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b-radley66 · 2 years ago

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Nurse Enfys ministers to Meglann.

(After stunning her with an electro-ripper to the face.)

Wonderful commission by @punkzcakes, based on the scene below with Enfys Nest and one of my OCs, Meglann Florlin, ace pilot (in her own mind), economics and military science major (and drama minor) at the University of Aldera, and diner-owner/cook. (About 3 years before the events in Solo: A Star Wars Story. From my story, N’er Spoke Again

Please go visit their site, they are hella talented and extremely easy to work with.

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There is softness surrounding me. I manage to open my eyes; it doesn’t seem to be too much of a mistake as a soft lamp light plays over my brain. A sharp smell; a slightly smoky animal smell moves into my nostrils.

I pull myself up to my elbows. The soft fur—the source of the scent— drops down from my chest, as it does, I feel cold air on my skin.

Skin?

I look down and see that and see that I’m no longer in my flight suit, nor even in the tanktop that I’d been wearing under it, in defiance of the RAC’s regulations. I don’t focus on the two (too small) items that are immediately in my vision, but the huge bruises on my left and right side under them. I realize that the cold isn’t the only thing hitting me as I struggle back to full awareness.

A sharp pain in both sides of my lower chest, pain that swells with every breath. I touch both sides ruefully. Both Nola and I had discovered one other thing in common besides snark and an affinity for certain Corellian-Mandalorian semi-nobles, Togruta huntresses, Pantoran pirates, and Zeltron-Corellian cops.

We both bruise like summer fruit on our pale skin. Usually this only manifests itself when one of that quartet that we have affinity for use their teeth, but occasionally the bruises show up in our other occupation as shit-bringers for the old order.

I can feel my own eyeroll amidst the fog as my mind goes to bite-marks. I definitely have been hanging around that Zeltron-Corellian too long.

I lift the warm fur blanket and look down the length of my body. I at least still have my underwear (glad that I was wearing it). My eyes fall on the reason that my apparently broken left leg doesn’t hurt as much as my ribs. A small bacta infusion unit is attached to that bruise; the bone is starting to itch rather than hurt. I lift my hand up to my mouth at a sudden memory.

My fingers come away without the bloody froth that I remembered.

“There was just enough of the bacta in your system to heal your punctured lung. Apparently it wasn’t too bad. Not enough for the ribs, though,” an unfamiliar voice remarks from the door.

An old woman, her wrinkled face blank, looks at me. I see a small bag in her hands. She is dressed in warm, colorful robes and furs, much like the other assholes that I’d seen had been.

I was wrong. Her face wasn’t blank. It seems to be held together by wrinkles and blatant disapproval. She walks over to the pallet, her hands unrolling a small bandage.

Without a word, she reaches down and begins to wrap my rib cage, starting just under my breasts. She is none too gentle in her motions.

“She’s of the camp that thinks we shouldn’t have wasted our precious bacta on the likes of you,” says a familiar voice from the door. I see the teenager from before standing in the door. The young woman, her curly copper hair unbound in a cascade over her shoulders looks at me from her much older brown eyes, the many freckles dark against her skin. She is no longer clad in the half-armor and greaves that she’d been in when I first encountered her; she is wrapped in a large fur cloak, much like what had been covering me until Dr. Personality had started her torture session. I can just make out some of the freckled skin of her torso underneath the tightly wrapped robe.

She walks over to the bed, dropping the cloak on the foot of the bed. She is clad in loose trousers and some kind of a singlet that leaves her shoulders and arms bare. Her feet are bare, as well, like she was prepared for bed.

I concentrate on not screaming as she seizes the other end of the bandage around my ribs and adds her strength to it, pulling it tight.

The old woman looks at her handiwork as I catch my breath, and the pain lessens to a dull roar. She busies herself poking and prodding other areas, while the teenager watches her.

“So what’s your story, Hammer?” she asks. I’m perplexed for about fifteen seconds as to how she knows my callsign; a legacy from my father, as well as from my status as one of the nine Corellian Hells, as our little social club is called. I debate about telling her about the Corellian version’s name, but I’m still not sure about being codenamed ‘Ina.’ The question is answered when I see my flightsuit draped over a chair, with the sole example of Aurabesh on it.

“I’m on a galactic tour of lesser-traveled shitholes. Got lost.”

A brief smile quirks her serious features. A part of me notes that it is a distinct improvement. I change the subject away from what the hell I was doing here. “So what are you going to tell that faction that seems to have wanted to cut my head off and let me bleed out in the snow?” I look at the doctor, who gives me another hard look of her own. “Is this one just healing me up for the beheading?” The healer says nothing.

“Why do you think I stunned you?” At her mention of that, I look over at the mirror on the far wall. I see another manifestation of my imitation of summer fruit. A bruise on the side of my face. In a place where I last remember the young woman’s electroripper being placed with some hard intent.

I might just owe her for that. I catch a glimpse of a look between my two ‘caretakers.’ A look with a shared smirk.

“I figured you might survive if everyone believes that I’ve claimed you for my bed.” I can feel a blush, as well as a raised eyebrow at that.

“Not that it might not be slightly enjoyable, dear,” I finally reply, “but I don’t rob the cradle. Come back in another three or four years or so.”

She laughs, an altogether pleasing sound, based on what I’d heard from her minions. “I’m the daughter of the chieftain of the Cloud Riders. I take what I want. Plus, I’m not sure about somebody who looks like she might be near my own age, lecturing me about cradle robbing. You’re what, eighteen?”

“Only one year off, pirate,” I reply. “Nineteen,” I add, just to clarify. I grin at her bravado, but see the look of uncertainty in her eyes. I catch the old prune looking at her with something like sympathy.

“What is it?” I ask quietly. “If you’re about to have my head taken off, you can tell me, I guess.” I wonder how I’d ever gotten so nonchalant about the impending separation of my head from my body. Well, there’s no danger of falling from a great height, like there was when I once had a cable around my neck, so there’s not much to be afraid of. I wince at my own thoughts. I’m sure that there are at least three, maybe four beings who know me well enough to call bullshit on my own false bravado—especially where heights are concerned.

Maybe even more.

I see her start to speak, then stop. Finally I hear the whisper. “My mother. I think that she’s been captured, by someone who captured and killed her mother thirty years ago.” She looks up at me, her eyes suddenly hard again. “She’s on some damnfool quest trying to get rid of a threat from Rattatak.” She pulls something from around her neck.

I find myself holding my breath as the something that I’d seen in a larger, more ornate version around Bryne Covenant’s neck, against his business suit or dress uniform, as well as the smaller version against the skin of his chest, alongside the tooth of a large beast.

The Covenant Chain. The symbol of the Covenant-Hope of Corellia.

I release the breath and look up at her face as she continues. “I can’t seem to get the Cloud Riders to follow me to go after her.” She looks away, focusing on her own face in the mirror. “I’ve never been alone before. It’s like they’re different people.” I nod and then reach out to touch her shoulder. Her skin is warm on mine. I take a deep breath unsure as to how I feel about deceiving her for that object. “I can help. Since you decided to use the bacta on my leg.”

“How? Our carrier ship’s hyperdrive is down.” She chokes. “Some leader.”

“I got some ideas about that,” I reply. “I know a guy.”

Not to mention a trio of talented women. Plus maybe even one or two that I barely trust.

I see her motion to the healer. The healer pulls out a syringe and before I can protest, jams it into my neck. “It can wait until the morning,” the old woman rasps.

The young woman pulls the furs over me and gently lays my head down. I feel my mind going fuzzy, my vision with it.

I hear myself whisper, as if from a great distance. “What’s your name?”

She pulls up her own fur cloak and wraps it around her, sitting in a small chair, shifting it closer to the bed.

As I fade, I hear her whisper in my mind, as her fingers move through the hair on my forehead. She pulls closer to me

“Enfys. Enfys Nest.”

My last sensation is of a slightly earthy, but not unpleasant smell. A smell of engine grease, mixed with a hint of bright citrus, ushers me into sleep.

#star wars #fanart #original characters #enfys nest #@punzcakes #beautiful #go commission them when they can #in between the stories you know #adventures in fanfic writing

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