds turning toward the leftward dreadnought, the evens turning toward the opposite. The approaching interceptors released their first volley of bolts, the green lasers streaking across the black void toward their targets. The nimble Imperial crafts evenly divided their attention between the Republic transport and its escorts, but regardless of their choice, their one and only goal was their target's destruction.

The Gallant fighters were operating at sub-optimal levels, their defensive systems possessing only a mere fraction of their usual capabilities. The innovative designs and technologies housed within them came with a drawback, the Republic starfighters were not as nimble as their stock brethren, which in turn, were capable of being outpaced by the standard Imperial interceptor. The battle they found themselves in would come down to the capability of its pilots, and the Imperials possessed a significant numbers advantage.

The pilots of Torrid Squadron fanned out, whilst maintaining a healthy proximity to the Wanderer. With the dreadnoughts' laser batteries offline, the massive ships served as the fighters' only pieces of cover within the vast openness of space they had been dropped into. The squadron split into pairs, hugging the dreadnoughts' hulls as they attempted to outmaneuver their opponents, taking shots at the targets they could get behind. Each pairing had a squadron of enemies unto themselves, and as the first batch of interceptors fell, their numbers remained strong.

Nolante and Dunn circled back around the dreadnought, picking off the Imperial fighters harassing the transport. Neither side was equipped with heavy weaponry, forcing them to whittle away at their foes. Lucky for the Republic fighters, the Imperial navy valued its swarms over properly outfitting its smallest craft. The interceptors were destroyed with a couple well-placed shots, but the constant barrage from the scores of enemy fighters meant that even the most accurate of Torrid Squadron struggled to line up their own ships' blasters as they dodged incoming fire.

On the opposite side of the battle, Bella broke her attention away from the fighters, going after the dreadnought's offenses, Marvus covering her flank. Assaulting a line of laser cannons, her first strafing run make little impact against the hardened turrets, the capital ship maintaining its shields despite its focus on locking down the transport. But she would not relent, rounding about the ship's command center and readying another barrage. She knew they had little chance of destroying the Imperial titans with their current loadout, but there was a point in every commander's mind when the losses became too much to bear. As their fleet waned, as their capital ships were slowly crippled, the Imperials would be forced to release their grip on the transport.

But with no established motives, no vocal threat, Torrid Squadron could only guess the kind of commander that led the enemy forces. But even the most stubborn, prideful Imperial could not risk such a fleet for such insignificant gains. What they hoped to gain in the first place was a mystery that swirled within each of the Republic pilots' minds. But there was little time to dwell on such issues when the danger they found themselves in was the same regardless of their ability to understand it.

The massive onslaught they faced forced the Republic pilots to carefully balance going on the offensive, protecting the transport, and self-preservation. One by one, the interceptors began to fall at the hands of Torrid Squadron, but the swarm continued to sting despite their best efforts. Green bolts of energy flashed as they impacted against the Republic transport's shields, which struggled to maintain their integrity as more and more ships slipped past their defenders' attention.

The pilots of Torrid Squadron diverted their focus inward, picking off the interceptors that managed to violate their zone of control. The Republic pilots had managed to take out a quarter of the enemy fighters, but the sustained battle was taking its toll on the Gallant fighters. A stray bolt managed to score a direct hit on the right wing of Torrid Eleven, eliciting smoke and fire that was quickly snuffed by the vacuum of space.

"Shields at 3%," Tessa informed Renub, her monotonous voice imparting none of the severity of the status report. "Right weapon systems offline. Structural integrity compromised."

"Commander, I'm about to lose a wing!" Renub hastily shouted over the comm.

"Stay calm," Nolante offered, doing his best to assuage the Sullustan. "Fen. Delgo. Reinforce Renub's flank.

"Aye, sir!" the pilots sounded off. Torrid Seven and Nine pulled back to take position behind their damaged ally.

"Commander, the dreadnoughts are fielding more ships," Haron stated. "Extinction-class bombers."

"They're bringing out the heavy hitters," Nolante declared. "Don't let them reach the transport."

The heavy fighters took flight from each of the dreadnoughts' hangars, on a straightforward vector toward the Wanderer. Tucked beneath the bombers' wings were an allotment of concussion missiles, capable of tearing apart all but the most reinforced hulls. And with the transport's weakening shields, they were more than capable of ripping it asunder.

The pilots of Torrid Squadron momentarily ignored the swarming interceptors to take down the approaching bombers before they could unleash their payload upon the helpless refugees. Dividing themselves once again, six pilots each turned from the transport in opposite directions to intercept the Extinction-class bombers. As their foes closed in, the Gallant starfighters lined up their shots against the first wave, only to hear the chirps and alarms of their ships' defensive systems, detailing a missile lock on their fighters.

"Dammit, they're not after the transport!" Kaarn shouted. Each group of six had a full squadron of bombers targeting them. Before the Republic pilots could get a clean shot, the bombers released their volley of concussion missiles. The Gallant fighters immediately took evasive maneuvers, fanning out as they each contended with two missiles fast on their tails, tracking their every movement.

Pushing their starfighters to their limits, the pilots struggled to outmaneuver the missiles, one more so than the others. The damage Renub had sustained earlier hampered his movements, and as he powered ahead, his cockpit began to shake as the metals between it and his right wing warped and shattered. Had he maintained his velocity for much longer, his damaged wing would have ripped itself from the starfighter's chassis. But it wouldn't receive the chance.

The first missile impacted, followed shortly by the second, the explosions of which ripped the Gallant starfighter asunder, scattering the debris in a brief display of sparks and flame.

The pilots of Torrid Squadron watched in horror as their comrade's signal perished from their consoles. Then came the auditory cue, Tessa's electronic voice filling their cockpits.

"Torrid Eleven offline.”

The squadron commander's fists tightened around his controls as he gritted his teeth, letting out a soft curse. But there was no time to dwell. The remaining starfighters still had the missiles on their tails.

The Gallant fighters performed whatever maneuvers they could to shake the tracking ordinance. As the concussion missiles neared Commander Nolante, he began to roll his ship. As it rotated, the twin missiles on his tail overcorrected their flight paths, colliding with one another. The explosion rocked the commander's chassis, but he ultimately made it out unscathed.

Haron found himself caught between the missiles approaching from the rear, and a bomber coming straight for him. Maintaining his vector, the pilot juked his craft at the last moment, his chassis almost colliding with that of the enemy ship. The Extinction-class bomber didn't have time to react as it collided with the same ordinance it had previously unleashed.

The others dealt with their troubles in a similar fashion, putting a stray interceptor between themselves and the missiles, having them collide with one another, or making them impact ineffectually against the dreadnoughts as they skimmed over their hulls. Kaarn was the last to rid herself of the troublesome ordinance, escaping the explosive blasts with only a light singe on her wings. However, her expert maneuvering could not account for the movements of her opponents.

Looping around the broadside of the Imperial dreadnought, an enemy interceptor collided with her. The Gallant starfighter remained intact as it ripped right through the Imperial craft, but what remained of her shields had been totally obliterated. The destroyed interceptor's squadron had already begun to target the weakened Republic starfighter. A series of bolts streaked across the void and struck Kaarn's unshielded chassis, ripping it open to the vacuum of space under the Imperials' collective fire.

Once more, Tessa's voice filled the cockpits. "Torrid Four offline."

Haron let out an uncharacteristic snarl as he saw his comrade's demise from the viewport of his cockpit. Sharply veering toward the calamity, the ex-Imperial set his sights on the regrouping squadron that struck down Kaarn. With unerring accuracy, he unleashed his weapons upon the group of interceptors. One right after another, they fell to the Gallant's blasters.

What remained of the fleet of bombers headed straight for the transport, still carrying most of their allotment of explosive ordinance. "All pilots, focus on taking those bombers down," Nolante ordered. "Gregard and I will cover you."

The pilots of Torrid Squadron formed up, once more directing their focus inward. With the bombers in their sights, the Republic starfighters locked onto the targets with the help of Tessa. The red bolts lashed out across the blackness of space, fired in short, controlled bursts. The lasers struck their targets, each pilot eliminating a bomber before they could reach the transport.

Behind the two groups, Nolante and Haron intercepted any Imperial fighters that threatened their comrades. Firing over their partner's shoulder, the two pilots focused on eliminating the ever present pool of Imperial interceptors that remained on the battlefield. Their opponent's forces had not yet been reduced to half, and the Gallant fighters were reaching their limits, but they refused to yield. And soon, their efforts appeared fruitful, as the enemy forces pulled away from the transport.

"Their breaking away from the Wanderer!" Seraak announced, finding some modicum of joy in the turn of events. "We did it!"

"Not quite," Fen replied. "They're not retreating… just redirecting their focus."

"Form up and head toward the leftward dreadnought," Nolante ordered. "We're taking the fight to it."

"Aye, sir!" the pilots called out in unison. The Gallant starfighters regrouped, heading toward the capital ship in a line formation as Imperial forces gathered behind them.

"Gregard and I will hold off the interceptors,” Nolante stated. “Dunn, lead a strafing run on the dreadnought's turrets."

"Aye," the Kel Dor quickly replied. "The Harrower's shields are still strong. We must concentrate our fire. Tessa, direct the other units to match this ship's target."

"Understood," said Tessa. A small symbol appeared on the other ships' consoles, signaling that they were subservient to Dunn's targeting. Torrid Three began its attack run, seven other pilots following close by whilst the commander and his executive officer pulled back. One by one the strafing starfighters unleashed a series of bolts as they dove, then rose above one of the dreadnought's laser batteries. The line of four turrets flashed as the shield protecting them fizzled out, allowing for the continued assault to turn them to scrap.

Above the dreadnought, Nolante and Haron harassed whatever Imperials approached their comrades. The two Gallant starfighters were not much of a force by themselves, but with two of the best pilots in the navy behind the controls, they knew how make the most of them. Side by side, the senior members of Torrid Squadron lashed out against the Imperial fighters and bombers that tailed their squadron mates, only pulling back to deal with the occasional aggressor that would target them. The two had each other's backs, and had nothing on their minds other than the utter desire to keep their allies safe.

Having dealt with one of the dreadnought's turret lines, the attack group rounded about to take out another, only to be targeted by an Imperial squadron that managed to escape their protectors' sights. Bolstered by a bomber, the Imperials opened fire on the starfighters attacking their capital ship. Green bolts and concussion missiles streaked across the open space toward the attack group.

"Everyone, break formation!" Dunn shouted. The eight pilots removed themselves from the line and spread out, narrowly avoiding the swift torrent of laser fire. The Gallant fighters looped around to face their attackers, but Delgo found himself the target of the released missiles.

Juking his craft about, the Duros found himself unable to shake all of the ordinance tracking his every movement. With only a single missile left on his tail, he had nothing with which to collide it with. The pilot surged toward the edge of the dreadnought's face, hoping to force the missile into the capital ship's hull as he rounded the corner to its belly. The maneuver was successful in preemptively detonating the missile, but in his escape he maneuvered his starship directly between the dreadnought and the Republic transport, trapping himself once again in the tractor beam.

The Duros pilot cursed as he found his starship unresponsive. Its energy levels were low, and shields nonexistent, the ship had no chance of escaping the dreadnought's hold as it had once before.

"Commander, I'm trapped!" Delgo called out, a crack in his voice. "I can't-"

"Hold on, Delgo, we're coming!" Nolante replied, immediately pulling his ship toward his distressed ally. Through his console, he saw an Imperial squadron descending upon the frozen starfighter. Nolante and Haron sped forward, attempting to interrupt them. The Imperials within their sight, they opened fire, raining down upon them a torrent of red bolts. The lasers clipped some of the interceptors' wings, shattering their hulls and ending their threat, but it wasn't enough. The struck fighters blocked the laser fire from reaching their accompanying bomber, who sent a another missile straight toward the defenseless pilot.

"Commander, it's-" Delgo managed to whispered before his craft was torn apart by the explosion.

All was silent but for the inevitable words of Tessa. "Torrid Nine offline.”

"No…" Seraak muttered, hands struggling to maintain their grip on his controls.

Nolante and Gregard continued their pursuit of the Imperial squadron, their sights dead set on eliminating that bomber. Together, they unleashed a steady stream of blaster fire, striking the bomber that had struck down Delgo. Even beyond the craft's destruction, the lasers continued to pelt the shattered debris until it was little more than specks of dust.

"Attack group, form up," Dunn commanded. "We have to-"

"Sir,” Rem interrupted, “the dreadnought's laser batteries are coming online!"

"Everyone! Get away from that ship!" Nolante shouted.

The pilots of Torrid Squadron jerked their control as they attempted to flee the empowered dreadnought, but were unable to escape its wrath. The capital ship directed the entirety of the remaining turrets on its upward face toward the fleeing starfighters. The torrent of laser fire lashed out against the Republic pilots, who struggled to dodge the concentrated flurry. Bolts of energy designed to fell other capital ships surged over the pilots' heads. Others were not as lucky. A single bolt directly struck Soraldo's chassis, splitting it in half.

"Torrid Twelve offline," said Tessa.

Just as the surviving starfighters escaped the dreadnought's immediate reach, one of the capital ship's bolts glanced one of Bella'varao's engines. As she rocked within her shaking chassis, her console immediately began to flash vibrant, red warnings on her viewscreen. Then came Tessa's voice. "Status report: Engines at 52%."

"Dammit!" Bella cursed, slamming her fist against the side of her cockpit. "Rem, tell me that thing firing at us means the tractor beams are offline."

"One of them is," Rem answered. "The other is still operational. The transport still won't be able to escape."

"But now one of the dreadnoughts is free to open fire on it," said Fen.

"We can't escape, and we've no way to get the other dreadnought to release their grip before we're all destroyed," Marvus muttered.

"The interdiction field is only up between the two capital ships," Rem explained. "There's still a chance to save ourselves-"

"No," Nolante interrupted. "I'll not abandon that transport! There's a way to do this, we just have to-"

"Commander… I know what to do," Bella softly spoke up. "If you can keep those fighters off my back, I can disable the second dreadnought."

"How would… no, no I won't allow it," Nolante declared. "There has to be another way."

"With all due respect sir, even if my hyperdrive weren't shot, my chassis would be torn apart trying to jump to hyperspace," Bella explained. The Twi'lek's body relaxed as she let out a soft sigh. "It's been an honor serving under you, sir. Tell the transport to prepare to jump."

From within his cockpit the commander offered only a silent salute. Composing himself he spoke to his team. "You heard her. Take down those fighters and prepare for a microjump as soon as the transport is clear. Regroup at the posted coordinates."

"Aye, sir," the pilots acknowledged, softly. Solemnly. As the lasers from the Imperial forces buzzed around them, the pilots altered their course to defend Bella'varao. Opening a channel with the Republic transport, Commander Nolante told the captain to prepare a jump to hyperspace. It didn't matter where. A microjump would last mere moments but put them thousands of kilometers away from the battle, with Imperial forces having no way to track them.

What was left of Torrid Squadron gathered together in a wedge formation centered around Bella. Fire and smoke emanated from her damaged engine, quickly being suffocated by the vacuum of space. As the scores of Imperial interceptors put the squadron in their sights, the Gallant fighters readied themselves for their last strike. Speeding past the Republic transport, the group of fighters directed themselves toward the dreadnought still holding in its place.

"Warning: current flight path will be interrupted by the dreadnought's tractor beam," said Tessa.

"Tessa, divert all power to engines and disengage all safety limiters," Bella ordered. "We're punching through."

"Warning: structural integrity already compromised," Tessa continued. "Current course of-"

"Tessa, perform previous directive and extricate yourself from this unit.”

There was a barely perceptible pause.

"Understood. Torrid Six offline.”

"Goodbye... Tessa," Bella whispered.

The squadron was fast approaching their target. With the dreadnought's shields still raised, they had no hope of disrupting it from the outside. Instead, their focus was on the capital ship's leftward hangar. As they dodged the incoming bolts from pursuing interceptors, the Republic starfighters cleared a path going forward. Haron led the charge, taking precise shots at the areas left and right of the hangar. Before getting themselves caught in the ship's tractor beam, the other pilots broke formation, fanning out as only Bella remained on her current flight path.

Her hands tightened around the ship's controls as she passed through the tractor beam, the magnetic field stripping away the metal of her outer chassis. But she would not be stopped. With a determined glint in her eye and a smile on her face, she breached the capital ship's hangar at top speed. The damaged craft shot through the hangar walls continuing inward toward the ship's core. Passing through layer and layer of metal, she only perished after crashing into the dreadnought's power station.

Explosions rang out within the capital ship, a fiery plume escaping from its hangar into the vacuum of space. The dreadnought had lost its power, and unable to maintain its tractor beams, the Republic transport was finally freed. The pilots of Torrid Squadron breathed a brief sigh of relief as they watched the Wanderer blink into the void, escaping the other dreadnought's wrath.

One by one the pilots of Torrid Squadron warmed up their hyperdrives, preparing to jump to light speed. Only needing to put some distance between themselves and the Imperials, the pilots punched in whatever coordinated that could. However, what remained of the enemy forces would do everything they could to prevent that. The full might of the Imperial fleet directed themselves toward a single foe. Commander Nolante. Bolts from the operational dreadnought surged toward the squadron leader as the swarm of fighters descended upon him.

Dunn and Seraak were the first to jump, followed by Marvus. Fen and Rem activated their hyperdrives soon after. Haron readied himself to jump, but saw that his commander was under attack. But before he could lend a hand, the stars around him began to stretch, Tessa having already propelled him into hyperspace.

As the Imperials continued to encircle the remaining member of Torrid Squadron, he found his path obstructed no matter where he directed his ship. No matter how many fighters he pushed through, no matter how many he destroyed, others had taken their place. Unable to jump to hyperspace, and with no other targets to focus their attention on, the final Gallant starfighter fell victim to the concentrated fire of the Imperial fleet. As he lost his shields, as he lost his engines, as his chassis threatened to disintegrate, he thought only of his comrades and the lives of the civilians he had preserved. Removing his hands from his ship's control, the pilot leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, cracking one last smile before he succumbed.

Exiting hyperspace, Haron found himself alone amongst the darkness. Punching in the set of coordinates given to him by his commander, Tessa plotted the course and the ship was underway to regroup. As he traversed the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace once more, the pilot frantically tapped his fingers on the side of the cockpit.

Minutes later, as he finally dropped back into realspace, Haron was relieved to see his comrades' signals light up on his console, as well as that of the Republic transport, safe and sound. As he studied the readings, however, he slowly realized that only six had made it. Dunn. Seraak. Marvus. Fen. Rem. Himself.

Opening the team channel, Haron reached out with increasing trepidation. "Commander? Commander Nolante? Are you there? Commander!"

The journey home was long and painfully silent. The convoy was six ships short, but still headed for its original destination. However, the route would prove even longer than previously anticipated as Tessa plotted a more secure route through hyperspace.

Haron placed a hand on his console, opening communications with the transport. "Captain, have you finished your diagnostics? Is everything holding up?"

"Yes, lieutenant, just a little body damage," said the relieved captain. "All systems are up and running."

"What about the passengers?" Haron asked.

"There are still some murmurs of concern, but things have mostly quieted down," the captain explained. "Honestly, we can't thank you enough. We didn't think there was even the slightest chance we would escape."

"No thanks necessary, captain. Just doing our job," Haron stated, attempting to maintain his stoicism. A silence persisted as the pilot kept the channel open, but formulated his thoughts. "Captain, might I commandeer your ship's long-range communications system? I'd like to contact command."

"Absolutely, whatever you need."

Haron offered his appreciation and closed the channel. "Tessa, patch us through to Admiral Trevel."

"Right away."

As Tessa worked toward reaching command, the pilot was once again alone with the silence. Tapping his fingers on his lap, Haron looked to his console, which displayed a constant reminder of his allies' fates. Twelve icons. Six bright. Six dark.

On the Republic capital of Coruscant, within the grand halls of the Senate, a senior Navy officer sat at a desk within a quaint chamber, overlooking a series of datapads that lay before him.

Admiral Trevel. Human male, aged 52. The officer's face was unmarred by marks or scars, but it bared the grit that came with decades of a stressful career. Clean shaven and clean cut, the admiral's eyes darted between three readouts of different situations across the galaxy. Despite the haste with which his sights moved from item to item, he possessed a calmness about him, an unyielding focus. Focus that momentarily faltered with the sharp ping that resonated throughout the office. Immediately shuffling the datapads to the left side of the desk, the admiral answered the communications terminal that sat on its right.

"Admiral Trevel, this is Torrid Squadron Astromechanical Assistant 'Tessa'," said the monotonous female voice. "I am speaking through Wanderer-class transport number-"

"Tessa? Tessa!" the admiral exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. "What's your status? What's going on?"

"Lieutenant Gregard would like to update you regarding the-"

"Yes, yes, of course! Patch him through," the admiral said with urgency. As he leaned forward with anticipation, he was relieved to see the pilot's image emit from the compact terminal's holoprojector. "Lieutenant Gregard, it's good to hear from you."

"Admiral Trevel," Haron began. "The transport is safe and we are on route to our target destination. But I'm afraid Torrid Squadron is down six pilots, including Commander Nolante."

The admiral let out a heavy sigh as he sank back into his chair, softly burying his face in the palm of his hands. "I'm sorry, Haron, I wish there were more we could have done."

"I'm just grateful one of us was able to make this call, admiral," Haron admitted. "What matters now is how we move forward. We have to respond to the fact that we were openly attacked by Imperial forces."

Trevel let out another sigh as he scratched the base of his chin. "I'm afraid this brazenness is what's tying our hands. After being informed of our inability to send you reinforcements, I sent word to the Senate Security Council about our possible response."

"What options did they give?" Haron asked.

"None."

"None?" Haron balked. "Sir, we lost half of our squadron! Two Imperial dreadnoughts fired on a defenseless transport filled with civilian targets! They managed to drag us out of hyperspace for the sole purpose of destroying us! They openly defied the Treaty of Coruscant, and we are simply not going to respond?"

"I understand your disapproval, Haron, but the senate wants answers before they let us rush into a situation that gets more people killed," Trevel offered. "They are going to wait for an official report and they want to look at Tessa's databanks regarding the incident."

"'Incident'," the pilot muttered under his breath as he rubbed his brow in frustration. "Fine. I'll have my official report ready as soon as possible."

"Look, Haron, if the senate is going to take things slow, use this opportunity to do the same," Trevel suggested. "Not just for your sake, but for that of your team. You need time to recover."

"I know, admiral. I know," Haron replied. "I'll not let this be the end of Torrid Squadron."

"It won't be," said Trevel. "But there is a matter that needs addressing. Torrid Squadron is without a commander… and you were Nolante's XO…"

"I am not ignorant of my position, sir," Haron admitted.

"Torrid Squadron needs a strong leader," the admiral declared. "I believe that you can provide it one."

Silence overtook the channel as the pilot offered no immediate response, staring at the readout of his squadron's status. "Thank you for your time, admiral. We'll send word once we've arrived at our destination."

The pilot's image flickered and faded from the admiral's desk as the communications channel closed. Trevel leaned back in his seat, running his hands through his graying hair. Leaning forward, he returned his attention to the datapads that continued their constant stream information. Rubbing his eyes, the admiral let out a low sigh as he reached for the desk's terminal. With the press of a finger, he opened communications with his assistant.

"Karyn, get me the Director of SIS."

Ceasing communications with the admiral, Haron closed all open channels as he was left alone with his thoughts. Only a few seconds of silence passed before the lieutenant began banging his fist repeatedly against the interior of his fighter's chassis. The pilot stopped after the fourth knock, letting out an exasperated grunt and burying his face in the palm of his hand.

"Tessa, how much longer until we reach our destination?" Haron asked, not lifting his face from his gloved hand.

"Estimate 82 minutes until drop into realspace," Tessa promptly answered.

The next hours proved to be the longest the pilots of Torrid Squadron had ever experienced. They were accustomed to long flights, spending hours at a time cramped inside their single-person vessels. But this time was different. The usual playful banter had been replaced by a morose quiet. Each pilot resigned themselves to the loud silence of their own thoughts, breaking it only on occasion to receive a status update from Tessa.

As the almost unbearable trip neared its conclusion, the calm voice of Tessa addressed each of the pilots. "Approaching target destination. Dropping into realspace in 10… 9… 8…"

As the hyperspace tunnel collapsed around them and the stars returned to their rightful alignments, the squadron was greeted with the sight of a Republic orbital station, a temporary hub for the refugees before taken to their new homes. Surrounding the space station were four Thranta-class Corvettes, warships diverted to the area as soon as word was received that the traveling transport had been attacked. In addition to the bolstered defenses, a fifth vessel hovered a short distance from the facility.

'The Den'. Seeker-class Carrier. An experimental redesign of the corvettes that surrounded it. The vessel, while bulkier than its cousins, had traded much of its offensive potential for its large hangar and ability to properly service the starfighters it housed. It possessed advanced communications and logistics equipment, allowing it to operate in the field without support from larger capital ships.

The Republic transport and its escorts parted ways, the Wanderer setting a course to dock with the space station, the Gallant starfighters returning to their home.

Torrid Squadron moved into formation, Tessa providing them their flight path as they headed toward the carrier's hangar bay. Within the Den's interior, a siren wailed as various mechanics and technicians cleared the floor as the six starfighters passed through the magnetic barrier that sealed in the open chamber's atmosphere. One by one, they slowed their approach, relying on repulsors to carefully maneuver themselves within the carrier's hangar. Extending their landing gears, the six starfighters touched down in their assigned spaces close to one another, however some were closer than others as six of the twelve slots remained unoccupied.

The vessels each let out a sigh of their own as they rested their weight on their supports. Disengaging their crafts, the Gallant fighters' wings folded inward, hugging the chassis and compacting its size. Finally, the roofs of the cockpits slid forward, granting the pilots their freedom from the confined spaces.

The Den's hangar staff had already begun to swarm around the docked vessels, connecting fuel pipes and various sensor cables. Worker droids zipped across the hangar floor. Various cranes dashed across rails mounted on the hangar ceiling. As each starfighter received its fair share of attention, the pilots were free to pull themselves up from their seats. Hopping out of the cockpits, the pilots took a couple steps on top of the folded wings before hopping to the hangar floor.

Looking at their vessels, the pilots saw that they had not escaped the battle unscathed, scorch marks and dents marring the pristine chassis that had left the Den earlier that day. Tearing their gazes away from the war-torn fighters, the pilots locked eyes with one another. Stepping away from the bustle that surrounded their ships, the pilots of Torrid Squadron regrouped in the middle of the hangar.

"Haron, did you get in touch with Admiral Trevel?" Dunn asked.

"Yes," Haron replied, less than enthused. "As of now, command is aware of the circumstances of our attack, but the senate requires additional information before they'll authorize any sort of formal response."

The other pilots looked on with exasperated expressions, unwilling to believe they had experienced anything but a horrid nightmare.

"You're kidding me right?" Marvus balked. "What additional information could they possibly need?"

"This is the senate we are talking about," said Fen matter-of-factly. "All the things they've tolerated these past few years… they aren't going to go to war over the loss of six starfighter pilots, no matter who they are."

"What about the transport?" Marvus shouted, the Devaronian accompanying his words with the wide flail of his arm. "Just because they made it out alive, it doesn't matter that they were attacked?"

"This attack wasn't like other acts of aggression the Empire has committed," Haron declared. "The attackers… the targets… the methods… everything about it was unusual."

Rem, maintaining her calm, gently scratched her chin as her eyes fell to the hangar floor. "That means the senate wants corroboration before they issue a response."

Marvus' eyes went wide. "What, like they don't believe us?"

"It would explain why they want to look over Tessa's records of the battle," Haron offered.

The Devaronian folded his arms. "Fine, let Tessa tell them about how we were attacked by an entire Imperial fleet.”

"Things might not be that simple," Seraak muttered. The Togruta began softly stroking his chin. "Think back, who actually fired the first shot?"

"The Imperials did when they somehow ripped us out of hyperspace," Marvus declared.

"Does interdiction qualify as a hostile action under the Treaty of Coruscant?" asked Seraak.

"It's hard to qualify something that hasn't been utilized for centuries," Fen admitted. The Mon Calamari's eyes fell to the floor as she crossed her arms. "Can anyone even remember the last time a military target was successfully stopped while traveling through hyperspace?"

"Whatever, it's not like that excuses the fighters," Marvus replied.

"Again, which side actually fired first? Only Tessa can actually give an accurate answer," Seraak stated.

"No! I am not going to let our friends' deaths be dismissed because of some arbitrary technicality!" Marvus shouted.

"There's nothing we can do about it now, Marvus," Dunn attempted to calm the pilot down. The Kel Dor was successful in easing the tension present in his comrade, but he could not totally eliminate the other pilot's brewing concern. "Honor their memory by cooperating for the time being."

"Dunn's right," Haron admitted. "As much as we desire action, we gain nothing from being disruptive. We don't know the specifics about who attacked us or why. We'd be stabbing in the dark at an insurmountable foe were we to retaliate now. The best thing to do now is wait and rest. Torrid Squadron was dealt a harsh blow, but it will survive."

The pilots were interrupted by a voice sounding out over the hangar's loudspeakers.

"Lieutenant Gregard, please report to Conference Room 1. Lieutenant Gregard, please report to Conference Room 1."

"Return to your barracks," Haron suggested. "I'll join you soon enough."

After a series of mutual nods, the pilots split up, five making their way to their quarters, one making his way toward the front of the vessel.

Haron walked down one of the narrower corridors of the Seeker-class Carrier, his deadened gaze permanently affixed ahead of him, not bothering to divert toward any of the passing crewmen that would walk by. The ship's pristine and brightly lit interior began to blur in the lieutenant's vision. His senses dulled, Haron appeared to be walking on autopilot.

As the pilot traversed the ship's central corridor, he snapped out of his stupor only to find himself in front of the conference room's entrance. Prodding the door's control panel, he was granted entrance and stepped inside. In front of him sat a round table equipped with a holoterminal at its center. The seats that surrounded the table were empty, save for one. A single person sat patiently across the room, flanked by two armed soldiers. A senator and his security.

Quickly rising from his seat, the regally garbed Human circled around the table to greet the entering pilot. He was young, but old enough to have a firm grasp of his station. His skin was fair and pristine, softened by a life of luxury. His entire being expressed a primness and order surpassing even the ex-Imperial pilot.

"Mr. Gregard!" the senator greeted with exuberance as he rushed to meet the pilot, his guards following with a calm haste. Standing in front of the pilot, the senator immediately took hold of his hand and began shaking it. "Or would you prefer Lieutenant Gregard. Or just Lieutenant-"

"Haron is fine," the pilot calmly stated as he regained control of his hand.

"Haron it is. I am Senator Bartron, I represent those refugees you and your squadron protected."

"Yes, I know who you are," Haron admitted. "You were also one of the senators providing us funding and resources."

"Good memory. Had I known then how effective you'd be, I'd have pledged double, triple what I had," Bartron declared. "Because of your squadron, thousands of men, women, and children owe you their lives."

"Thank you, sir," Haron stoically replied. "We were just doing our duty. You really ought to be with them on the station instead of here with us."

"Listen, I was told that not every member of your team made it back," Bartron explained, his normally jubilant tone momentarily subsiding. "I just wanted you to know that you have my full support moving forward. If there is anything you or your team needs, do not hesitate to call upon my aid."

"That is… appreciated, senator," said Haron. The pilot's head dipped as a silence developed between the two. The lieutenant's eyes began to shake as he struggled to formulate his thoughts. "If I might… I have a question to ask."

"Absolutely, go ahead," Bartron graciously offered.

"Who exactly was on that transport?" Haron asked. The senator gave the pilot a nod, scratching his chin as he thought of a proper way to explain.

"My world is in a state of political discourse. Certain parties are beginning to question the worth of our ties to the Republic," Bartron explained. "Secessionists and separatists are gaining traction, so I consider it my duty to do all that I can for the Republic whilst I'm still able. The passengers of that transport consist of our greatest scientists, technicians, and doctors who were willing to relocate to the core worlds along with their families."

"What kinds of scientists and technicians?"

"Mostly agricultural and infrastructural specialists," Bartron stated. "People who could help rebuild the worlds still wounded by the last war."

"No weapons techs? Anyone with knowledge of defensive systems?"

"Not a one. I honestly can't think of any reason why the Empire would take an interest in them, let alone open fire on them," Bartron admitted.

"Were any groups pushing for Imperial allegiance back home?" Haron asked.

"None with any sway," Bartron answered. "The only parties with backing wanted complete independence."

"Could someone have been aboard that wasn't supposed to be?" Haron suggested.

"There's always the chance, but the transport's crew double checked everything before they left the planet's surface," said Bartron.

Haron began to slowly scratch his chin. "Nothing about this attack adds up.”

"This is the Empire we are talking about. They don't think like we do.”

"I know the Empire, and I know its methods," Haron emphatically stated. "This is something different."

"Ah, yes. If I recall, you yourself defected shortly after the Treaty of Coruscant was signed, did you not?" Bartron offered. "When you were with them, we were in a state of open war. Now that we are 'at peace', perhaps the Empire would be unrecognizable to even someone such as yourself. The Empire still seeks to strike at the Republic, but with the treaty in place, they must choose their targets carefully."

"You're right. Which is why I'm starting to think the transport was never their target to begin with," Haron muttered. "Thank you for your time senator, but if there's nothing more you need from me, I'd like to take my leave."

"Right, of course," Bartron assuaged the pilot. "I merely wanted to offer my sincerest thanks in person. I'll not take up any more of your time."

With a mutual nod of their heads, Haron ducked out of the conference room and back into the pristinely white corridors of the carrier. He began his march back to the barracks where his squadron mates were settling down. Haron's journey was one of silence as he was consumed by his own thoughts. He began to think about those who lived, those who died. He began to weigh the values of each before struggling to shake the thoughts from his head. He wondered if the entire incident was an accident. Maybe they had stumbled upon the Imperials without them knowing. Maybe the Imperials overestimated the strategic value of those aboard the transport. Maybe the refugees were never a part of the equation to begin with.

Within the belly of the Den, the pilots' quarters were situated in six modestly sized chambers. Two pilots per dwelling, though now four of the pilots found themselves without a roommate. Locked down, they were now forced to wait for their superiors to determine a proper course of action.

Standing in front of his quarters, Haron gazed onto the nameplate that sat above the door's control panel.

Commander Nolante

Lieutenant Gregard

The pilot closed his eyes and opened the door, entering shortly after. The pilots of Torrid Squadron had been given sufficient accommodations, sharing a room with only one of their fellows when other outfits would force four or more into the same allotment of space. The dwelling possessed a dual symmetry, each pilot's bunk situated against opposite walls to the left and right of the room's entrance.

Nolante's possessions sat where he had left them on the right side of the room, undisturbed since the day's beginning. Haron made one pass over the empty dwelling before trudging over to his bed. Sitting on the bunk's edge, still encased in his flightsuit, the pilot ran his gloved hands through his hair and his eyes drifted to the floor. His gaze became affixed to the cold, smooth paneling beneath his feet. Seconds passed. Then minutes. Each spent silent, and alone.

Across the vastness of space, far from the borders of Republic space, an Imperial ship sat amongst the dark void. A Gage-class transport. The wedge-shaped vessel was only half as long as an Imperial Dreadnought and much slimmer. It possessed a similar chassis to the Terminus-class destroyers that made up the bulk of the Imperial fleet, albeit with far less offensive armament. But what it lacked in firepower, it more than made up with logistical systems that made it perfect for issuing commands and conducting operations from a safe distance.

Within the transport's bridge, Imperial officers spread across the spacious area monitored various terminals and systems. Standing at the front of the deck, two men watched the image of a holodisplay unfold between them and the vessel's viewports. The projection detailed a tactical appraisal of an engagement between Republic and Imperial naval forces, numerous blips marking each side's forces, until the opposing forces were removed from the battlefield. As the two men stood side by side, the smaller and elder of the two offered a slight smirk at the display.

Admiral Fiernan. Human male, aged 58. The officer possessed a worn and aged face wrought by years serving within the harsh hierarchy of Moffs and Sith, but managed to maintain the image of propriety assumed of a high ranking Imperial. He wore a pristinely white uniform, decorated with the various symbols of rank and past service, his receding hairline hidden under a matching cap. Commander of his own fleet, master of a multitude of vessels and warships, the man had long ago abandoned the frontlines, and his thin, almost frail physique proved as much.

The man at his side, however, was anything but frail. In fact, he differed from his commanding officer in many ways. And yet everything about him seemed to be an emulation of sorts, enacted by both his own will and by necessity. For he was the only non-Human standing on the bridge.

Malaf'era'sidoru. Core name "Feras". Chiss male, aged 33. Tactical Advisor and Security Liaison. He stood a head taller than the admiral, who was of average height, and possessed a remarkably trained physique. He wore a dark gray officer's uniform, but it showed no sign of rank or privilege, as he possessed none. He was not an official member of the Imperial Navy. He was a foreigner, an alien, on lease from the Chiss Ascendancy. His face might be considered handsome amongst those he surrounded himself with, if not for the striking blue skin and piercing red eyes that alienated him from the Human crew.

As the admiral watched the details of his apparent victory with budding glee, Feras observed patiently, arms folded behind his back, face stoically directed forward. His eyes darted between the more minute readings offered by the projected display. Power readouts of the Imperial Dreadnoughts, casualties amongst the fighters and bomber squadrons, movement vectors and other details.

"I've finally done it," Fiernan muttered to himself. The admiral possessed a coarse, but delighted tone. Ripping his gaze from the tactical readout, he looked to the officer manning communications a short distance away to issue a command. "Patch us through to Grand Moff Kilran."

The officer offered a quick affirmation and began tapping away at her terminal. The holoprojector rescinded its tactical readout, and the admiral and his advisor were left with a clear view out the bridge's forward viewports. Fiernan gazed into the stars that dotted the empty space in front of him, his head held high and a comforting delight pulsing through his veins. A few moments later, the holoprojector began to flicker back to life, this time emitting the image of the Imperial Grand Moff.

Rycus Kilran. Human male, aged 49. Military commander second only to the Minister of War. A man strong in both body and mind, capable of inspiring both courage and fear. The left side of his face was covered in scars earned in the fire of battle, the Grand Moff was a charismatic figure to his people, and the embodiment of terror to his enemies. The man presented himself with utmost composure as his image looked down upon the admiral.

"Ah, Admiral Fiernan. I take it you have something to report?" Kilran suggested. He spoke with the smooth regality expected of an Imperial Moff, but his words carried an additional impact born from years of military service.

"That's right, sir," Fiernan quickly replied alongside a dutiful bow of his head. "I'm happy to report that my operation was a success. The interdiction technology performed as predicted and Torrid Squadron is no longer a threat."

"Did you conform to the established parameters?" asked Kilran.

"We may have strayed slightly beyond our projected losses, but we successfully carried out the mission in such a way that the Republic cannot retaliate without serious repercussions," Fiernan reported. "And now Admiral Trevel's pet project is officially out of commission."

"You managed to successfully eradicate them, then?"

"We destroyed six of the twelve, including their commander," Fiernan explained.

There was a pause as the Grand Moff stared down the admiral. "You were unable to destroy a single squadron with two fully stocked Dreadnoughts at your command? Am I understanding you correctly?"

"Yes… sir," Fiernan stumbled. "But we had to make sure we didn't accidentally-"

"If I may," Feras interrupted. His voice immediately contrasted with that of the admiral's, possessing a low, smooth tone. "The point of the operation was never to fully eradicate the pilots of Torrid Squadron. It was always our intention to allow a certain number to escape. Had they been wiped out, the Republic would be more inclined to respond, and the resources dedicated to them would just be pushed along to the next project. By leaving some part of the group intact, the Republic wastes time and resources determining how to proceed and how to rebuild what they've come to rely on. This was the best possible outcome."

The Grand Moff slightly turned his head, affixing his gaze toward the Chiss, offering only a stern silence. The admiral violently cleared his throat before placing a hand on his advisor's tall shoulder.

"I apologize for my subordinate speaking out of turn, but what he said is correct," Fiernan stated. "Torrid Squadron had become more than twelve pilots and their advanced ships. They were a symbol to the Republic. Now that symbol is broken, and the more they try to mend it, the more shattered it will become."

"I've little time for supposition and theory, admiral," Kilran declared. "Especially when it involves risking valuable military assets. I authorized your operation because Trevel and Torrid Squadron were a considerable threat. If it turns out that that threat has not been neutralized, you will not escape punishment."

"I understand, sir," Fiernan humbly stated. "But what of the interdiction technology?"

"Technology that can only be utilized with prior knowledge of the target's route and severely diminishes whichever vessel it is installed within? I'm afraid I don't see it proliferating amongst the fleet," Kilran sardonically offered. "I await your official, and factual, report on the operation. Kilran out."

The image of the Grand Moff flickered and dissipated as the transmission ended. The admiral took a deep breath and exhaled before turning around to face the rest of the bridge.

"Maintain your posts, keep in contact with the forward fleet, keep me informed of any new developments," Fiernan ordered.

As the bridge officers went about their assigned tasks, the admiral stepped away from the holoprojector and waved for Feras to follow. The Chiss heeded his direction, moving closely behind his superior officer. Stepping out from the bridge, the two walked the corridors of the Gage-class transport, free of the eyes and ears of the vessel's staff. Feras moved out from behind the admiral, walking side by side with him.

"How many times have I told you that you aren't to speak out of turn? Especially when I am conversing with the Grand Moff," Fiernan chastised his advisor. "You are an alien with no rank. You're supposed to be my bodyguard. What if Kilran thought that it was you who came up with our plan?"

"I did come up with our plan," Feras coldly stated.

"Yes, but coming from you, it has no merit," Fiernan stated. "Had you suggested it in the first place, we'd have never received authorization. Then where would we be? Hmm? Trevel and his prized squadron would be free to harass us as they've done for years and years. Now we no longer have to worry about them. We can rebuild our fleet, develop our interdictors into something that doesn't cause us to almost lose a dreadnought to a single fighter."

"It wasn't the interdictor's fault," Feras commented. "Had you followed the plan exactly as outlined, that situation would have never arisen."

"No plan, no matter how great, can fully predict how an enemy will act," Fiernan stated. "You don't know Torrid Squadron like I do."

"And yet, instead of completely destroying them, I managed to convince you to let some of them survive," Feras reminded. "Five to be exact. Which, had you properly executed the plan-"

"Need I remind you that your entire career rests in my hands?" Fiernan warned.

"From the way Kilran spoke, it would seem yours rests in mine as well," Feras coldly stated.

The next 48 hours came and went with no update for Torrid Squadron. Command was silent. The Senate sat on their hands. The six pilots knew the truth of the matter. There would be no response, no retaliation, no retribution for their lost comrades. The Empire had won. Not only that, but they did so with the knowledge that the Republic would be too afraid to move against them. The big picture meant the Republic couldn't risk upsetting the peace over the loss of six pilots. Meanwhile, the six living pilots struggled to find their own peace.

Within the hangar of the Den, six starfighters lay dormant. Six, where there ought to be twelve. As bright and well-kept as the open space was, there was an overwhelming darkness. The ship's entire crew gathered in the chamber's center. Scores of uniformed figures stood in rigid alignment, their heads bowed in silence. They surrounded six empty crates, each covered with tapestry bearing the insignia of the Republic Navy.

Officers. Technicians. Fellow pilots. They had all gathered to mourn the loss of some of the Navy's finest. Stepping from the crowd, a lone figure broke the ordered ranks, slowly making his way around the figurative coffins. Haron Gregard. Garbed in his officer's uniform, the Human wore a stoic facade, offering a picture of stalwart regality amongst the morose setting. Standing opposite the gathered crowd, the man stood tall, head held high, arms neatly folded behind his back.

"Today… we mourn the loss of our comrades, six men and women who gave their lives in service of their government and its people. It is a dark day for the Republic… for the Navy… for Torrid Squadron…"

The pilot panned his gaze across the gathered attendees, the other members of Torrid Squadron standing directly across from him. The five pilots had traded their flightsuits for formal garb much as he had, also emulating his stoic presence.

"But even in our darkest days, we must not abandon hope. We must believe that, eventually, the dawn will come. But it does always come easy. Sometimes it is up to us to shine the light, to cast off the darkness. And until we do, we and the ones we care for remain helpless, scared, and blind. This is not the end for Torrid Squadron. We will rebuild. We will recover. But most importantly, we will remember."

Haron paused to take a deep breath, releasing it a moment later as the gathered pilots and crewmen watched in complete silence.

"Dala Kaarn, a dedicated and loyal pilot. Bella'varao, a fighter to the end. Breks Delgo, a calm mind and a kind heart. Dreb Renub, a friend to all. Wess Soraldo, a patriot and loving father. And finally, Commander Nolante… he was the best of us. Six pilots. Six brothers and sisters. Gone, but not forgotten."

Haron raised a steady salute, each person in attendance reciprocating the action. As the lieutenant lowered his hand, the five pilots across from him were the final ones in the hanger to lower theirs.

"I know all of you are wondering where we go from here. And sadly, I cannot offer an answer. As unwilling as I am to allow Torrid Squadron to die, there is no clear path forward. We may never return to the way things were. We may be forced to split up, from one another, from the Den. I do not know. But I will not stand by and watch us be destroyed at the hands of the Empire, or worse, at the hands of the Republic. We have given so much to this government and its people, and I do not intend to stop giving anytime soon. But Torrid Squadron needs a new leader."

The lieutenant looked to his comrades, who each offered their own looks of support.

"No one could properly replace Commander Nolante, but it is our duty to press on, and to preserve the standard he set in place. A confirmation from Admiral Trevel and a senate oversight committee is required before someone can officially become the new commander of Torrid Squadron. But as Nolante's XO, I possess nominative authority as well as prime candidacy. However, I must announce… that I will not be submitting my name for the position."

The dead silence that hung over the hangar was suddenly disrupted as the gathered attendees found themselves murmuring to one another in disbelief. The other five pilots of Torrid Squadron remained quiet, but their wide eyes were enough to spell out their surprise.

"It's not enough to be a good pilot or tactician. A leader needs to be someone who can command respect from more than just their peers. They need to be someone worthy of being looked up to. By soldiers and senators. By the strong and the weak. By the young and the old. I, sadly, cannot be this person. But such a candidate does exist within Torrid Squadron. In reality, any one of us could take command, and we would follow them to the ends of the universe without a second thought. But for one individual, I believe them to be the key to Torrid Squadron's survival. Under their command, we can rebuild, and we can recover. That is why I am officially recommending the position of commander be filled… by Lieutenant Rem Altess."

The announcement struck the woman deep to the core, the last person expecting their name to be called. As the Human pilot stood at attention, she struggled to maintain her stoic demeanor. Rem's heart began to race as she remained silent, her comrades slowly laying their gazes upon her. On the outside, they saw the same collected and composed individual they had always known, even when she was out of formal attire. But on the inside, a weight pushed down on her unlike any she had experienced before. And under that strain, she realized that everyone was waiting for her response.

"I…" Rem muttered. Her eyes locked with the man opposite her, the man who had laid this burden upon her, the man who believed her more worthy than himself to assume the role of commander. And through those eyes, she could sense the unfiltered belief that man possessed in her. Standing tall, Rem offered a firm salute. "I'd be honored."

Haron reciprocated the salute. As did their fellow pilots. As did the ship's crewmen. Silence swept over the hangar once more, but it carried none of the moroseness of silences prior. Little had changed. There were still only six pilots where there ought to have been twelve. The battered chassis of the surviving starfighters sat along the edge of the hangar, a constant reminder of the pain they had endured. Torrid Squadron was still without an official leader, and it would be months before they could even resume operations. But through it all, there was a newfound assurance.

Torrid Squadron would survive.

Flying through the vacuum of space, twelve Gallant-class advanced starfighters were drawing in on their target, and the only thing resting before them was a field of rocks ten times the size of their vessels. The heavy debris that littered their path required utmost precision to avoid, the squadron breaking and returning to formation multiple times.

"The Imperials have established an illegal space station in this sector," a female, monotonous voice sounded off in the starfighters' cockpits. "Your ships have been outfitted with a heavy ordinance load out capable of crippling the station's systems. You'll have no support on this mission, so you'll be dealing with the station's automated and starfighter defenses. Destroy that station. Good luck."

Circumventing a large asteroid, the Imperial station entered the pilots' views. The disked structure featured multiple hangars and pylons topped with turrets. A fielding station, the facility served as a jumping point for pushes deeper into Republic territory, capable of holding a full arrangement of fighters as well as refueling capital ships.

Moving into a wedge formation, the Gallant starfighters made the first strike, releasing a volley of blaster fire toward one of the turret pylons. The heavy bolts impacted with a shimmering flash as the station's shields absorbed almost the entirety of the energy. The element of surprise was lost, and the Imperials moved to strike back.

Squadrons of black and gray fighters poured from opposite hangars of the disked structure, setting the meager Republic forces in their sights. Remaining in formation, the Gallants moved beneath the station's belly. The reduced turret coverage meant they could focus on the swarming defenses.

Moving in unison, the Republic fighters targeted their foes and slowly began eliminating the lightly defended forces. But soon, the Imperials surrounded the tightly formed squadron, and began nipping at their heels. Laser fire rocked the shielded Gallant fighters. Sticking together, the squadron attempted to circle around, to outmaneuver the lithe Imperials, but found themselves unable.

The Republic squadron left the belly of the space station, seeking cover in the surrounding debris field. The Imperials followed, continually pestering them, slowly whittling away their shields. Soon the Republic pilots realized that the thing they had hoped to be their salvation, would prove to be their downfall. The asteroids floated and flowed, converging and parting, cutting off and inhibiting the fleeing starfighters. The nimble Imperial forces outmaneuvered their foes, continuing their assault.

Within the blink of an eye, things went horribly awry. Three of the Gallant fighters were crushed by one of the asteroids. Three more were felled by Imperial fighters. Half their forces diminished, the Republic squadron could only bide their time, until one by one they were reduced to mere scrap and particulate.

"Damn it!" a pilot cursed, tossing his headset at the screen ahead of him. The electronic panel faded its depiction of space until it went black and the surrounding instruments powered down. 'Please Exit' flashed in red on the screen and the hatch above slid forward. Begrudgingly, the pilot began removing himself from the cockpit.

The man climbed out of a wingless, stripped down chassis, into a compact chamber lined with more like it. A plethora of wires and electronic equipment flowed into and out of the simulators, a lone astromech sitting behind each one. On the walls in front of each chassis, a screen displayed the current occupant's status, actions, and progress in the mission.

In the center of the chamber stood Rem Altess and Haron Gregard in officer's garb. Both were pictures of formality, the lightly colored hairs atop their heads kept short and worn clean. The leader of Torrid squadron divided her attention between the twelve, now eleven, active screens, while the executive officer intently studied the datapad in his hands.

"Nero Ferrid. Fail," Haron stoically declared, not lifting his gaze from the electronic tablet.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Nero shouted as he stomped across the chamber. The young Human wore a relaxed orange jumpsuit, mixing military and civilian garb. "How was that a fair test?"

"The simulation is a fair test of a pilot's skill, handling, and operational procedure," Haron explained. Rem kept her attention solely focused on the simulations still in progress.

"What're you talking about? Asteroid fields aren't that dense," Nero declared.

"That was technically a debris field," Haron quickly replied.

"You would never field ships that sluggish in an operation like that," Nero emphatically stated.

"In the right hands, the Gallant-class starfighter is more than capable of handling an operation of this sort," Haron explained. "Your hands obviously aren't the ones we're seeking. Please, exit the testing area."

"What if the simulation was off, huh?" Nero asked. "What if your droid miscalculated or something? I mean, I only controlled one ship, how do explain the loss of the other eleven?"

"The TS-AA constructed the simulation from recordings it took from an actual mission," Haron declared, finally lifting his eyes from the datapad to cast his sharpened gaze at the protesting pilot. "We know it's possible because we were there. As for the other pilots, the simulation takes cues from you, its leader, to guide their actions. You failed. Your team failed. End of story. Each and every pilot of Torrid Squadron is capable of being its commanding officer. If you are incapable, then you are unworthy of a spot on this team. Please, exit the testing area."

The failed applicant stared down the executive officer before storming out of the chamber in a huff. Returning to his datapad, Haron resumed pouring over the constant stream of information he was receiving.

"Have you requested the next applicant?" Rem softly asked, her eyes still darting between the simulation screens that lined that walls.

"Yes, sir," Haron stated after a few taps on his datapad.

"Here's hoping they're more qualified… and even-tempered," Rem commented.

"When you put out the call for hotshot pilots, you're going to get hotshot pilots. Namely, the hotshot pilots that were passed over back when we were recruited," Haron declared.

The sound of the door opening behind them momentarily drew the pair's attention. The tall humanoid that stepped through approached the commander and her executive officer with a pep and a bounce in his step. The figure's flightsuit held tight to the man's muscular frame whilst his head went unadorned, revealing him to be a Nautolan. The man's head-tendrils hung behind his shoulders, and he wore a beaming smile on his face. Taking his position in front of Rem and Haron, he stood a full head taller than the Human male.

"Zal Tobek, ready and able!" the Nautolan boisterously stated.

"Greetings," Rem offered, holding out a hand from behind her back.

The Nautolan took hold and gave it a firm shake. "It's an honor to be here, sir!"

"Well, we're proud to have you," said Rem.

"You will be tested in unit four," Haron interrupted. "You will be guided through the simulation and evaluated on your performance throughout. Good luck."

"Ba-boom!" Zal offered alongside a valiant of his arm before making his way to the empty simulator. The two members of Torrid squadron watched the Nautolan quickly climb into the electronic chassis, squeezing his large frame into the compact simulator.

"He's… enthusiastic," Rem commented. "How many applicants are left?"

"Seventeen."

"How many have completed the simulation?"

"Eight managed to finish the simulation. Five received passing scores. Two of those five managed to complete it with zero casualties," Haron listed.

"Will we have enough pilots for phase two?" Rem asked.

"It's difficult to say," said Haron. "But with the current trend we should have enough."

"Then I'll stay the night to recalibrate the simulators for linked operations," Rem revealed.

"Very well, commander. I'll make sure the others are ready for tomorrow's tests."

"How goes preparations for phase three?"

"We're still trying to find a suitable location," Haron admitted. "Republic worlds with the right features not currently in the process of political upheaval are in short supply."

"We'll find something. I know we will," Rem declared.

As the pair fell silent, the viewscreen above the ninth unit grew bright with the explosion of a destroyed Imperial space station.

"Pull up the data of number nine," said Rem.

Tapping away at his datapad, Haron looked over the pilot's data. "Chanta, aged 26. Graduated from the Naval Academy in-"

"Chanta? Just Chanta?" Rem interrupted.

The executive officer paused as he reviewed his datapad. "That's all it says." The data from the simulator popped on Haron's screen, giving a readout of her performance. "That's weird."

"Not really, people of certain species and cultures often only possess a single name," Rem explained.

"No, I'm looking over her results," Haron stated. "She managed to complete the objective, but there was a single casualty. Her."

"Was she caught in the blast at the last moment?"

"Actually, she crashed over two minutes prior," Haron revealed.

"The simulation shouldn't have been able to continue without a leader to guide the other pilots," Rem declared.

"I guess she did well enough for Tessa to see the simulation through to the end.”

Rem tore her gaze away from the screens to look at her executive officer. "Was that an option?"

"You tell me."

Emerging from unit nine, a pilot carefully climbed out and stepped away from the electronic chassis, scratching the back of her oblong head.

"That's technically a failure, you know," Haron quietly reminded the commander as the pilot slowly made her way toward them. Rem remained silent, studying the approaching figure. A yellow flightsuit encased her body up to the neck. Two long tendrils hung from the back of her head, and two stubby ones hung from the front of her fishlike face. Her skin was a dark blue, and possessed an almost aquatic sheen. Only a few meters away, the commander recognized her as a Selkath.

"Chanta, correct?" Rem softly called out.

"That right, sir," Chanta replied, a natural grit in her voice. As the two locked eyes, the Selkath forced herself to keep her head up.

"You passed. Report back tomorrow for the next phase of testing," Rem calmly directed.

"Of course, sir!" Chanta replied, shooting off a quick salute after she collected her senses. The commander reciprocated and offered a firm nod as the Selkath made her way toward the exit.

"An odd assortment we seem to be collecting," Haron commented as his gaze fell back to his datapad.

A slight curl appeared on Rem's lips. "Any stranger than what we had before?"

"No. I suppose not," Haron eventually replied.

The commander's eyes continued to absorb the information displayed on the screens above the simulators. Each possessed different pilots at different stages in the mission. Each possessed a unique individual employing different skills and maneuvers. Each possessed a person of suitable rank and background to join Torrid Squadron. But in order to fill one of the six open slots, they would have to prove themselves worthy. A task not easily accomplished.

Eventually, Rem's gaze settled on the blank screen above the newly unoccupied simulator. "Send in the next applicant."

*Edit*

Chapter One previously split into two posts due to forums not liking posts over a certain word count. Full chapter has been edited into previous post.

I was hoping since they announced Galactic Starfighter that this would continue. I know they're not connected (probably) but I'm glad to see this is continuing. Do love a good starfighter squadron story.

Actually, this story (and pretty much every one that doesn't involve acolytes and the ascension thereof) was put on hold whilst I focused on one story at a time, but seeing the space expansion did inspire me to pick this one up sooner rather than later. That and the fact that I feel like I stagnate if I keep my attention focused on only one thing for too long.

But always happy to see someone appreciate a story, especially an experimental one that doesn't revolve around the game's traditional classes. Here's hoping this manages to qualify as a 'good starfighter squadron story'.

Phase Two of recruitment had begun. Following a day of reducing candidates from the scores of qualified pilots, only ten applicants returned for the next stage. Ten men and women with scores high enough to earn the commander's approval. Within the same nondescript, metallic chamber, twelve simulators lined three of the walls. After a long night of recalibrations, the machines had been set to run a single simulation, the twelve systems linked to form a single, cohesive squadron.

Ten applicants stood across from the commander and executive officer of Torrid Squadron, heads held high. The gathered figures represented a snapshot of the diversity the Republic prided itself on. People of all shapes, sizes, and species mentally prepared themselves for the challenges to come, each eager to earn a spot amongst the illustrious pilots of Torrid Squadron.

"Pilots," Rem began, adopting a calm yet authoritative tone. "You have each proven yourself prior to even stepping into this chamber. You've served the navy and the Republic with dedication and sacrifice. All of you have earned the rank of lieutenant. All of you possess enough confirmed kills to qualify as aces. Even if you do not earn a spot on Torrid Squadron today, I've no doubt that each and every one of you will continue to fly with distinction. As you know, there are six spots. Six openings to be filled. Which means that four of you will eventually be rejected. But by making it this far, you all have earned our attention, and our respect. Lieutenant Gregard?"

"I am Lieutenant Gregard, executive officer of Torrid Squadron under Commander Altess," Haron formally declared. "The purpose of today's test is not to reduce the number of considered applicants. In fact, the chances that any of you will not make it to the next phase of testing is very slim. Instead, we will be making preliminary notes moving forward, and making sure you are each fit to physically pilot a Gallant fighter in the next phase."

The gathered pilots struggled to maintain their rigid decorum, trying to surreptitiously look to one another as well as they could.

"That's correct," Rem took over. "Phase Three of testing will put you into the cockpit of one of the Republic's most advanced starfighters. But for now, you will utilize the simulators. You will be embarking on a series of tests. Not recreations of Torrid Squadron's previous operations, but original trials of my own devising. This ensures that it will be your skills that are tested, not your memories or knowledge of our exploits."

"Since there are ten of you, two of Torrid Squad's own will join you in the simulation, taking leadership roles," Haron explained. "Commander Altess and myself will remain observers, which means two others will be flying with you."

The gathered pilots immediately focused their attention toward the chamber's entrance. As the heavy doors parted, two figures walked in, garbed in trademark red and white flightsuits. One's face was covered by a antiox mask. From the other's head sprouted two devilish horns. Rol Dunn, the Kel Dor. Marvus Verandii, the Devaronian.

The tall Nautolan standing amongst the other applicants excitedly inhaled as his widened eyes fell on the entering pilots. "That's Lieutenant Verandii," Zal enthusiastically whispered, digging his elbow into the arm of the man beside him.

"You don't say?" the Human haughtily offered alongside a roll of his eyes, his head barely reaching the Nautolan's shoulders. The man possessed a series of visible cybernetic implants, metallic strips lining his right brow and cheekbone.

Dunn and Marvus stood beside their fellows, scanning the lineup across from them. The Kel Dor proved almost impossible to read, but the Devaronian possessed a confident grin.

"Lieutenant Dunn will act as Torrid Leader, with Lieutenant Verandii acting as his second in command," Haron explained. "Odd units will belong to Group One. Even units will belong to Group Two. Any questions?"

"Are we assigned to certain units or do we get to pick?" asked Zal.

"You're free to choose from units three and up," Rem replied. "One and two are reserved for Lieutenants Dunn and Verandii respectively."

"Dibs on unit four!" Zal declared, securing his spot in Group Two.

"It seems you have a fan," Dunn quietly rasped beneath his mask.

"Well, he wouldn't be the first," Marvus admitted, playfully stroking his chin. A low sigh slipped past the Kel Dor's antiox mask as he turned toward his assigned unit.

"If there are no questions or concerns, please proceed to one of the open simulators," Rem instructed. The line of applicants quickly broke rank and rushed to the electronic units, some more hastily than others. One by one the twelve simulators received and enclosed the pilots. "Alright. Let's get things started."

Without a word, Haron went to work tapping away at his datapad. The screens above the units came to life and various lights lining the simulators signaled the internal systems coming online. Beneath them, subtle mechanisms that provided kinetic feedback fired up, carefully raising the chassis slightly off the ground.

Within the cockpits, various instruments and displays matching the interior of a true Gallant starfighter lit up, speakers filling the sealed units with the simulated sounds of the military vessel. Lastly, the black screens ahead of the pilots came to life as a progress bar appeared along the bottom edge.

"Loading Phase Two-Stage One," said an electronic female voice to each of the twelve pilots.

"Stage one will test your familiarity with the Gallant's systems as we navigate a terrestrial environment," Dunn explained, almost matching the droid's monotonous tone. As the Kel Dor's voice filled their cockpits, the other applicants rushed to check every possible console and dial in front of them. "When you are prompted to relay information, do so. Failure to do so or relaying incorrect information will result in a point loss. While navigating the course, you will be given directions by your group leader. Failure to follow said directions or making physical contact with the terrain will result in a point loss. Points will be aggregated and judged only upon the completion of the entire phase of testing."

"Also, don't crash. Crashing will result in a major point loss," Marvus added, almost mimicking his comrade's dulled tone.

The progress bar on the displays filled completely before fading away. In its place, a series of words splashed across the interior screens: 'Simulation about to begin. Place hands on controls.' Soon after, a countdown appeared.

3.

2.

1.

The cockpit interiors grew bright as the screens displayed an expansive stretch of unpopulated land. The simulation had begun with the twelve vessels midflight over jagged, rocky terrain. Each of the pilots took careful control, making sure their craft flew straight and steady. The twelve starfighters sailed high above the planet's surface, brown crags spreading out in all directions beneath them and a beautiful open sky hanging overhead.

"Torrid Squadron, report in," Dunn called out over the comm channel.

"Torrid Two, standing by," Marvus quickly called in as he always had, albeit with a new designation. One by one the applicants reported in order of the units they occupied. The haughty Human from before led things off, followed by the boisterous Nautolan. Then a diverse assortment of men and women of various species. Each held a firm grasp of Basic, but accents were present in a few pilot's tones. Selkath, Cathar, Rodian, Duros, Corellian.

"Alright," Dunn calmly began. "Remain in formation and follow my lead."

The squadron leader's starfighter began to dip as he descended, leading his fellow pilots ever closer to the planet's surface. The applicants followed, trying their best to maintain their relative positions as they lowered their altitude. Dunn and the other pilots evened out, less than a half a kilometer separating them from the jagged terrain.

"Torrid Three, what's our altitude?" Dunn asked.

"We're averaging around 400 meters above ground level," the Human read off his instruments.

"Very good," said Dunn. "We're approaching a series of splintered mountain ranges. We'll be navigating two ravines, one for each group. Follow your group leader and do not exit the canyon until you've reached its end. Exiting the course will result in a point loss. Understood?"

The ten applicants supplied a series of confident ayes.

"Group One, you're with me," Dunn plainly stated.

"Group Two, try and keep up," Marvus heartily teased.

The two group leaders began to diverge their paths as they fast approached the towering, jagged mountains ahead. Stretching kilometers into the air, the ranges sprouted in sharp ridges with numerous breaks and ravines separating them. The two leaders had their sights set on two particular canyons, narrow and treacherous in their design, vast in their length, digitally constructed to push the starfighters to their limits.

As the ground below began to incline, the vessels maintained a steady course, inching ever closer to the rocky terrain. Two groups, six pilots strong, separated and made their ways toward their prescribed courses. Soon, Dunn and Marvus passed the threshold of their assigned canyons, finding themselves flanked by walls of passing stone. One by one, the twelve pilots disappeared into the trenches, their piloting skills about to be put to the test.

"Tessa, engage Bifurcation," Dunn called out.

The astromech droids plugged into the back of the simulators went to work, separating the twelve fighters into two groups, creating and prioritizing comm channels for each team of six. The applicants watched as the squadron's mechanical assistant altered their displays and systems, but their attention remained focused on the treacherously encroaching rock around them. The two groups navigated the jagged, yet straight channels, single file behind their group leader.

In the eastern canyon, Marvus followed the path with calm, relaxed eyes. "Well, now that we have our own comm channel, we can chat without Lieutenant Dunn offering any objections."

"Is that wise, sir?" a somewhat trepidatious male commented over Group Two's comm. "Shouldn't we be focused on navigating?"

"Of course!" Marvus boisterously replied. "But to be a member of Torrid Squadron, you have to be able to multitask."

"So conversing is a part of our test?" the male pilot asked.

"Yes," Marvus answered.

"Is it?" Haron asked of his commander, turning his head from his datapad. Outside the simulators, the overseers received constant data from the individuals units, including communications.

"No," Rem plainly answered, still eyeing the various screens above the simulators.

The commander and her executive officer watched and listened to the pilots navigate the simple beginnings of the course, both groups showing ample progress despite the second one's penchant for unorthodoxy. But as easy as things were for the pilots in that moment, things were about to change.

I waited to post until after I read all your stories. The best thing i can come up with to say is Thank You for some great writing. I have enjoyed all of them and think you have a real talent. Please continue writing and i would like to know if you have other stories out there somewhere that i could read.

And the best I can come up with to say is thank you for reading. I like to think I've written something of a variety of stories here, so to hear you've enjoyed them all is all the more motivating.

Sad to say though, this is pretty much everything I've written. Anything more you want to read from me means having to put up with my shoddy update schedule for these stories.

As the simulation progressed, the path ahead of the vessels grew ever more treacherous. The encroaching walls of the jagged mountains threatened to punish any uncalculated maneuver, any misstep. And eventually, it did. As the starfighters snaked through the canyons and ravines, one of the vessels of Group Two brushed against the sides of the stony trench.

The simulator unit violently shook, providing its user kinetic feedback as he tightened his grip around the controls, releasing a series of hushed expletives beneath his breath. The sound of scratching metal and crumbling rock filled the simulator as the group leader's voice left the unit's speakers.

"That's a bit of a point reduction, Torrid Eight," Marvus casually stated. "Don't worry. Keep your wits about you and recover. It's nothing you can't come back from."

The Devaronian pilot continued to lead his group through the trench run, the five men and women trailing him doing their best to mimic his movements.

In the western canyon, Dunn led his group with silent efficiency, the comm channel rarely opening except to relay directions and test the applicants' knowledge.

"We're coming up on a winding path," said Dunn, utterly void of emotion. "Base maneuverability will not be sufficient. Suggested action, Torrid Five?"

"Divert power to engines," the pilot quickly answered, her voice coarse and direct. It belonged to Chanta the Selkath.

"Correct, but from where?" Dunn asked.

"Weapons systems," Chanta replied. "Shields need to be at full strength in case of physical contact within the trench."

"Correct," Dunn commented. The lead vessel neared the narrowing mouth of the winding path. "Tessa, configure for close-quarters maneuvers."

One by one the pilots repeated the direction to their own droids, and Tessa went to work boosting the vessels' engines. Though the TS-AA was technically a single shared intelligence, the bifurcation process separated and isolated it into the twelve physical units plugged into the vessels. Each pilot was responsible for the 'Tessa' attached to their starfighter, giving directions and receiving information unique to their own ship.

Dunn was the first to pass the threshold of the tightening ravine. The five other vessels followed soon after, flying in a single-file line, maintaining their speeds through the winding path. As the walls of stone crept ever closer, the pilots' skills were pushed to the limit. Through the treacherous trench, the open skies remained ever present above the pilots. They promised safety, freedom from the encroaching mountains, but they also promised failure. Ironically, to touch the sky was to forfeit their spot on the squadron. Crashing in pursuit of their goal was preferable to fleeing, especially in the simulation. No sense of mortality and no risk of wrecking millions of credits worth of military hardware meant they could go all out.

In the eastern canyon, Group Two approached a similar winding path. Similar, but not identical. The group made similar preparations. Similar, but not identical. Marvus warned of the danger ahead and advised the pilots in his group, rather than quizzing them on their next move. The group leader readied his vessel for the snaking trench, and the others did the same. But though Marvus did not question his pilots, he could not go without offering them a good challenge.

"Since we're nearing the final stretch of the course, who wants to see if we can beat the other group to the finish?" Marvus asked across his team's comm. There was silence as none of the applicants offered an immediate answer. But the quiet wouldn't last.

"Alright, let's do it!" Zal offered with boisterous vigor.

"Should we really rush things?" another male sounded out, significantly more cautious than the Nautolan.

"If we win, do we receive more points?" asked a female. She spoke bluntly, her voice carrying the heavy accent of a Rodian speaking Basic.

"It's a display of skill, is it not?" Marvus warmly replied. "If we make it out first, I might be able to overlook any accidental collisions along the way."

Though hesitant, none of the pilots would object to the Devaronian's challenge. They aimed to impress and while not a direct order, they knew opposing their group leader's suggestion would earn them no favors. And sitting in a simulator tended to tip the scales of behavior toward the reckless.

With the two groups now traversing the twisting corridors of rock and stone, Rem and Haron passed their gazes over the viewscreens above the twelve simulator units, the executive officer occasionally focusing on the datapad within his hands.

"I suppose we should have expected this from Marvus," Haron commented, a hint of defeat in his otherwise stoic voice.

"He's not yet broken any rules," Rem calmly replied. "The test is to gauge the applicants as teammates and subordinates. While not as direct, Marvus is still issuing commands, providing directions, which his group members are following to the best of their ability. Besides, might as well push them to their limit before putting them in the cockpit of a real Gallant fighter."

"It's hard to evaluate two groups on completely different merits," Haron admitted. "But I suppose this phase was never about eliminating applicants, barring catastrophic failure."

"Makes you think though, these two could have been the new Torrid Leader had you decided it," Rem stated.

"Marvus was toward the bottom of my list, but I suppose I hadn't eliminated him entirely from consideration," Haron declared. "Dunn… Dunn was a contender."

"But you chose me," Rem said, taking her eyes off the viewscreens that populated the chamber. "Over Dunn. Over yourself."

"Whereas Marvus would have been too loose, I fear Dunn would have been too strict," Haron explained, still staring at his datapad.

"Every military outfit needs its measure of discipline," Rem countered.

"A firm hand is needed, but a tightened fist helps no one. I learned that much during my time with the Empire," Haron muttered.

"And is that time why you recused yourself from consideration?" asked Rem.

"I knew Admiral Trevel wouldn't object, but I couldn't say the same of the senate," Haron admitted. "The oversight committee wouldn't like an ex-Imperial at the head of its shining symbol of Republic valiance. But that wasn't the only reason. I had become accustomed to my duties as an XO. Maybe I was afraid to give those up, or let someone else take over for me. Maybe I was just afraid of taking Nolante's place."

"If you thought yourself incapable, I can assure you, you're not," Rem offered, a soothing warmth in her voice.

"I know," said Haron. "I knew you and the others would have no trouble following me. What I didn't know, was what path I might lead you down. Like I said when I picked you, it's more than just being a good pilot or tactician. A squadron is like a machine that needs all its parts working and in the right place to properly function."

Rem let out a soft chuckle. "So you picked the person who's better with droids than people.”

"Considering you treat your droid better than most Imperial officers treat their subordinates…"

The commander and her executive officer were cut off by a brief warning that splashed across one of the viewscreens above the simulator. Rem focused her gaze whilst Haron poured over his datapad.

"Torrid Ten brushed against the trench wall," said Haron.

"Surprised it took this long," Rem admitted. "How bad was it?"

"Superficial damage. Shields absorbed most of it. A few thousand credits worth of repairs," Haron listed.

Watching the tenth unit's screen, the commander was impressed by how the pilot immediately recovered, keeping their wing clear of any further contact. "I must say, Group Two is performing remarkably well considering their speeds."

"Considering Marvus has never run this simulation before, it's impressive that even he's managed to go unscathed," Haron admitted. "Torrid Four seems to be mimicking his movements perfectly. Torrid Six is doing great considering he has no direct line of sight on Marvus. And whatever mistakes the others make, they manage to avoid overcorrecting rather well."

"And how is Group One progressing?" Rem asked.

"Slower, but not by much," answered Haron. "Dunn has them following a much tighter line, and none of them have made any major mistakes."

"It seems we've a talented pool to choose from," said Rem. "Finding four to eliminate might be difficult."

"They're skilled, to be sure. But you need more than trench runs to measure a pilot's ability," Haron declared.

"I think the second stage of the simulation will be an adequate test of their skills," Rem confidently stated.

Cutting off the observers' conversation were the exuberant cheers that emanated from Group Two's comm channel. Marvus had emerged from the trench into an open canyon, the five members of his group following closely behind him. Exiting into the point where the eastern and western paths converged, there was no sight of Group One. Only after a few long seconds did Dunn and the rest of his team emerge from their trench.

The tails of the other six vessels in his sights, the Kel Dor maintained his silence, paying little mind to his squadron mate's haste.

"It would seem they all made it out," Haron commented.

"It would seem so," Rem warmly repeated, an approving curl upon her lips. "Load Stage Two."

The executive officer provided a quick nod, punching a few commands into his datapad. Inside the simulators, the screens went dark, to the confusion of the ten applicants. They watched as the screen flickered, a progress bar showing up as new data flowed in. As Tessa readied the next simulation, the pilots were left to wait in their artificial cockpits.

"I guess we're not getting a break, huh?" Marvus said over the comm, the units once more sharing a single channel.

"Why, do you need one?" Dunn teased, albeit in a completely deadpan manner. The Devaronian offered a hearty chortle.

"How 'bout you all? Anyone need a break?" Marvus asked of the applicants. A steady stream of 'No, sir's filled the channel, much to the inquirer's delight.

"Loading Phase Two-Stage Two," an electronic female voice informed the twelve pilots.

"Stage Two will test your familiarity with the Gallant's systems as we carry out a combat scenario," Dunn explained, matching his previous monotonous tone. "Same as Stage One, failure to follow a command or relay information will result in a point deduction. Points will be aggregated and judged only upon the completion of the entire phase of testing."

The pilots withheld their questions and comments as the progress bar along their cockpits' screen filled. The artificial viewports remains dark, but were now dotted with an array of distant stars upon the celestial canvas. The applicants immediately knew the test would not be a terrestrial one. But other than that, they were going in blind. No objective. No briefing. No preparations.

The twelve starfighters were arranged in a wedge formation above a stationary Republic cruiser. As the pilots looked over their consoles and absorbed the information presented, two Imperial dreadnoughts dropped out of hyperspace to the squadron's left and right. Harrower-class, the two massive vessels floated just outside of their firing range.

As the applicants struggled to process the immediate threat, they eagerly awaited their leader's command. Finally, a single notice flashed across the pilots' consoles.

'Objective: Protect the transport'

Phase Two was over. Gone were artificial cockpits and simulations. Gone was the tucked away chamber nestled deep within a military complex. The ten applicants had been tested. And they had been found worthy.

Under the light of day and above of the vast terrain of one of the Republic's many ordinance worlds, the Den floated motionless, 'anchored' by the carrier's powerful repulsor engines. Within the vessel's vast hangar, it was a picture of alignment. Twelve Gallant-class starfighters rest comfortably in their row, tended by the occasional technician and service droid. Standing beside the vessel docked nearest to the hangar's edge were the six pilots of Torrid Squadron, across from whom stood the ten applicants.

The ten men and women seeking to fill the empty spots on the team all stood at attention, resolute and dutiful under the watchful eye of the studious Commander Altess.

Rem and Haron remained clothed in officer's garb, lending an overbearing sense of formality to the proceedings. Their teammates were content with more casual attire aboard their home. Work clothes, fatigues, relaxed flightsuits, and the like covered the four pilots' bodies. The applicants, however, had to be in top shape and ready to step into the cockpit at a moment's notice.

The ten pilots remained rigid as the commander's eyes passed over them one by one. And as much as she studied them, they studied her right back. After all, this was the person who was to oversee their lives for the foreseeable future, assuming they earned a spot on the squadron.

The commander was an enigmatic figure to the applicants. She seemed to defy as many expectations as she fulfilled. Her face was soft, speaking to her relative youth, but possessed a calm, commanding countenance. Her light brown hair was cut short, rather than restrained in a bun, and her uniform was in immaculate condition. But despite the strict way in which she presented herself, there was a warm, welcoming air about her. Though this might have been because of the man standing by her side.

Haron Gregard's entire presence seemed soaked in propriety. His dark blonde hair was kept trimmed and perfectly parted. Not a single cuff or fiber of his uniform was out of line. His blue eyes were beyond piercing, accentuated by the ever present stoicism upon his pristine face. Every pilot possessed an appearance that spoke to their natures, but whether it spoke in truths or lies the applicants did not know.

Each and every one of them knew of Torrid Squadron and their pilots. There were few in the Republic with access to the Holonet that didn't. But the group they knew of had been dealt a deadly blow months prior. Whether the same men and women were standing before them was uncertain. But nothing about them deemed them worthy of disrespect. Ever the motley group of pilots, despite all their intricacies and differences, none stood out from his or her fellows. None did not belong. None would rather be elsewhere.

Marvus Verandii, the Devaronian, stood arms crossed, civilian garb covering his body. A simple set of dark trousers and matching shirt contrasted with the flightsuited image they had seen prior. The ever present, casual face of Torrid Squadron bared a hooked smile upon his horned head. He had no intention of flying that day, but every intention of watching the applicants take flight. But whereas the smirk might have spoken of hubris, or the desire to see the fledglings crash and burn, it instead detailed a desire to see just what the applicants were capable of. Beside the devilish pilot was another who exuded a similar, vibrant warmth.

Ono Seraak, the Togruta, was visibly loud and audibly quiet. His red skin outshined even the Devaronian's, and was accented with white stripes and spots up and down his hanging headtails. His easygoing nature was evidenced throughout the pilot's presentation, through his expression, through his stance, through his loose civilian garb that had more in common with robes than an urbanized outfit. He carried a comforting aura about him, one that welcomed and invited the applicants.

The Devaronian and the Togruta were the most expressive, the easiest to read for the ten applicants. The remaining two pilots of Torrid Squadron had little to give, and less to tell, which was giving and telling in its own right.

Rol Dunn, the Kel Dor, stood rigid and unmoving, complimenting the unnerving stare beneath his antiox mask. The cold metallic fixture covered most of the pilot's face, practically making it his new one. A smooth plate encased his mouth and cheeks, with black goggles protecting his eye sockets, both surrounded by rough, leathery orange skin. He wore a set of work clothes, something the hangar technicians would have been comfortable in. Heavy boots, thick trousers and shirt, it was the garb of a decidedly hands-on person. But despite that, everything about the man seemed distant. His arms were neatly folded behind his back. His body stood upright, but compressed, with his limbs sticking close to his body. A coldness to contrast with the others' warmth, and beside him was a pilot who possessed more similarities than contrasts.

Fen Kayda, the Mon Calamari, stood the furthest from the applicants, and closest to the Gallant fighter. She wore a relaxed flightsuit, the top half hanging around her waist as her torso went garbed in only a light undershirt. An expert in mechanics and hardware rather than people, she possessed an internal calm that even the Kel Dor nor the Togruta could hope to match. Her slick, reddish-brown skin was smooth, and free of excess spotting or marks, even atop her fish-like head. Her appearance and demeanor told little about her, but that was because she had the least to say. She wasn't interested in welcoming or rejecting the applicants. They had a purpose to serve, and they would serve it with or without her. Only when she was called upon, would she offer her unique brand of expertise.

Standing before these figures, the applicants wanted nothing more than to join their ranks. This was the first time they had stood in their collected presence, and they knew that they possessed the chance to stand amongst them as equals. All they needed to do was prove themselves.

"Pilots," Rem spoke up, loud enough to make sure every applicant's attention was sufficiently drawn. "You've done well to make it this far. Each and every one of you has proven yourself a skilled and capable pilot. But only six of you will earn a spot on Torrid Squadron. The four of you that don't make the cut, you can leave knowing that you did not fail. Every pilot has something to contribute, regardless of their rank and posting. Joining Torrid Squadron is not about being the best, it's about doing the best with what you're given. It's about all the right pieces being in all the right places."

The commander paused to pass her gaze over the line of applicants, who shot back eager, confident nods.

"I know that each and every one of you has some idea of what Torrid Squadron is or how it operates," Rem continued. "But the truth is, we're not what our public image contends. We are not the best of the best. We are not the top 1%. We are not invincible. We are simply… unique. We operate unlike other squadrons. We utilize tools others do not have access to. We are made up of pilots who can thrive in the environment we have fostered. You may have noticed that none of the applicants around you are over thirty years of age. We've been testing those who are not only skilled, but fresh. Pilots whose muscle memory hasn't endeared them to any particular craft. Pilots who have yet to develop trends or prejudices. Pilots yet to be molded, able to be melded. Pilots who are… unique. Pilots who cannot be tested in simulators alone. Lieutenant Kayda?"

The commander looked to her squadron mate, who slowly made her way front and center. The Mon Calamari who had since been content to blend into the background now stood at attention, not a single part of her shying away from the dozens of eyes that now lay upon her. The other pilots of Torrid Squadron separated, leaving only Fen Kayda between the applicants and the Gallant starfighter behind her.

"The Gallant-class starfighter," Fen began, just loud enough for the pilots to hear her. She was calm, methodical, almost mechanical in her delivery, each word carefully chosen and executed. "Experimental redesign of your standard Liberator fighter. 3 meters tall. 14 meters long. 14 meters wide with the wings extended. 7 with them collapsed. Twin engined and hyperdrive enabled. Variable armament and shielding capabilities. Limited navicomputer with advanced astromech integration. Long and short range sensors with advanced targeting software. Secure short range comms, long range achieved by linking with larger crafts' communication grids. Worth far more than anything our pay grade has any business handling. So don't crash."

The applicants stared at the pilot and the craft to her rear in admiration. Fen herself seemed to speak almost in reverence as she detailed the technical specifications. The ten men and women before her were eager to finally step inside and wrap their hands around the controls of one of the Republic's most advance single-pilot vessels.

"The Den has a team of dedicated technicians and mechanics on staff to tend to your assigned craft should you earn a spot on the squadron. But you too will still be responsible for its upkeep and maintenance," Fen continued. "Your ship will belong to you and you alone. If it's out of commission, you're out of commission. If something's wrong, it's your responsibility to make it right. If you can't fix it, bring it to one of the techs. If they're busy, bring it to me. I've yet to meet a piece of hardware I couldn't get in working order. Just know that you'll owe me."

The applicants weren't sure whether to be endeared or frightened. Every word the Mon Calamari spoke was utterly devoid of emotion, neither warm nor cold, neither friendly nor hostile. She spoke to such a plain degree that it was almost unsettling even to the most hardened amongst them. Meanwhile, her teammates stood to the sides of the craft, comfortable and unfazed by the Mon Calamari's personality.

"For this phase of testing, you'll be in the cockpit of this particular craft," Fen explained, jutting a thumb toward the adjacent vessel. "Only one of you is going out at a time. The rest of you will wait your turn here in the hangar. Once in the air, you'll be running a course programmed into your nav. The commander and the XO will oversee the test. Tessa will record your performance. Any questions? No? Good."

With that, she was finished. The applicants watched as she drifted off toward the other vessels docked further into the hangar. Before any of them could speak, Haron Gregard took her place, datapad firmly in hand.

"We'll going in alphabetical order," said Haron. "Lieutenant Chanta. You're first." The Selkath perked up the moment her name was called. With a dutiful nod, she stepped from the lineup and carefully approached Torrid Squadron's executive officer. The stoic Human looked up from his datapad to survey the applicant one last time. "Are you ready?"

"Yes sir!" Chanta quickly replied alongside another eager, confident nod.

Haron directed the Selkath onto the Gallant's wing, where the cockpit's open hatch welcomed her. As the first applicant inserted herself into the vessel, the others began to clear the surrounding area. The others were left standing around, looking to one another for what to do next, when the beckoning wave of Marvus Verandii guided them toward a large table that had been set up in the distance. With enough chairs to accommodate both groups of pilots, it provided them a chance to converse and familiarize themselves with one another.

A quick siren sounded off within the hangar, informing its occupants of the upcoming departure. Whilst their fellows guided the waiting applicants deeper into the hangar, the commander and her executive officer slowly made their way to the hangar's edge stopping just short of the magnetic barrier that separated them from the outside world. The light blue sky shimmered as it filtered through the translucent barrier, but its image was maintained enough to evoke a sense of openness and freedom.

Carefully, the Gallant starfighter lifted itself from its landing struts, which tucked themselves into the vessel's belly. Utilizing onboard repulsors rather than engaging its engines proper, the craft slowly maneuvered through the hangar, opening its wingspan as it neared the chamber's threshold. Sliding past the hangar's barrier, the starfighter engines glowed a bright red before the craft surged forward.

Rem watched as the Gallant fighter traversed the sky, its pilot in full control. "Phase Three… begin."

Soaring over the rolling hills of the planet's surface, Chanta maintained a firm grip on the starfighter's controls. Keeping a watchful eye between her viewport and the ship's console, the Selkath followed a series of commands and directions given by Tessa. A series of waypoints would be set, urging the pilot in a multitude of directions, all the while logging her movements and timing. The applicant's physical and mental reflexes were tested as different visual and auditory cues would grace the senses, each requiring an immediate response. But despite the hectic trial, the pilot remained determined.

The Gallant starfighter rolled and turned as it flew toward the numerous waypoints and pings Tessa called out. The marvel of technological innovation was delivering a capable showing in the hands of its equally capable pilot. Sublight drives ran smoothly. Inertial dampers protected the vessel's occupant from excessive g-forces. If not for the prize on the line, it would have been just another day for the Selkath pilot.

Within the hangar of the Den, the other applicants had pooled around the resting members of Torrid Squadron. The makeshift conference table that had been erected was sufficiently occupied, the array of folding chairs filled with those waiting for their turn to go up into the air. Some were eager. Some hesitant. It was a test after all. And a test meant the possibility of failure. Possibly losing out on the opportunity they so passionately desired.

Looking to put the waiting applicants at ease, Marvus broke the crowded silence. "Time's gonna slow to a crawl if all we do is sit around doing nothing. Why not get to know each other?"

The applicants looked to one another, surreptitiously as they could. Even though they weren't in the air, they somehow felt this was still a part of the test. Which meant every action, every word ought to be calculated, lest they ruin themselves.

"Oh, come on," Marvus assuaged. "If you're worried about saying something stupid, you obviously don't know much about us."

"Rather, they don't know much about you, specifically," Seraak jokingly added. The Togruta and Devaronian shared a quick laugh as the applicants seemed to be slowly loosening up.

"You may know us, and we may know you, but if you're going to be flying together, you better know each other too," Marvus stated.

"Alright. The name's Zal Tobek," one applicant began with a firm jut of his thumb toward his self. Zal Tobek, Nautolan male, age 28. The applicant possessed a bulky, muscular frame, one that stood at least a head taller than any of the other pilots. His skin was a pale green and his large eyes were black as night. Fourteen fleshy tendrils flowed from his head like hair, falling and resting upon his shoulders. Within the applicant's large build rest an even larger personality. One comprised of boisterousness and an almost childlike wonder regarding his craft.

Marvus supplied an appreciative nod before looking toward the others, urging them to follow the Nautolan's lead.

"Erin Hayes," another spoke up, less enthused than the previous applicant. Erin Hayes, Human male, age 28. The applicant was a cyborg, and while most of his modifications were sub-dermal, there were two visible metallic strips lining his right brow and cheekbone. Soft faced, aside from the obviously rigid cybernetic implant. Hair trimmed and shaped to regal, rather than military, propriety. Seeped in an air of haughty pomposity, backed up by a genuine skill in the cockpit.

"Aiden Olenzo," the third warmly revealed. Aiden Olenzo, Human male, age 27. Corellian, born and raised. The applicant was scruffy and puckish, his earliest memories involving a starship. Fair skinned with a head of shaggy brown hair, a thin layer of unshaven fibers covered his chin. A dashing facade. A man of looseness and simple desires. Leaning back in his chair, he wore a beaming smirk upon his lips, using whatever willpower he possessed to not put his boots on the table.

"Loona Loodatah," said the next in a stern manner. Loona Loodatah, Rodian female, age 28. The applicant possessed green skin and dazzling blue orbs for eyes. Her head was topped with a pair of stumpy antennae, as well as a ridge of soft spines in place of hair. Her face ended in a long, rounded snout, one that made reading her expression particularly difficult for those more versed in Human facial structures. The Rodian's reserved nature didn't help matters. A fighter, through and through, and the first of her clan to do so in the name of the Republic.

"Rev Saldor," another coarsely added. Rev Saldor, Duros male, age 29. The applicant possessed the trademark blue skin and piercing red eyes of his species, but there was a softness beneath the sharp image, beneath the gravelly voice. His rounded head was held at a slight dip, possessing none of the hubris or self-indulgence of the other pilots. He grew up in and around starships, but as the sole soldier in a family of merchants, he was the only one skilled in piloting those with heavy armament. And skilled he was, despite his unwillingness to make a show of it.

"Varah," the next applicant quickly followed, her voice quick and direct. Varah, Cathar female, age 26. The applicant's body was covered heat to toe with a coat of light-brown fur. The hair atop her head was a few shades darker, trimmed and worn in a single strip that ran toward the back of her neck. Her features as sharp as her claws, she possessed a fierce image despite her lean, dexterous frame. Possessing a fiery heart and a physical passion, she was as skilled inside a starfighter as outside of one.

"Gorman Freeden," another stated, almost with a hushed whisper. Gorman Freeden, Human male, age 28. The applicant was beyond soft-spoken. Brown hair kept tidy, full beard kept neatly trimmed, he possessed a similarly controlled countenance. A man of duty and obligation, self-realized as well as thrust upon him. The latest in a familial line of navy pilots, he served without fuss nor ounce of hesitation. Though practically forced into the occupation, the man's true calling would always rest within the cockpit of a starfighter.

"Leia Dardan," said the final applicant at the table. Leia Dardan, Human female, age 27. The applicant was a picture of decorum and class, her long black hair braided and restrained a tightly wound bun. Behind her sharp eyes rest a keen mind, one that excelled in the Naval Academy. A great pilot, and an even greater officer. Hailing from Ord Mantell, she was a patriot amongst few back on her homeworld. Calm and collected when faced with a challenge, she effortlessly maintained her poise amongst her fellows.

As the last applicant offered her name, the Devaronian coyly scratched his chin. "Hmm. That's eight. With one pilot running the course, we're still missing another."

Marvus looked beyond the seated applicants, spotting a lone figure leaning against the nearby hangar wall, isolated from the rest of the group. Wearing a standard issue orange flightsuit, the tenth applicant looked to be a Human wearing a set of heavy goggles. The heavy duty eyewear featured darkened lenses and heavy straps, placing its origin with a world beset by harsh winds.

"Care to join us Lieutenant Wardon?" Marvus warmly offered.

The lone pilot maintained his stance, one leg straight, one leg bent. His head dipped and his arms crossed, the tenth applicant had closed himself off through other means than distance. Only after a short pause did he acknowledge the Devaronian's inquiry.

"No thanks," he plainly stated. "I'm fine over here."

The pilot's tone carried no animosity. As a matter of fact, he almost seemed apologetic, his unwillingness to upset the Devaronian on par with his unwillingness to move.

"Come on. You're at the bottom of the list, so you're going to be standing around for a while," Marvus explained. The applicant's continued rigidity spelled out his contentment with that fact. "Might as well use this time to familiarize yourself with the team."

"Besides," Seraak added. "Mental and personality screening was taken care of in Phase Zero. A friendly conversation between pilots won't hurt."

"Won't help either," Dunn bluntly stated.

"It might," Marvus playfully teased.

"Stop trying to change the parameters of the test," Dunn declared.

"Who's changing anything? And even if it won't help with the testing, it'll help for the future. We ought to know more than each other's names if we're going to be a proper squadron."

"If he wishes to be judged by his skills alone, that is his right," Dunn plainly stated.

"Very well," Marvus conceded. "I guess there's always room for another quiet one on the team. It's a shame though. I was hoping we could talk about the previous phase of testing."

"Yeah, wasn't he like, the only one who went through Stage Three unscathed?" Leia recalled.

A brief scoff passed through Aiden's smirking lips. "Big deal. It's easy to avoid getting hit if you play things safe. But nothing gets done that way."

"Scored more kills than you, didn't he?" Varah teased. The scruffy Human dipped in his chair a moment before recomposing himself, to the amusement of the surrounding applicants.

"A lucky run, is all," Aiden quickly

"Aren't loyalty and luck like a Corellian's religion?" asked Rev, the Duros lifting his gaze to settle on the scruffy pilot.

Aiden placed his interlocked hands behind his head. "Loyalty, yes. Luck, less so.”

"Too bad, you could have used some," Erin stated, his playful prod containing a hint of smugness.

"Says the man who left with a clipped wing," Aiden shot back.

"Missing a laser cannon, and still I managed to score the greatest kill count," Erin boasted.

"They never gave us the official record," Leia declared. "We can only guess at the actual numbers."

The cyborg raised his hand and slightly tapped at his temple with his index finger. "Don't need the official record. Got a perfect account locked away in here."

"What? Memory implant?" Rev asked.

"Nope. Natural eidetic memory," Erin revealed with a knowing grin.

"So what's with the hardware?” asked Gorman, breaking his silence.

"Tissue and nerve damage. Accident back at the academy," Erin explained, dropping his usual haughty candor. "Couldn't fly without them."

"One would think a perfect memory and physical trauma wouldn't go well together," said Gorman.

"One would think," Erin repeated, almost muttering.

Cutting off the conversation was the siren that began to sound throughout the hangar, signaling an approaching vessel. Turning toward the chamber's edge, they saw the Gallant fighter carefully maneuver past the hangar's magnetic barrier. Folding its wings inward, the starfighter slowly approached toward its docking area, landing gears unfurling from beneath its belly.

The pilots and applicants watched as the vessel touched down with a soft groan as its repulsors shut down, letting the landing struts support the entirety of the craft's weight. The cockpit hatch slid forward and the ship's pilot carefully climbed out, walking across the folded wing before hopping onto the hangar floor with a bounce in her step.

The Selkath walked toward the commander and her executive officer with a confident gait, visibly content with her performance despite having little to weigh it against. The trio near the craft shared a quick word before exchanging even quicker salutes. Now approaching the large table at which they all sat, the applicants watched their fellow come closer, wearing what appeared to be a smile upon her face.

"They say a Lieutenant Dardan's up next," Chanta called out along her way to the table. The Human raised herself from her seat the moment she heard her name. Steeling herself, the Mantellian offered a gentle wave to her fellows before journeying toward the awaiting craft.

"Here, take a seat," Marvus warmly invited. The Selkath offered a dutiful nod and took the newly vacated chair. "We were getting to know each other. Why don't you introduce yourself?"

"I'm Chanta," she said, gathering herself before speaking. Chanta, Selkath female, age 27. The applicant's blue skin possessed an almost aquatic sheen. Her wide, elongated head possessed fishlike features, including two tendrils than hung from her upper lip, two longer ones falling from the back of her head. Even as she attempted to calm herself, she could not fully hide the passion that rest within her heart. Rejecting the culture of neutrality typically associated with her people, the Selkath wanted nothing more than to serve the Republic, except maybe a spot on Torrid Squadron.

"We we're just discussing the previous phase of testing," Marvus explained.

"Forget that. Now we can talk about the current one," Erin jokingly declared. "Go on, tell us all about your flight."

"No way," Chanta quickly replied. Her voice was naturally coarse in tone, but not in spirit. "I'm not about to give you guys any advantage."

"Come on. It's a teambuilding exercise," Aiden added, leaning forward.

"Alright, then we can compare notes," Chanta offered. "After you go up, of course."

"There's not much to tell," Seraak stated. "Fairly standard guidance course, testing physical and mental reflexes. Right, Chanta?"

The Selkath nodded. "That's about it.”

"Well, I guess we could use a break after the last phase," Aiden declared, returning to his relaxed posture.

"What? Couldn't handle two dreadnoughts being thrown at you?" Varah teased.

"Who could?" Rev muttered.

"They could," Erin bluntly stated, nodding his head toward the three Torrid Squadron pilots that sat amongst them. "The simulation was based on their last operation."

Zal stared quizzically at the Devaronian sitting across from him. "I thought you said the simulations weren't based on any particular mission.”

"They weren't," Marvus admitted, lacking his usual jovial tone. "However, they were… inspired by certain events. In the actual scenario, the dreadnoughts were far closer to the transport. And we ended up losing half our squadron."

The applicants shared a brief silence as they looked to the pilot with a sense of wonder and worry.

"It's not easy reliving the past," said Marvus. "But sometimes, we have to if we are to prevent the same from happening again. And the fact that all twelve of us managed to get through the simulation without a single loss… that gives me hope. It means we can rebuild. Come back stronger than ever."

"We'll do our best, sir!" Zal emphatically declared.

A smile returned to the Devaronian's face. "Damn straight you will."

The phase of testing was progressing on schedule. Leia Darden completed her run. As did Gorman Freeden. And as the soft-spoken pilot exited the craft, his spot would soon be replaced by the ever confident cyborg. Before his name could even be called, Erin began moving toward the parked vessel, knowing he was next in line. He greeted the commander and her executive officer and wasted no time in climbing atop the Gallant's wing. Slipping into the cockpit, the hatch slid back into its sealed position and the pilot took hold of the starfighter's controls.

It began with the same routine as before, a siren through the hangar, the ship slowly lifting itself and moving toward the chamber's edge, opening its wings as it passed through to the open skies. But the applicant was not content with routine.

"Alright, Tessa," Erin self-assuredly spoke to the ship's astromech. "Let's push things to the limit. Reduce inertial dampers to 94%. Configure for maximum maneuverability."

"I'm afraid the test requires you to utilize the vessel's standard configuration and settings," Tessa replied with her usual polite, but monotonous tone.

"Come on," Erin continued. "I'm looking to get the best score. The absolute best score."

"Then you will have to do so with what you've been given," Tessa explained, completely deadpan, yet almost unintentionally oozing sass.

The pilot released a quick chuckle. "Alright, that shouldn't be too hard."

Back aboard the Den, Rem and Haron monitored the applicant's progress near the hangar's edge.

"Well, I suppose a passion to win is passion nonetheless," Haron commented as he focused on his datapad, which in addition to logistical readouts, provided a playback of what occurred within the Gallant's cockpit.

"Erin Hayes. He scored the highest amongst group one in the previous test, correct?" Rem asked.

"Correct," Haron answered. "And compared with group two, he's up there with Lieutenant Wardon."

"So he's practically confirmed his spot on the squadron," Rem commented.

"He's a great pilot… but could still use some lessons in teamwork," said Haron.

"You can never fully grasp a pilot's true nature through tests and simulations," Rem admitted. "He'll straighten out on a real mission."

"He'd better," Haron stated. "I'll not have him put himself or the others at risk."

"We all had the same doubts about Marvus back in the day, didn't we?" Rem offered with a gentle smile, relaxing her otherwise stoic demeanor.

"I suppose."

Studying the influx of data in his hands, the executive officer could find nary a fault with the applicant's performance as he followed Tessa's order to the letter, though with an added flourish. Passing through markers and waypoints, the Gallant would turn and contort with an impressive flair, neither helping nor hampering his speed as he carried his momentum through to the next objective.

Back at the conference table, the other applicants and the pilots of Torrid Squadron continued to engage in light conversation. Regaling in tales of past missions, of antics aboard the Den, of memories of the six members they had lost. Marvus led the course of the conversations, Seraak lending his voice, and Dunn only occasionally offering his own sardonic, yet endearing contribution. As time progressed, the facade of the great and powerful pilots of Torrid Squadron slowly crumbled to the applicants' delight. No longer did they sit amongst unreachable titans. They were just people. People worthy of respect. But still just people.

"And that's when Haron came down with something fierce," Marvus reminisced. "I mean he was so sick he couldn't even think about flying. But this was back when people still just thought of him as the ex-Imperial. I mean, we knew better, but the people around us? The others aboard the Den? All they knew was that cold efficiency, that dead stare. Only now, his eyes are puffy, he's sniffling all over the place. His hair's messy. He's doing his XO duties in a bathrobe. It was the first time any of them had seen him vulnerable, you know?"

"What about the commander? What's she really like?" asked Chanta.

Marvus chuckled as he scratched his chin. "Rem? I suppose she's been putting the 'command' in 'commander' lately, hasn't she? She's just like this for the recruitment. She's really great when you get to know her. Not too hard. Not too soft. Gives us the leeway to be who we are, reigns us in when need be. She's really stepped up since being put in charge."

"What about Lieutenant Kayda?" Chanta added. "Was that also just for the recruitment?"

The Devaronian offered a noncommittal wave of his hand. "She's not the most… emotive. Comes off as a bit cold from time to time, but that's just how she expresses herself. Her and Rem are the most technically inclined of the squadron. The commander's expertise lies with software, Fen's with hardware. It's why she's almost always tinkering with her ship."

Looking across the hangar, the Selkath could see the Mon Calamari ducking beneath one of the Gallant fighters docked further down, the same area she had been in since she stepped away from the others.

"I'm guessing she's not much for conversation?" Chanta asked.

"Depends on the topic," said Marvus. "Though I suspect the early briskness was on account of a bunch of strangers about to get their hands on one of the Gallants."

"We're not… using one of yours, right?" Zal asked, a slight hesitance in the Nautolan's voice.

"Nah, y'all are flying one of the replacements for the six we lost in our last mission," Marvus explain. "Still, Fen has an attachment to these things. Even ones that aren't hers. Even ones that don't have an owner period."

Scooting her chair away from the table, the Selkath raised herself from her seat.

"Need something?" asked Marvus.

"Just need to stretch my legs. Been doing a lot of sitting lately," Chanta politely answered.

"Don't wander too far," Marvus warmly offered. The Selkath gave a dutiful nod before turning away, taking her first steps deeper into the carrier's hangar.

"Looks like she's heading toward Fen," Seraak quietly pointed out.

"Looks like it," Marvus coyly repeated.

As the conversations and storytelling continued amongst those seated around the conference table, Chanta made her way toward the starfighter parked further into the hangar, the one belonging to and currently being tended by Fen Kayda. The Selkath approached slowly, keeping a firm hold on her pace and gait. As she neared the unpowered ship, she could see the Mon Calamari taking a knee beneath the vessel's left wing, a lone astromech standing at her side. The droid did not stand out from those typically used by naval pilots. Cylindrical body. Conical head with a flat top. Three blocky legs, two forward, one back.

Only a few meters away, Chanta paused, halting her advance, stilled in silence. Thinking of what to say, she immediately went rigid as she watched the Mon Calamari turn her head, setting her bulbous eyes upon the applicant.

"Can I help you?" Fen calmly asked, not an ounce of emotion to her voice.

"I… I wanted to know more about the Gallant," Chanta managed to say. Fen maintained her cold gaze, not offering an immediate response. "I already completed my test, so it's not like I'm trying to get an advantage. I just think it's a fascinating piece of technology."

"I suppose I can understand that," Fen admitted. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, when I was flying it, I noticed there was a bit of lag that wasn't there in the simulations."

"Likely due to the dampers," Fen quickly replied. "They're actually overclocked in the base configuration. Most pilots tone them down to suit their abilities. Usually at around 98 to 95 percent."

"The level of variance is amazing," said Chanta. "Never had that in the old squadron."

"What'd you fly before? Scout? Don't think we surveyed bomber pilots."

"Liberator," Chanta answered. "Though I spent most of my time overseeing and managing flight groups rather than actually piloting."

"I suppose the navy doesn't want their fresh lieutenants getting scrapped their first year out of the academy," Fen commented.

"You're a lieutenant too, right?" asked Chanta.

"Everyone in Torrid Squadron is," Fen declared. "Well, except for Torrid Leader. She was made a captain like her predecessor."

"I notice no one seems to use her rank," Chanta stated. "Everyone seems to call her commander."

"When you join Torrid Squadron, rank becomes practically meaningless. It's only there when we're working alongside other squadrons. When we're by ourselves, we're just pilots," Fen explained. "You don't join Torrid Squadron to rise through the ranks. You join because you want to be in a cockpit rather than a command center. If you truly want to be a part of this team, you better put aside any aspirations of becoming admiral or retiring peacefully. We fly until we die. That's the bottom line."

"The stories make it out to be much more glamorous," Chanta commented.

"That's why they're stories. Sorry if I shattered any dreams," Fen stated, still as stoic as ever.

"No, I understand completely," Chanta confidently replied.

"Good," Fen offered, turning her attention back to her vessel's wing. "Tessa, the weapons coupler seems a little loose. Did you pick up anything last diagnostic?"

"Power distribution was symmetrical with only a 0.1% margin of difference," the nearby astromech answered, the same voice Chanta had become accustomed to over the course of testing. "If there is a structural fault, it has not hampered energy flow."

"So… this is Tessa," said Chanta, kneeling beside the waist-high astromech droid. "Never seen one not plugged into anything. Does this one have a number?"

"Nope. Tessa is Tessa," Fen quickly replied.

"Then, how do you distinguish your droids?"

"We don't. There's only one, it just happens to inhabit twelve physical units," Fen explained.

"How does that work?"

"You'll have to ask the commander for the specifics," Fen stated. "But basically, there's a single intelligence known as Tessa, the Torrid Squadron Astromechanical Assistant, spread out amongst several shells. They're all linked and share the same data. In combat, Tessa can bifurcate, isolating the units from each other to let them focus on a single target each. Afterwards, they link back together. Data collected during the bifurcation process is gathered and absorbed when she consolidates."

"Wow," Chanta muttered, genuinely amazed. "Wait. 'She'?"

"What? You don't think she looks like a she?" Fen replied, her emotionless tone making it difficult to tell if she was teasing or not.

As the Selkath looked to the astromech, the droid slowly pivoted its conical head, directing its single black, ocular sensor toward the applicant.

Meanwhile, amidst the open skies of the Republic world, Erin Hayes' test had come to an end. Practically perfect at every juncture, the applicant celebrated with a quick corkscrew as he soared above the rolling hills.

"Very good, Lieutenant Hayes," Haron's voice filtered into the cockpit. "Please return to the hangar."

"You got it," Erin replied, wearing an unseen smirk. "Though I could have done even better if I didn't have this droid holding me back. Didn't even need it really. A navcomp could have done its job without chewing me out for making a few much needed alterations. Then again, I would-"

The applicant went silent when he noticed one of the screens on his console go dark. Then another. Then another. Until every instrument, every display was completely blank. Then, the persistent hum of the vessel's engines slowly began to fade.

"Oh no," Haron softly muttered, not an ounce of concern in his voice.

"What's the matter?" Rem asked.

"Tessa shut off all the systems," Haron calmly explained.

"Wow, he really is a lot like Marvus," Rem candidly replied, also not concerned with the turn of events.

In the cockpit of the now gliding Gallant fighter, Erin Hayes watched as the nose of his vessel slowly dipped toward the planet's surface. Muttering a harsh curse beneath his breath, the applicant began tapping away at his console, attempting to manually reboot the systems. As his fingers glided across the various inputs and displays, he showed no progress of getting his ship back online. Just as he had dropped to a near perilous altitude, every system instantly came to life and the engines released a roaring echo. Before the pilot could even pull back on the controls, the Gallant fighter raised its nose, ascending of its own accord. The Human struggled to control his breathing, his once pristine countenance suitably flustered.

The click of the vessel's comm rang out in the applicant's ears, followed by the casual words of the squadron's executive officer. "I would advise you to not insult whomever is responsible for keeping your ship online, Lieutenant Hayes."

The pilot was silent, carefully keeping his hands wrapped around the ship's controls, occasionally darting his gaze between his peripheries.

The siren of an approaching vessel sounded out once more as the Gallant passed through the magnetic barrier, folding in its wings as it carefully guided itself inward. The starfighter touched down with the same grace as it had before, resting its weight on its landing struts. As the hatch slid forward, the applicant removed himself from the cockpit noticeably quicker than those previously tested. Hopping off the wing, the cyborg found Rem and Haron waiting for him.

"Lieutenant Hayes," Rem began, firm in her tone. "If you intend to join this squadron, you need to know that you will stand as an equal. You are not better nor more important than anyone in this group, including Tessa. You will treat her, as well as your fellow pilots, with the respect they deserve. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Erin quickly replied, the usual smugness that permeated his character having been sapped.

"Good. Other than that, fine work," Rem politely praised. The applicant arched his brow as he forced a half-smile, unsure of how to properly react to the commander. He thought it best to remain silent, especially as Haron continued to burn a hole through him with his enduring stare. "Tell Lieutenant Loodatah that she's up next."

The starfighter banked right, the horizon rotating with the vessel. The divide that separated the surface and the sky was now a vertical one as the pilot struggled to keep up with Tessa's directions. His navicomputer placed the next marker straight ahead, all the while the neighboring console counted down a time limit for the objective. As the seconds dwindled away, the pilot soared through the checkpoint at the last possible moment to maintain his par time.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the applicant's hands loosened as his entire body unwound and his starfighter leveled out. But it was not the end of the test. Tessa quickly issued another command. The droid called out for a full reversal of direction, and the pilot hesitated. Pulling back as hard as he could on his controls, the Gallant pointed its nose toward the sky, climbing until it was upside down, heading back toward whence it came. Once more the pilot leveled out his craft, this time his hands remaining firmly rigid around the controls.

A harsh buzzing accompanied a red visual on the applicant's console, signaling an unsatisfactory display.

"Oh, come on!" Aiden bemoaned.

Tessa remained silent, except to relay the next series of directions. The pilot carried them out to the best of his abilities, but he was visibly shaken. The one mistake had thrown him off and the rest of his run suffered for it. Marks were missed, checkpoints only barely made. When the word came from Haron to finally return, he almost refused to believe it.

The Gallant returned to the hangar as those before it had. The cockpit's hatch slid forward and the applicant jumped out to Rem and Haron waiting for him. The scruffy Corellian scuttled across the folded wing as quickly as he could, hopping down by the commander's side.

"Please, you gotta let me run it again," Aiden pleaded, his usual cocky demeanor completely absent. "I can do better, I know it."

"I'm sorry Lieutenant Olenzo, but you only get one chance in this phase, same as everyone else," Rem calmly, but firmly, stated. "Your performance in the previous phases can make up the difference however."

"You don't understand, I-"

"Would you please inform Lieutenant Saldor that he is next," Rem interrupted.

The Corellian's feet remained planted as he stood with his mouth agape, trying to find the words but none came to him. All he could offer was the worthless contortion of his lips as nothing more than silence passed between them. Meanwhile, the commander and her executive officer continued to cast their unfazed sights directly upon the applicant. Finally conceding, the Corellian dragged himself back toward the other pilots, struggling to keep his head raised.

"You're next, Saldor," Aiden softly called out, his words barely picked up by the other applicants. The Duros supplied a quick nod, carefully raising himself from his seat and making his way toward the parked vessel. Aiden returned to his spot at the table, sinking in his chair. Whereas before the position spoke of a casual aloofness, now it only detailed crushing defeat.

"Didn't do as well as you'd hoped?" Leia asked, not an ounce of spite or malice in her voice. The Corellian offered only a barely discernible grunt as his response.

"You had a bad run," Loona spoke up, slightly more direct, slightly less compassionate than the Mantellian. "It's not like my test went perfectly. Everyone makes mistakes."

"And when they do, they try to not be a baby about it," Varah pointedly added. The Cathar remained rigid in her seat, arms crossed in front of her chest.

"We'll see how you do when you're up there," Aiden muttered.

"That we will," Varah replied, firm in her tone, as well as her confidence.

As the pilots continued their brief bout of friendly antagonism, Marvus saw a figure approach from deeper in the hangar. It was Chanta, head held high as she casually strolled toward the gathering.

"Welcome back Chanta," Marvus spoke as soon as she stepped into earshot. "Have good walk?"

"Yes, sir," Chanta politely replied. "Also had a good talk with Lieutenant Kayda."

"Now that's surprising," Marvus offered alongside a gentle chuckle. "She isn't much for talks, let alone good ones."

"Talked about ships and droids mostly," said Chanta. "I didn't realize how advanced Tessa was."

"Yeah, Tessa's a fine machine," Marvus declared.

"Just be sure not to piss it off," Erin interrupted.

"Speaking from experience?" Leia asked.

"Damned thing almost killed me," Erin quickly replied. "Put me in freefall before kicking the systems back online at the last moment."

"Hah!" Marvus laughed, slamming his hand upon the table alongside the exclamation. "She put you through a 'dead-drop', did she?"

"A what?" asked Zal.

"A trick Tessa likes to pull on pilots. Ones she deems too full of themselves," Marvus explained.

"Speaking from experience?" Leia repeated, somewhat more coy than last time.

"Erin? Full of himself?" Varah supposed, feigning a profound ignorance. The cyborg cast his sharpened gaze toward the now smirking Cathar.

"Isn't that a bit… dangerous?" Zal asked, the Nautolan's head-tendrils slipping from his shoulder as he tilted his head.

"No more dangerous than putting an organic behind the controls of one of the Republic's most advanced warships," Marvus joked. "Tessa knows the limits of the Gallant and herself. He was never in any real danger."

"I'll have to take your word for it," Erin muttered.

"If it's any consolation," Seraak calmly spoke up, "they say your first near-death experience is always the worst, so at least you've gotten it out of the way."

"Oh, yeah, I'll be sure to thank the droid for almost flying me into the ground next time I see it," Erin sarcastically offered.

"Well, now would be your chance," Chanta said with a smile, pointing behind the cyborg.

Turning around, Erin saw a lone astromech slowly making its way across the hangar. Cylindrical chassis, flat-topped conical head, red and white color scheme. It was one of Torrid squadron's astromechs. No owner. No attendant. Just a droid rolling upon the wheels beneath her rigid arms.

"I've already got one of them mad at me," Erin dismissed. "Don't need to antagonize the others."

"Actually, they're all linked," Chanta explained. "You piss one off, you piss them all off."

"She's right," Marvus added. "Though the Tessa currently in the air is separated from the others at the moment."

"Oh great, so I'll have until the testing is over until they all hate me," Erin muttered.

"Well, Lieutenant Kayda said that when they link together, data gathered during the separation is absorbed into the shared intelligence," Chanta recalled. "So I imagine if you're nice to another one of the units, it might balance things out."

"And the more units I can apologize to, the more impact that apology will have when they link back up," Erin declared, as if rapt with epiphany.

"Are you honestly trying to 'win' at apologizing?" Leia balked.

"Just maximizing a positive effect," Erin slyly stated as he raised himself from his seat. The other applicants watched as the cyborg chased after the roaming astromech.

"That… that won't actually work will it?" Gorman whispered.

"It actually might," Marvus answered. "At the very least, he's apologizing. Regardless of his intentions, he's treating Tessa like a person with feelings. Feelings to be manipulated, but feelings none the less. Small steps are better than no steps."

"People respect things they feel are extensions of themselves," Seraak explained. "Weapons, ships, and the like. But for droids, its different. They aren't blank slates for us to impart our own thoughts and ideas. But neither do they conform to our expectations of sentients. They exist in the middle ground between people and things. Its easiest to resign them all to mere tools and servants, regardless of their abilities. But Tessa isn't just another tool. She's part of the team."

"Is she like, the thirteenth member of Torrid Squadron?" Zal asked.

"The thirteenth. And the fourteenth. And the fifteenth," said Marvus. "All the way through to the twenty fourth. So I'd refrain from getting on her bad side."

The Devaronian let out another chuckle as the conversation lulled. Erin was off seeking the various astromech units he could find amongst the chamber. The rest of the applicants patiently waited. Soon, Rev Saldor would finish his run and the three remaining applicants would have their turn. The Nautolan. The Cathar. The Loner.

The Duros touched down in the hangar, his test complete. He offered a brief, respectful exchange with the commander and her executive officer. Returning to the pilots' table, Rev offered little insight into the quality of his run. His stoic face had no tells, and his deep-seeded humility would not allow him to boast. He simply informed Lieutenant Tobek that he was up next.

The large Nautolan quickly lifted himself from his seat, cracking his knuckles. "Wish me luck!"

Marvus shot the applicant a confident look before offering a firm thumbs up. Zal rushed toward the docked vessel, an eagerness in his step. The eighth applicant hopped atop the Gallant's wing and carefully squeezed himself into the ship's cockpit. As the hatch slid over the Nautolan's head, he situated himself with the controls and consoles, eyeing the displays as they readied themselves for the flight ahead.

"Alright Tessa, let's do this," Zal warmly said.

The Gallant lifted itself from its landing struts. For the eighth time, the starfighter emerged from the hangar. For the eighth time, an applicant was put to the test by the squadron's astromechanical assistant.

Zal tightened his grip around the Gallant's controls. This was his moment to prove himself worthy. As the first waypoint pinged on the applicant's console, he urged his craft forward, soaring through the open sky and across the testing area, the carrier soon a distant memory.

It was not only skill that fueled the Nautolan, but desire. Every action, every movement spoke of an energy deep within the pilot. One unfettered and unrestrained whilst in the cockpit. He wanted this. He wanted to join Torrid Squadron, ever since he first heard details of their deeds those many months ago. Zal knew what joining the team meant. He knew that it would be the end of his military journey. No more rising through the ranks. No walking away. His reach would forever be limited to that of his starfighter. But he was content with that.

There were certainly boons associated with Torrid Squadron. Their pilots were known throughout the navy and other branches. Known by military, politicians, and civilians alike. They were stars amongst stars. But it was not the fame that interested him. Not the notoriety. Not the prestige. Merely the chance to stand, and fly, amongst heroes. Torrid Squadron was a great many things, but the things it did were vastly more important.

And so the Nautolan flew the craft as best as he could. This was not a test. This was not a simulation. This was him throwing everything he had behind the controls of the Gallant. A branching point for the rest of his entire life, one he had direct control over. It was up to him to prove himself. He could not rely on the failures of others or the benevolence of the administrators. No niceties or pleasantries on his part would save him. Only pure skill.

Minute after minutes of expertly executed maneuvers unfolded as the Gallant danced across the blue sky, the horizon shifting and turning in the ship's viewports at the vessel did the same. Zal raced from checkpoint to checkpoint, performing tasks as soon as Tessa called them out. The Nautolan's performance was not perfect, but it displayed a remarkable competence with the advanced starfighter. Mistakes were made, but ultimately corrected. Commands that others stumbled on were successfully carried out if only by a hair's breadth.

After the final command was issued, Tessa signaled the test's completion. Haron Gregard's voice filled the cockpit, ushering the applicant back to the hangar.

The Gallant passed through the carrier's magnetic barrier, following the landing protocols to the letter. Folding in its wings, setting down upon its struts, the cockpit's hatch slid forward. All was silent and stilled for a moment. The previously boisterous and hasty Nautolan was hesitant in removing himself from the craft's interior. Carefully, he maneuvered his large frame out of the cockpit, slowly walking across the wing before hopping down to a waiting commander.

In the presence of Rem and Haron, Zal straightened out his posture, the act of which made him tower over the two superiors. His hands were by his side, clenched. His head held high, he struggled to maintain his composure amidst his heavy breathing.

"Lieutenant Tobek," Rem spoke up, eyeing the tall Nautolan. The applicant's shiny black eyes seemed to gaze off into the distance, unwilling match the commander's gaze. "Excellent work out there."

Seeing the commander offer a gentle smile, Zal instantly exhaled the breath he had been holding. Running his hands through his head-tendrils, the Nautolan attempted to compose himself as his body and mind were wracked with feelings of joy. Finally straightening himself out, the applicant offered the commander a firm, dutiful salute. Rem reciprocated, following up with an appreciative nod.

"You can inform Varah that she is up next," Rem commented. Zal finally lowered his hand and began making his way toward the other pilots. He walked with a bounce in his step rivaling the one he possessed prior to the test. The exhaustion welling up within his body could not hope to overcome the Nautolan's newfound pride.

The other applicants immediately picked up on the warmth exuded by Zal. He called out to the Cathar, telling her it was her turn. Varah quickly raised herself and made her way toward the starfighter with a brisk, determined gait. As the Nautolan sat back down, the others did not even have to ask if he made a good run. His attitude and demeanor all but spelled it out for them. While they were proud for him, they each secretly began weighing their chances in their own minds. They thought of the others. With only two applicants to go, it might soon become obvious who would be joining the squadron. Six spots. All it took to fill one was being better than four of their fellows.

Few had made their success readily known. Others held their performance close to their chests. Other than the Nautolan and the Corellian, whom wore their emotions on their sleeves, there was little to confirm about the other pilots. Whose boasts were genuine? Whose fake? The same went with humility, stoicism, and confidence.

The sirens of the hangar rang out in the pilots' ears. The Cathar was in the air. After her, all that remained was the loner. The man the pilots knew nothing about aside from his name. As surreptitiously as they could, they'd shoot a glance over to the man. Still he leaned against the wall, silent, arms crossed, eyes hidden beneath thick racer's goggles. Each and every one of them knew of his skills. They had a firsthand account of the past simulations. To think he might fail at this juncture was foolish. But that didn't mean some of the applicants didn't hope. After all, each failure meant their own success.

As the applicants dwelt on their future, the siren rang out in the hangar, this time signaling the applicant's return. As the testing drew ever closer to its end, it felt as if time was moving at an astounding pace. Minutes flew by in an instant without the intruding conversations of the other pilots. When left to their own thoughts, when forced to dwell upon their chance of success or failure, they could only drift ever closer to the determining point. The point in which they would receive their ultimate answer.

The Cathar returned to the table, every bit as stern and unfazed as the moment she left. However she performed, the others would not know until the spots were filled. The primal ferocity that rest behind her sharpened eyes could have detailed a suppressed anger, a boiling pride, or any number of emotions. Whatever it truly was, Varah would not say. In fact, the only words she would utter was the name of the next, and final applicant.

"Lieutenant Wardon," Varah called out, jutting a thumb over her shoulder back toward the parked vessel. Slowly, as all eyes at the table fell to him, Jerel pushed himself off the wall and began his calm, calculated walk toward the Gallant fighter.

Despite having stood by this entire time, his gait spoke nothing of fatigue. Step after step, he neared the commander and her executive officer, the three meetung beside the parked vessel's wing.

"Lieutenant Wardon," Rem said. "It seems you're the last person to be tested."

"I'm eager to prove myself," Jerel warmly offered with a polite dip of his head. Whatever stoicism or reserved tendencies he displayed back at the table, they were not present. The applicant was calm, soft-spoken, with an unbridled respect in his every word. The commander and her executive officer studied the final applicant. Fair skin. Short, unkempt hair. Peculiar goggles masking his visage.

"Might I ask about the goggles?" Rem asked, as courteous as she could.

The applicant lifted his head, returning with a gentle smile as he looked at them behind black lenses. "They're my good luck charm."

"Well, we'll see how effective they are, won't we?" Rem commented with an affirming nod. "Please enter the Gallant."

The final applicant supplied a dutiful nod as he climbed atop the starfighter's wings, making his way toward the cockpit with precise movements. Rem and Haron made their way toward the hangar's edge as the siren rang out for its second to last time. The Gallant starfighter raised itself and made its way beyond the magnetic barrier and into the open skies beyond the carrier.

The final test had begun and it wasn't long until the applicant had already proven himself a remarkably skilled pilot. With the first series of commands came a series perfect maneuvers executed by Jerel. As Haron poured over his datapad back in the hangar, even he marveled at the readings the ship was sending back.

"Impressive," Haron commented. "He seems every bit as capable outside of the simulators."

"Such a talented pilot," Rem stated. "Where was he previously posted?"

Tapping away at his datapad, the executive officer pulled up information on the last applicant. "Says he belonged to the core defense fleet. Nothing special. Low-level advising position, he didn't actually fly that much. Of course, it says here that was a new posting. He was transferred a few weeks prior. Transferred again a month before that. All called for by his superiors. It would seem he was passed around quite a lot."

"Any particular reason?" asked Rem. "Disciplinary actions? Performance issues?"

"There's not much in the records," Haron admitted. "In fact, there's not much regarding his past before joining the navy. Almost no biographical information."

"Did he voluntarily omit things from his record?"

"Information about the applicants was provided by their previous commanders," Haron stated. "Whatever we're missing, it's because of his superiors, not him."

"I don't understand," said Rem. "Who in their right mind would want to get rid of such a talented pilot?"

"Maybe he made them all look bad," Haron commented, eyes still glued to his datapad. Looking over the readouts from the Gallant, there was nary a flaw he could see. "His performance is practically perfect."

Then, as if to spite the executive officer, the datapad displayed a bright red ping.

"Well, almost perfect. He just missed a cue entirely," Haron stated, a hint of confusion in his voice.

"What cue?" asked Rem. "Audio or Visual?"

"Visual. He missed a readout on his console," Haron explained.

Rem held out her hand. “Let me see.”

Haron gave the commander his datapad, focusing on the particular notice. Looking over the device, no new faults appeared as the applicant continued his testing. Examining the cue Jerel had missed, it became apparent he was oblivious to it. Rather than trying to correct, he went completely unfazed. Every other cue was followed. Every auditory command from Tessa was instantly carried out. The commander began to rub her chin, a realization creeping upon her visage.

"I see," Rem muttered.

"What is it?" asked Haron.

"Something unexpected," Rem said as she handed the datapad back to his original owner. There was no disappointment in the commander's voice. Only interest.

Soon the test was over for the final applicant. Aside from the one missed cue, it was practically a perfect run, outperforming all of the other pilots. The siren rang out for the final time as the Gallant breached the magnetic barrier. Maneuvering through the carrier's hangar, the starfighter eventually touched down in its resting spot. Emerging from the cockpit's open hatch was the applicant, ever the calm soul. With a few deft movements, he traversed the folded wing and stepped down beside Rem and Haron, who eagerly awaited his return.

"Lieutenant Wardon," Rem spoke up. "That was one of the best performances I've had the privilege of witnessing. The fact that this was your first time in the Gallant makes it all the more impressive."

"Thank you, sir," Jerel politely said alongside the dip of his head.

"It was almost perfect," Rem continued. "However, you did make one rather large mistake."

"I did?" Jerel replied, a genuine confusion in his voice.

A smile graced the commander's face. "Don't worry. With your scores, I can confirm that you've earned a spot on Torrid Squadron."

"Really?" asked Jerel, smile beaming across his face.

"Yes, but I'm afraid I have one thing to ask of you," Rem declared. "You see, I figured something out about you during that test. You missed a very specific visual cue. And given your past performances, I can say it was something more than you not paying attention."

The smile slowly faded from Jerel's face as he took a nervous gulp.

"Don't worry," Rem assuaged. "I know some of your previous commanders might not have been comfortable working with you, but you'll find no such prejudices here. All I ask is that you go and tell the others yourself."

"I…"

Rem thrust out her hand. Not for a salute, but for a handshake. The applicant hesitantly took hold before the commander tightened her grip. As her hand enwrapped his, she continued to look beneath the black lenses of the applicant's goggles. Her eyes spoke of understanding, of confidence, of belief.

The applicant supplied a quick, appreciative nod as they broke contact. With a deep breath, he made his way over to other pilots still situated around the conference table. The seated individuals had their eyes on the final applicant the moment he had landed and carefully watched his approach. Somewhat stifled was the previous calm, collected gait he possessed before. But he was still determined.

Standing in front of the large table, the applicant caught the attention of the other pilots. They had all returned from their various business about the hangar. As soon as all eyes were upon him, he slowly raised his hands, gripping the outer edges of his goggles. Carefully, he raised the thick bands of hardened leather baring black lenses, until they finally rest upon the applicant's forehead. The others went wide-eyed as they gazed upon the applicant's revealed visage. In the areas where the goggles had covered, there was only flesh, slight indentations where his eyes ought to have been.

Jerel Wardon, Miraluka male, age 29.

As per usual, this is a great story and I am having a wonderful time keeping up with it (and your other works). It has been quite a puzzle trying to determine who you were gonna pick for your squadron. Some characters seemed like obvious choices, but I don't want to list them in case you decide to go all G.R.R. Martin and axe (in a manner of speaking) the ones I like.

Keep up the great work. Looking forward to seeing who made the roster and then what kind of action you throw them into.

As per usual, this is a great story and I am having a wonderful time keeping up with it (and your other works). It has been quite a puzzle trying to determine who you were gonna pick for your squadron. Some characters seemed like obvious choices, but I don't want to list them in case you decide to go all G.R.R. Martin and axe (in a manner of speaking) the ones I like.

 

Keep up the great work. Looking forward to seeing who made the roster and then what kind of action you throw them into.

Thanks for the comments.

I don't know if I've said this in another thread, but the original idea for this story was about Torrid Squadron recovering from losing half its team, including its leader. The first episode would have been about recruitment, and the 'disaster' would have just been backstory. But I thought it better to start with some action, as focusing on finding new members meant it might take a while before they were back on a mission. I also wanted to give the readers a glimpse of the antagonists.

Unfortunately this meant I needed to create and flesh out six characters, just to kill them off. But I didn't want them to be 'fodder' so I gave them as much detail as those I knew would survive. Then, in the next episode, I wanted Torrid Squadron to be testing new recruits, but I knew focusing on only six would mean all of them were expected to succeed, kind of eliminating the point of the test. So I had to make more characters destined for failure. I had to think up qualified pilots who would just happen to fall short. In the middle of writing, I started liking some of them to the degree that I thought of giving them a spot over a character I had thought up months ago.

But I suppose that's good. I never wanted any of the pilots to act as 'filler'. And I wanted it to seem like each of them had a chance. I made sure the description 'blocks' that followed each applicant's introduction was balanced as best they could be. Which was rather difficult considering Humans and non-Humans usually require different approaches to physical description. Then I had to make sure that 'being an alien' wasn't a character's defining trait. I wanted each of them to have a voice that could stand alone as a mere voice.

For those who make the roster, I've had them divided into three groups based a prime trait, much as I have other stories involving groups of characters. Body, mind, and spirit. I like to use a three-piece dynamic rather than a binary one. It allows for a little more depth than hot versus cold, fighter versus thinker, extrovert versus introvert. But it's typically been used regarding Force-sensitive characters, where the body, mind, and spirit are more readily defined and separable. With starfighter pilots, body doesn't necessarily mean physical strength, but bodily skill. Raw reflexes and command of their vessel in a straight-up dogfight. Mind pertains not only to intelligence, but forethought, patience, tactical maneuvering. Spirit involves emotion, empathy, cooperation. Each character flourishes with one trait and may fall short with the others, but their role often forces them to expand beyond any singular grouping.

The body is represented by Haron and Dunn.

The mind by Rem and Fen.

The spirit by Marvus and Seraak.

And two more will belong to each group when the roster is filled.

The pilots stared dumbfounded at the eyeless pilot that stood before them, who threatened to buckle under the weight of their combined gazes. The facade had been peeled away. No longer was he the isolated, rigid loner. But he yet remained the most enigmatic of the group. Only now not by measure of his personality, but his abilities.

"Wait, wait, wait," Aiden spoke up, breaking the silence. "You're telling me we've been getting out-piloted by a blind man?"

"Just because I don't have eyes, doesn't mean I can't see," Jerel struggled to explain, almost abashedly.

"I think the bigger question is, since when did they start letting Jedi into the standard ranks?" Erin commented.

"I'm not a Jedi," said Jerel.

"I thought all Miraluka were Force-sensitive," Leia declared.

"Doesn't make me a Jedi," Jerel replied. "I was tested as a child. Didn't make it into the Order proper. Guess I've got Force-vision and not much else."

"He says, while sitting at the top of the rankings…" Erin muttered beneath his breath.

"I thought Miraluka couldn't see color, or any electronics really," Aiden added.

"We can, we just see them differently than you," Jerel explained. "I can distinguish individual colors, just… we might see the same color in different ways. I can tell red from orange clear as day. But my red might not be your red. It doesn't impact my flying, though. I've passed all my sight evals. I can read my instruments. I can look out my viewports. I just see things a bit differently."

"And he's not alone," Rem declared. The other pilots' attention was drawn to commander as she stepped beside the Miraluka. She stood tall, if not in stature then in spirit, her voice clearly reaching each and every man and woman sitting amongst their fellows. "Humans are not the only ones willing and able to defend the Republic. And as our ranks expand, it is only natural that we include those with different biologies. Mon Calamari, for example, see in a slightly different wavelength than Humans."

"Our people like to fly, so the Republic has prefabbed settings for us in most military vessels," Fen plainly stated. "Still, Rem made some tweaks to my fighter's software to better accommodate me."

"And I'll do the same for Lieutenant Wardon," Rem declared. "His performance makes him the prime candidate for acceptance into Torrid Squadron. Which means that whomever among you earns a spot on the team, you will have him as one of your squadron mates. I trust none of you have a problem with that?"

The applicants panned their gazes around the table. Amongst them sat the other members of Torrid Squadron who remained unstirred, backing their commander's every word. One by one, the applicants shook their heads, some more enthused than others.

"So if we know for a fact he's in, how long until we know the full roster?" asked Varah.

"Each and every one of you has displayed a worthy level of skill, of which you should all be proud," said Rem. "Lieutenant Gregard and I will need to take a deeper look into your performances over the various stages of testing before we can make a final decision."

Dunn looked to his commander. "How much time will you need?”

"A couple hours," Rem answered. She paused for a moment, turning toward her executive officer. "Maybe more."

"Alright then!" Marvus heartily exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "I get the feeling no one wants to sit around here any longer, so how about we get something to eat? If you wanna join Torrid Squadron, you're going to have to learn to love this place's mess hall. And believe me, it's a lesson hard learned."

One by one, the applicants and pilots of Torrid Squadron lifted themselves from their seats as the Devaronian made his way deeper into the hangar. Setting their sights on a connecting corridor, they were about to embark on a walk through the Den's far less open innards.

Jerel was about to take the rear of the roaming group when he felt a hand placed on his shoulder. Gentle, yet firm, the commander's fingers gripped the exterior of the Miraluka's flightsuit as she looked into the pilot's eyeless visage.

"Welcome to the team," Rem stated.

"It's an honor, sir," Jerel replied along a dutiful nod. Releasing her grip, the first official inductee to the squadron was released to the group. As the fourteen pilots disappeared deeper into the carrier, the commander and her executive officer were left alone. Rather, as alone they could be amidst the hangar of a large military vessel.

"Was that truly wise, confirming Lieutenant Wardon's inclusion this early?" Haron asked.

"No one in their right mind would give up a pilot as skilled as he. And yet, he was passed around from commander to commander without a single infraction to his name," said Rem. "His last posting withheld his species, because they thought we'd reject him. He withheld his species, because he thought we'd reject him. He kept to himself, limiting interaction with the others across every phase of testing. He needs to know there isn't a problem. The others definitely need to know there isn't a problem."

"You wanted to see if anyone outwardly objected," Haron commented. "I understand."

"And none of them did," Rem stated. "Of that, I can be proud. Though it does make the task of reducing the applicants a bit tougher now."

"I know, if only two or three of them could have been a bit more intolerant," Haron offered in his regal stoicism, albeit alongside a gentle smile.

Rem grinned. "Might want to drop the Imperial accent if you're going to make a joke like that.”

"I do suppose one of my former brothers could have once said the same in earnest," Haron admitted. The pair shared a restrained laugh with one another, free from the eyes and ears of the applicants. It was a succinct, but satisfying moment of jovialness.

The executive officer possessed a new aura of warmth, one absent from the previous phases of testing. A part of him felt the need to adopt the image of a cold, austere taskmaster for the applicants. Then again, a part of him truly was a cold, austere taskmaster. But he was not without his cares. Not without his emotions. But alongside the commander, he was tasked with rebuilding his team. Rebuilding his family. There was a time for emotion, and there was a time for logic. Unfortunately, Haron could not properly decide which of those times it currently was. He had a duty, to his squadron and himself. This was the one juncture in which he could not afford to make a mistake.

Torrid Squadron was a military outfit. It needed fighters. It needed people willing and able to act, to accomplish, and to sacrifice. But it needed more than good pilots. It needed members who were able to comply with and adapt to a unique command structure. Its members could not be judged by skill alone, but neither could such an important factor be dismissed. Each member had to act as both an individual and a teammate. The tests had provided valuable information, but they could not provide all the answers. Fortunately, Haron knew someone more than capable of processing all that had occurred the past few days.

Torrid Squadron served as a symbol, and it was imperative that it continued to do so. It needed the right members, and it was up to Rem and Haron to pick them. It wasn't a job for one person. Although the responsibility ultimately fell to the commander, her executive officer would continue to offer himself in whatever capacity required.

The commander's quarters. Formerly the dwelling of Commander Nolante and Haron Gregard, now only the nameplate of Rem Altess lay present beside the door.

Inside, the cramped dwelling was momentarily less so, the commander's meager belongings not stretching beyond a single half of the room. The other half lay almost barren, the executive officer's possessions having been relocated to a room of his own in the interim. In the months following the tragedy that had befallen Torrid Squadron, Lieutenant Gregard took up residence across the hall in a dwelling whose previous occupants had perished.

But the Lieutenant sat within the room once more as he conferred with the commander about the applicants. Sitting at his former desk, the executive officer eyed his trusty datapad, the records of the applicants' tests resting at his fingertips.

Standing over him was Rem, deeply immersed in her own mind. In the privacy of her dwelling, the tightly wound officer began to unwind, her uniform's cuffs and collar having been loosened. But it was a purely cosmetic display, as deep inside, the stress of duty yet remained. Burdening, but not overwhelming. If anything, it pushed her forward, as she was unwilling to see herself stall knowing others were counting on her.

The commander took a deep breath, releasing it a moment later as she properly gathered herself. "Have we got a tentative ranking yet?"

"Factoring in all the previous phases of testing…" Haron began, scrolling through the countless lines of data streaming in front of him. "Lieutenant Wardon is at the top, followed shortly after by Lieutenant Hayes. After them, Lieutenants Chanta and Tobek have the strongest showing. After that, it becomes a tad unclear."

"Disparities between the phases?" Rem suggested.

"Correct," said Haron. "Lieutenant Dardan gave one of the best performances in the leadership test, but struggled in the later phases. The opposite was true for Lieutenants Varah and Loodatah."

"What about between the third phase and the others?" Rem asked. "Any marked differences between the simulator and the actual craft?"

"Lieutenant Freeden did much better in the Gallant than in the simulator," Haron stated. "Lieutenant Saldor showed a decrease in performance transitioning into Phase Three."

"I take it we should value live performances over simulated ones," Rem suggested.

"It's up to you," Haron replied. "The discrepancies are small enough that their skills could be brought up to par."

The commander released a soft sigh as she paced behind the executive officer, eventually setting herself down on the edge of the Lieutenant's former bunk. "This isn't going to be easy is it?"

"No. Then again, we weren't expecting it to be," Haron calmly stated.

The commander began running her hands through her short, light brown hair, staring blankly into the distance. "If we confirm Jerel, Erin, Zal, and Chanta… that leaves us two spots. And six applicants. Leia is a better tactician than pilot, but that speaks more to her strengths than her faults. Gorman excelled in nothing, but possesses no shortcomings either. Loona was a natural when she got in a Gallant, but her performance in the first phase leaves something to be desired. Aiden gave an excellent showing in the simulators, but seemed to falter in the live test. The same was true for Rev. Varah… she reminds me a bit a Dala."

The commander's tone had drifted from factual to reminiscent. Haron lifted his gaze from his datapad to see his superior leaning forward on the edge of the bunk, forearms resting against her knees. Her sights were glued to the opposing wall, fixated on the cold, blank surface.

"We cannot overlook capable pilots for what reminds us of those we lost," Haron carefully reminded.

"Anyone who could remind me Dala is a capable pilot," Rem emphatically stated. "Everyone we lost, left us without an integral part of the machine. When Nolante put the original team together, he didn't just choose great pilots. He chose people that belonged together. People with unique skills that could work in tandem, fill in whatever gaps the others might possess. When Freemont left, he found the perfect replacement in Seraak. He knew that we were more than bodies in a cockpit. He valued our beliefs, our personalities, our shortcomings, our wants and desires. We have to do the same."

"That's not the kind of information they put in official records," said Haron.

"They do, you just have to look for it," Rem declared, lifting herself from the bunk. "Nolante hadn't met any of us prior, and yet he was able to form a team from purely raw data and his own judgment. And he had help, if I recall."

"Nolante did bring me in as an advisor, just after the project was put into motion," Haron admitted. "But all I did was filter information."

"And that's all you have to do now," Rem replied. "Biographical information. Academy records. Honors and demerits. Psych profiles and evaluations. The information's there, we just have to piece it together, you and me."

"Maybe we should have just interviewed the applicants in Phase Zero.”

"You can fake your way through an interview. You can't fake your way through an entire career in the service."

"You'd be surprised…" Haron muttered.

The executive officer looked up from his datapad, pivoting in his seat to face the standing commander. She had a spark in her eyes. Gone was the doubt and hesitance she had been struggling to expunge from her mind the past months. The strong facade she wore was no longer a facade, it was a pulsing energy that stemmed from deep within her core. In a single moment, with a single glance, Rem had put Haron's mind at ease.

"Alright, commander. Just tell me what to look for."

"So… that makes six," Rem calmly stated, taking a step away from the sitting subordinate.

Haron looked over his datapad, studying the roster they had created. "Nice balance of backgrounds and personalities. Wide range of skillsets and specializations. A capable ground team. Excellent work, commander."

Rem let out a light chuckle. "I didn't do it alone, you know."

"I just isolated pertinent information. You made all the right judgments," Haron replied.

"If you can do one, you can do the other," said Rem. "Even the most complicated issues can be solved when looked at with a careful eye."

"I see you've not lost your technician's mind since becoming commander," Haron warmly offered, bordering on a smile. "So how do we go about informing the applicants?"

"We'll send them home for the day," Rem decided. "Give those who didn't make it a message informing them of such. Tell them they'll receive a formal recommendation for advanced placement outside of Torrid Squadron."

"And those who did make it?”

Rem adopted a gentle smirk. "I think we can leave them with a little bit of suspense. I mean, they're in, we just have to process them."

"Everything should be in order… unless the admiral rejects any of them," Haron bluntly replied.

The commander tensed as a frigid chill shot up her spine. All of the comfort and confidence she had cultivated shattered in an instant. Her breathing hastened and her eyes widened, the commander's gaze darting from side to side as she lost her focus.

"Oh no. Trevel has final say," Rem muttered to herself. "What if he doesn't like one of the candidates? If he rejects one of them, it could throw off the balance we've worked to create. We need to plan a new contingency-"

"Relax, commander. It was only a joke," Haron admitted. "The admiral left you in full control of recruitment. He'd confirm anyone who made it past Phase Zero at your word."

The executive officer's grip on his datapad faltered as he felt the commander's fist driven into his shoulder. The playful blow elicited no pain, but was enough to shake the subordinate in his seat. Turning around, he saw Rem burning a hole through him with her gaze, mouth and nose scrunched in friendly frustration.

"Sorry. No more jokes," Haron politely stated.

"On the contrary, it's good to see spirits are high to enough to be making jokes," Rem said with a smile. "It's just your delivery that needs work."

"I'll not argue with either sentiment," Haron admitted with a restrained chuckle. "It's almost hard to believe we're about to become whole again. No more sitting around wondering what command's going to do with us."

"To be fair, that doesn't go away the moment we're back in action," Rem stated.

"But at least then I can feel like I'm doing something," Haron replied. "I don't relish the fighting or the danger… but I can't stand Torrid Squadron being grounded."

"You're not alone," Rem admitted. "We'll be flying again soon enough, six more by our side."

"It shouldn't take long to process the confirmations," said Haron. "I'm sure Trevel and the Senate will want Torrid Squadron back in the spotlight as soon as possible. The following days will be spent getting the pilots situated and moved in. We're going to have to shuffle things around in the barracks as we decide the new room assignments."

"You should move back in here," Rem calmly suggested.

"Are you sure? If you'd rather have a female roommate…"

"You're my executive officer," Rem declared. "If we're to work efficiently once we're back up and running, we need to maintain a close proximity, and I'm fine sharing a living space. Besides, with seven men and five women, there'd have to be at least one mixed pairing."

"What about mixing the old and new members?" Haron asked.

"We're all one team now. It's up to us to make sure we don't raise any artificial divides within the squadron," Rem stated. "But we'll also make sure to place the others according to their comfort level."

"Giving Dunn a quiet roommate?" Haron suggested.

"Exactly," Rem replied.

"We'll find a way to make it work.”

"We always do.”

Nestled within the heart of Republic Space, the grandest of the core worlds was surrounded by the constant comings and goings of thousands upon thousands of military and civilian vessels. Drifting upon the astral void at the edge of Coruscant's gravity well was an orbital station servicing and refueling a number of naval transports and cruisers. Amongst the constant movements on board and around the installation, six figures sat stilled.

Six pilots, waiting in a large hangar, surrounded by footlockers and large satchels containing their belongings. Applicants from the training of days prior. The newest members of Torrid Squadron. They had shed the flightsuits of their former squadrons, garbing themselves in casual garb for their trip to their new home. The pilots huddled around one another atop a set of benches, patiently awaiting the arrival of a ferry. The hangar was empty and silent, untended by the station's workers, unoccupied by docked crafts.

But the silence could not last.

Even in a hunched stance, Zal towered over his fellow pilots. Though no longer encased within a bulky flightsuit, his tall, muscular frame still proved atypical for a man expected to confine himself into a snug cockpit. The Nautolan passed his large, black eyes across the empty hangar, catching the others in his peripherals before settling his gaze upon the traveler's bag at his feet.

"Anyone else expecting there to be another test once we get there?" Zal genuinely wondered.

"There's only six of us and they're asking us to move in… I think we made it in," Erin declared, oddly comforting with his snark. The Human wore simple garb much as the others did, short-sleeved shirt and cargo pants composed of various browns and grays. The pale, exposed flesh of the cyborg's arms were lithe, and absent any apparent augmentation. The lieutenant's visible cybernetics seemed limited to the thin strips upon his right cheekbone and brow.

"I know, but it's still hard to believe we actually made it in," Zal admitted.

"Maybe for you it is," Erin stated, confidently leaning back against the hangar wall. The Human appeared the most well-put together of the bunch, not an ounce of physical or emotional stress visible on his person, not a hair or fiber out of place. "It was a test of skill. We passed. End of story."

"Astute," Loona commented. "Arrogant… but astute." The Rodian had a firm grasp of Basic, but her thick accent persisted despite the pilot's continued effort to be rid of it. Outside of her flightsuit, the pilot displayed a lean, well-trained physique, her exposed arms possessing a rough, pebbly texture.

"There's actually some truth in there," Jerel warmly offered. Gone was the loner who hid himself beyond the other pilots' notices. The Miraluka presented himself as someone who belonged, sitting amongst his fellows, no longer an outsider. The humanoid possessed the same unkempt hair and donned the same racer's goggles upon his eyeless face, but the smile that graced his lips was a new, but welcomed addition. "None of us don't belong here. We all passed the tests. We're all skilled and capable pilots. We did it. Feel good about that. Take pride in your accomplishments. Don't think yourself inferior or undeserving."

"They give that pep talk back at the temple?" Erin jokingly asked.

"On the contrary, one of the first things they try to instill in initiates is a sense of detachment," Jerel explained. "From your emotions as well as your fellows."

"Sounds depressing," Erin bluntly stated.

"It's a foundation to build on," Jerel admitted. "Something to let the younglings know what they're getting into. I left after a week, so I don't know how the studies progress."

"Probably for the best," Varah offered. "I'd pick a life in the service over the Order any day." Outside her flightsuit, the Cathar's light-brown fur was on display, covering her athletic figure. A picture of physical prowess, the pilot's dense musculature granted her a dexterous frame without the added bulk another species might possess.

"Really? Wouldn't want a little something extra behind those claws," Erin asked.

"I like being the only one behind these claws," Varah emphatically stated. "Don't need some outside force driving my actions."

"Odd thing to hear from a pilot," Erin commented. "Or did they not have a chain of command where you were stationed?"

"I'll follow a Captain before a magical energy field any day," Varah declared. "I can control my ship. Don't have to worry about it controlling me."

"You say that now…" Erin muttered.

"Those of us who didn't piss off our astromech shouldn't have to worry about that," Chanta warmly countered. The Selkath's voice still possessed the gurgling grit native to her species, but it possessed a genuine warmth behind every word. Without a flightsuit to conceal it, the pilot's figure was readily apparent. Dark-blue skin with an aquatic sheen covered her sturdy frame. She possessed little in the way of breasts or hips, her species' sexual dimorphism presenting itself solely in the two long tendrils that hung from the back of her head.

"Experimental hyper-intelligent droids aside, you still have nav comps that calculate hyperspace routes for you, targeting systems that correct your mistakes, dampers and throttles that keep you from maintaining total control," Erin bluntly listed. "The idea that you're flying free through space and sky is an illusion. The ship's doing most of the work, you're just along for the ride."

"Hmm, guess that means your scores the other day were nothing special,

Varah casually stated, sharp grin baring sharper teeth.

"Considering we were all beaten by a blind man…" Erin joked.

"I'm not blind," Jerel calmly replied.

"How long did it take to convince your instructors of that?" asked Erin.

"About a week," the Miraluka answered.

"You spend that week thinking it might be a repeat of the temple?" Erin asked with a genuine candor, dropping any pretense of humor.

The Miraluka paused for a moment. "Yeah, I kinda did."

Before he could elaborate, the eyeless pilot found a hefty arm wrap itself around his shoulders, pulling him close and squeezing him tight. "Don't worry!" Zal boisterously stated. "You're a part of Torrid Squadron now. No way they'd think about getting rid of you. The performance you gave, hell, you're probably as good as them!"

The squeezed pilot let out a soft chuckle as he found himself pressing into the Nautolan's armpit. "We're all as good as them. We are them," Jerel clarified. "We're all a part of the team, and we were let in for a reason. No more 'us and them'. Just 'us'. The twelve of us are brothers and sisters now."

"I hear that," Varah emphatically added, a touch of fire in her voice.

"Same here," Chanta added, somewhat more restrained. The others chimed in in their own way with silent and hearty nods.

Before the six pilots could continue their spontaneous bonding, their ferry slipped past the magnetic barrier at the far end of the hangar. The Republic shuttle possessed a utilitarian design, able to carry and rapidly deploys a full squad of troopers on the battlefield. The white and orange vessel touched down in the center of the open chamber, releasing a mechanical squeal as it rested upon its landing struts. Its hind ramp deploying, the pilots of Torrid Squadron quickly gathered their belongings, eager to climb aboard.

The pilots marched toward the transport, bags and lockers in tow. The trek was made in silence, any thoughts going through the pilots' heads not warranting speech. There wasn't much to them, as they were mostly pithy, rambling musings of a mind about to embark on an unknown journey. For all they knew of their new position, there was little they could truly expect. A prospect that would be frightening to any who had not experienced what they had. But to them, it was uplifting.

As was the shuttle that picked itself from the hangar floor, its passenger bay filled to half-capacity. The transport exited the hangar, setting a course for one of the many orbiting bodies of Coruscant. It was not an installation, but a ship. Had they viewports, the pilots could have seen the orbital station drifting further and further away, and the Den drifting ever closer. The carrier floated beyond the normal entourage of military crafts that surrounded the refueling station, sitting alone, patiently awaiting its newest denizens.

The transport carefully maneuvered into the Den's hangar, making its way deeper down the empty lane that stretched across the chamber. The Gallant fighters safely tucked to the side, the shuttle was free to set itself down in the center of the hangar, ready to release its passengers into the familiar space.

The pilots exited the craft onto the hangar floor, and into the welcoming gaze of Commander Altess. She wore the same uniform she had donned for their previous meeting, as did the executive officer at her side. The new denizens quickly but carefully made their way down the ramp, luggage firmly in hand as a warm smile graced the commander's lips.

"Welcome aboard your new home, pilots," Rem spoke up as the sixth pilot departed the shuttle. "Haron and I will take you to your rooms."

Rem and Haron had already begun to walk away from the new arrivals, not wasting any time. Despite the rush, the pilots were already beginning to settle in. They had begun to notice subtle changes in their environment. The hangar, despite its stockpile of military supplies and armament was surprisingly welcoming. And despite their time spent within, over the course of training it was a lifeless place, cold and off-putting. But nothing had physically changed. The vessels sat as they always had. The stacked crates sat as they always had. Indeed, the change was mental. Without the burden of the tests and their wants for acceptance, the pilots could see the hangar as something more. Part of a home.

And it was not the only thing that was different. The commander displayed a subtle shift, one beyond the pilots' previous perceptions. She was warm, welcoming. A person, rather than a judge. An ally, rather than a superior. A revelation born of a few short words. The fact that she referred to her executive officer as Haron, rather than Lieutenant Gregard, immediately put thoughts of their future within the squadron in the pilots' heads.

The group migrated deeper into the carrier, into the cramped corridors of the vessel's central workings. Passing by stockrooms, rec rooms, and armories before finally reaching the pilots' barracks. Six rooms. Three on each side of the hall, adequately spaced apart. Four of the six rooms had their doors opened. Two of the six rooms had pilots standing at their entrance. Marvus and Fen.

"Varah, Loona Loodatah," Haron spoke up, eyeing the datapad in his hands. "You'll be sharing room six. The Cathar and Rodian shared a brief look, finding nothing to protest with the decision. Securing their grips on their belongings, the two pilots ducked into their new abode as the group drifted further down the hall.

"Jerel Wardon, Erin Hayes," Haron spoke again. "You'll be sharing room five."

The cyborg offered the Miraluka a curious look. He offered his own eyeless gaze. Whilst the goggled pilot wore a warm smile, the Human maintained his stern countenance.

"I suppose I could have gotten worse," Erin muttered before ducking into the vacant room. The Miraluka maintained his gentle demeanor as he followed shortly behind.

"Chanta," Haron spoke, this time only single name. "You'll be sharing room four with Fen Kayda."

The Selkath stopped dead in her tracks, eyes widening as she processed the executive officer's words. She almost thought she misheard, but looking further down the hall to a waving Fen provided all the answer she needed. The Mon Calamari beckoned the pilot closer and she complied as soon as her mind returned to her.

"Lieutenant Kayda… I," Chanta managed to utter as she stood in front of the door way. Fen quickly raised her large, webbed hand to elicit a pause.

"You can drop the formalities," Fen stated, her stoic tone making it hard to pick up her feelings. Her expression was blank, and her voice utterly relaxed, bordering on cold. But before Chanta could mumble a reply, the Mon Calamari relieved the Selkath of the bag slung over her shoulder.

"We're on a first-name basis here," Fen commented as she took the burden of the other pilot's luggage as her own. "Or last name if you prefer. Or just your name if you've only got the one. Either way, we prefer to just drop the rank and title, expect maybe for the commander. That alright, Chanta?"

Despite the apparent coldness of the Mon Calamari's expression, she seemed keen on providing her new roommate a warm welcome. Staring into the other pilot's fish-like eyes, the Selkath provided a dedicated nod.

"Of course… Fen," Chanta said, struggling to overcome her sense of formality. The two pilots disappeared into their room, leaving only a single pilot alongside the executive officer. Staring at the last remaining dwelling, the Nautolan quickly began assembling the pieces in his mind.

"Wait, does that mean?" Zal sheepishly muttered.

"That's right, you're with me kid," Marvus spoke up as he leaned against the wall outside his room. The Devaronian's voice oozed with the coolness the Nautolan had expected of his hero. The large pilot's knuckles went white as he tightened his grip around his luggage, eagerly looking to the executive officer for confirmation.

"He's correct," Haron finally stated. "You'll be sharing room three with Marvus.

A toothy grin washed over the Nautolan's face as he carried his belongings into his new domicile. Soon, only Rem and Haron remained standing within the hallway.

"They seem to be taking their room assignments well," Haron commented. "Fine work, commander."

"They're pilots of the Republic Navy," Rem replied. "They're probably happy they only have to share a room with one other person. We've grown accustomed to the Den. This place probably seems downright luxurious to them."

"I suppose it has been a while since any of us has been subject to the standard fare of a military dwelling," Haron admitted.

"I can only imagine Marvus trying to acclimate to an airbase on the fringe of Republic space," Rem joked. "He thinks our food is bad…"

The pair shared in a restrained chuckle at the thought.

"So what do we do now, commander?" asked Haron.

"How about take it easy for a while?" Rem warmly suggested. "You've done quite enough the past few weeks. Relax a bit. Nothing to do now but wait for the pilots to settle in."

"I… of course, commander," Haron replied with a nod of his head, dutifully acknowledging his superior's suggestion.

Rem took a few steps back up the hallway, positioning herself in the middle of the six rooms. Panning her gaze, she saw that the rooms' doors were still ajar.

"Pilots," Rem called out, loud enough that she could catch their undivided attention. "Take the day to settle in. You'll be fitted for your new flightsuits tomorrow. Then… we'll embark on our first mission."

The was a pause, then the echoes of rustling as the new pilots poked their heads out of their respective rooms.

"Wait, we already have a mission?" Erin asked, adequately bewildered.

"Of course," Rem declared. "The Republic always has need for Torrid Squadron."