#exitiumparit01

[rebellor]

          “ what’s — ah — what’s that? ” his gaze darts, lightning quick, from where his hands are folded in his lap, to the box placed on the little table at the foot of his bed, and back to the medic who’s been moving around the room. lyra, that’s who she was. the names of those around him are quickly filed away whenever he hears them. there’s very little he can cling on to, and memories haven’t been quite the same since jedha, so each moment is a test. his arms, trembling, moves him from the hoverchair onto the nearest available bed, but he sits tipped on the edge, ready to spring back up if necessary.

           he makes another little noise in the back of his throat, uncertain. “ i was told to report here after lunch? ” // @exitiumparit / s.c.

[skilledspy-blog]

    ❛  sorry to – uh – intrude.  ❜  his hand is still raised in mid-air, prepared to knock on the door that had already slipped open. blinking in surprise, his hand fell awkwardly before he cleared his throat and nodded, shoulders straightening and half-smile curving his lips.   ❛  i heard this was where i could find the best slicer in the resistance.  ❜ // @exitiumparit  / s.c.

[wingresistance]

          “ GENERAL – i think we may have a lead on a possible ammunitions centre used by the first order – ” he strides into the room – a messy storm of muddied boots, scuffed knees and askew shirt – having just hopped off the latest transport on the long trip back from the fifth planet this week. all he wants to do is drop off a quick report and escape to the sanctity of a warm shower to wash off the dregs of adrenaline. the fog of exhaustion means that there’s a delayed response before he finally registers his surroundings and the person leia was talking to. 

           stark clarity shocks him into the present. now. he’s never told them where he was. never explained what he was doing. they still thought he was in the new republic starfleet last he spoke, and between not wanting to drag his parents into this and the starkiller run, there’s been no update on his end. (  too late, can’t run. ) she’s looking at him now, and he’s a mouth-gaping, thoroughly kriffed mess.  what do you say now to represent all the things you should’ve said before? he cringes, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.  “ hi, mamá. ” // @exitiumparit​ / shara

[dumewolfa]

it  was  hard  to  come  by  jobs  since  the  empire  had  so efficiently  taken  over  lothal.  their  usual  runners  shying  away  from  hiring  them     ,     knowing  the  baggage  they  carried  with  them. even  vizago  hadn’t  wanted  anything  to  do  with  them  lately.      ❝     i  think  we  have  some  ration  bars  left.  which  are  probably  as  old  as  we  are.     ❞     he  laughs  only  a  little.  the  ghost  needed  fuel     ,     they  needed  food     ,     and  a  few  credits  wouldn’t  be  bad.     /     @exitiumparit​.

[kesdameron]

         “ if poe hasn’t told you how great my pancakes are, then i’ve raised a very poor son. ” he casts a warm smile over his shoulder, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before scooping up the last slice off the skillet onto a still warm stack of pancakes. with a small hum of satisfaction, he slides the plate across the counter towards her. “ it’s a bit of a family recipe, passed from shara’s father down to us. there were days when poe was a kid that it would be impossible to get him out of bed till he smelled this. ” // @exitiumparit​ / lai

[wingresistance]

@exitiumparit

It’s both sad and lightening to watch him move through the crowd of people as they head towards the hangar. Every being he speaks to is eased a little by one of Poe’s smiles, his gentle encouragements, the confidence he can feign–or is it feigned? Is it just natural?–for the sake of others. He’s a vital part to the Resistance’s morale; he is an amplifier of hope for others simply for being near them. It’s a warmth she’s seen in not too many leaders and she has faith that this is still her old ally’s son.

You’d be proud, Shara, she thinks as they turn into the hangar. Again, there Poe goes–taking off in what he knows, what he can understand. She crosses her arms and leans against an x-wing, smiling a little as he continues to roll through his thoughts. Yeah, he’s still absolutely a pilot at heart, but a good man, too.

“Crew and ship has been finalized,” she says, point just past the two of them to her ship, The Ghost sitting there. It’s a little insulting to herself to think she needs help on her own ship, but for Shara, for Kanan, for Kes, for herself, for Poe and her own son, she has to see if her hunch is correct. “However, I keep pulling error messages on my navicomputer.” Not a total lie, but she knew the fix. “Could you lend a hand?”

           “ of course, ” he nods in swift agreement. after recent events he’s determined, more than ever, to keep the rest of the resistance alive, and that meant caution, and he could hardly let one of the rebellion’s best leave the hangar without a ship in the best condition possible — even if it did seem odd that she would need his help in the first place. 

           walking up to the ship, his eyes are bright as he takes the sleek hull in. the history of it flashing through his mind, stories shared throughout his time in the academy. it’s reverential, almost. he lifts a hand to press to the side, the durasteel cool under his hand. a thought springs to mind suddenly, and he half-turns in her direction, brows raised. “ my mom loved this ship, didn’t she? ”  

         he doesn’t need to wait for an answer to know it would’ve been a yes, and the thought delights him. he was afraid it’d been lost, like a book whose pages had been rifled too roughly, and left scattered on the floor. clearing his throat to escape the stiffness that had set in, his hand drops, and he delivers a soft apology before moving up the ramp without another word, heading in the direction of the cockpit.