Some Days More Than Others

[Untaaura Verratoa]

The tiny pink sliver of raw and aggravated flesh above her right temple stung even after kolto ointment was applied. That was the risk you took when you shaved with a metal razor. A laser plane was safer, but it wasn't as close a shave. There was also something more to the heart of a marine to use a blade for the work. A piece of sharp metal was the most simple machine. In it's simplicity, it reduced its exposure to failure. A metal razor wouldn't burn a diode or a power cell out. It wouldn't short when too much water got where it shouldn't. There was poetry in that simplicity. A razor might blunt or rust, but that could be ground and buffed out. It didn't fail until you ran out of metal.

Untaaura was left to her own devices in the therapist's office for a few minutes while the doctor was summoned. Already, she was looking for an escape route. Instead, she'd fixed on a mirror, forced to come face to face with herself for a little introspection. She traced the tender line with a finger, careful not to irritate the cut. From there, her fingers slid down to run along the raked array of scar tissue over her forehead, brow, and cheek. Straight and lightly puckered lines that ran counter to her skin's striping and gouged a pair of no-man's-land ruts through her eyebrow, forcing the blonde hairs to grow in broken patches. From there, she followed along to her ear, feeling the ugly terminus where the cartilage had been docked. It gave Untaaura's face a distinctive asymmetry, and one she'd had to stare at for three years. Sure, there were officers' medical benefits that would have paid for reconstructive surgery. She could have had the cartilage and skin cloned back - or at least had convincing prosthetic work done.

For one reason or another, she hadn't. There were things to be regretful for, and an ugly face didn't rate that high.

[Arnan Jsorra]

The door hissed open, and Arnan Jsorra entered, attention focused on the open binder of flimsis in his hands. It seemed like distraction, but it was an act, carefully crafted to ensure that he never so much as glimpsed what his patients might have been doing before he entered. It wasn't that he expected them to be doing something embarrassing, but it felt important to give them that moment of transition between who they were and what they did in private, and what they chose to bring to the session with them. While yes, it was his job to see past whatever barriers and obstacles his patients placed between the outside world and the true nature of their issues, it was vitally important that everything discussed and discovered was shared voluntarily: the thin but essential dividing line between a psychoanalyst and a psychotherapist.

He walked the familiar paces up the edge of his office, sweeping around the back of his desk and depositing himself gracefully into his chair. The binder was set down, and moments were spent collecting himself, retrieving a datapad from the locked drawer of his desk, rifling through a cylindrical container for a stylus that felt right - all a silent invitation for his patient to spend the same moments readying herself as well. At last he looked up, settling his attention on the Cizerack woman who graced the periphery of his office.

Untaaura Verratoa.

Arnan was familiar with her file, of course. He was familiar with the files of all of his patients, as well as any that the Alliance and Cizerack militaries designated as Officers of Possible Concern. For the most part, psychotherapy was voluntary - though readily available - for members of the Alliance, and only in the most severe cases was it made mandatory. Even so, command officers still kept tabs on those they thought might potentially need or benefit from it, and Arnan did his part to be ready and prepared in case they did. Most of his patients were seen during scheduled appointments, but a few dropped by on a whim, visiting in moments of difficulty or moments of determination to seek help: in such moments, Arnan needed to be as prepared as he could be, in the hopes that a positive first experience might lead to more.

Major Verratoa was a new addition to that list, freshly arrived on the station from a posting with the Jedi settlement on Ossus, and scheduled for a routine evaluation before beginning her duties here on the station. Her file was different to many of the others Arnan was acquainted with; the more contributions the various Alliance races made towards the crew of Jovan Station, the more variety he found in the style and detail of psychological records. Different priorities for different cultures, he supposed.

As soon as Untaaura returned Arnan's attention, he offered the smallest of smiles.

"Make yourself comfortable," he offered, in a tuneful Jedha accent, arbitrarily skimming over a flimsi or two before grabbing his datapad and wheeling on his chair out from behind the desk towards the seating area. His stylus fidgeted in his fingers, body leaning comfortably back into his seat, leg hitched up across his lap as a makeshift stand for his datapad. He quickly scrawled the patient's name across the top of a blank screen, sensors in the datapad converting his scratchings into digital aurebesh sigils. A faint thoughtful frown tugged at his brow. "Would you prefer Major, or Saarrda'rrou?"

[Untaaura Verratoa]

Did all doctors always enter a room and spend a solid minute with their eyes on a chart? It seemed to be a practice that knew no cultural boundary. Doctors at the Veteran's hospital on Cana'darri did it. Alliance doctors apparently did it. Untaaura imagined that if she got gravpaddle elbow on Coruscant, her stuffy-accented Imperial doctor would dawdle in her face for at least a minute before telling her the verdict. It felt like an interrogation tactic, and she knew what effects soft tactics like that could have on a subject. The wariness crept into her posture, freezing her tail mid-sway until it bounced with a series of apprehensive twitches.

Fortunately, the good doctor seemed to think she'd suffered enough. Now to make herself comfortable. Well, of course there was a couch situated directly opposite the desk. Plush, but not luxuriant. Long enough so that one could sit or lie as the feeling grabbed them. Making herself comfortable was all relative here. Frankly, the most comfortable thing would be to get all this over with, pass her psych eval, and get back to work. Still, Untaaura figured that the only way to make this worse would be to complain and prolong the ordeal, so she took a seat direct center on the couch, eschewing either side and the consolation of an arm rest. Boots shoulder width, hands on knees. The Royal Marines even taught you how to sit. You just didn't realize they did until it was overwritten in your genetic code. Untaaura only broke protocol momentarily, smoothing the the blond shock of high and tight fade to her scalp. Her hands returned to her knees.

"Majorr jiss fjine."

The doctor's accent was unusual, and Untaaura's ears perked at the hard dissonance on the consonants. She wasn't exactly an expert on human speech, but she'd considered the tidy timbre of Coreward humans to be the galactic default. Beyond that, it all fell into soup. There were nearly as many human dialects of basic as there were stars. Even the Pride couldn't escape their own flavor, thanks to Syragor. She wondered what far-off world this doctor came from, and if his medical accreditation was on the up. Okay, so maybe that was a bit much. Still, she didn't want to be here any longer than she had to be.

"jI can't ssmoke jin herre, can jI?"

She already had the answer guessed. This office was too nice, the smell of the place too clean, and she didn't see an ash tray in sight. Whoever said it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, it wasn't a marine. They'd call and repeat up the chain of command for a square of paper to wipe their own ass.

[Arnan Jsorra]

A small nudge of impulse sent the chair wheeling a few feet across the room, inertia carrying it within arm's reach of a waist high cylindrical storage tower. Compartments swung out via rotation, pivoting on an axis that ran concealed through the framework on the front right side. Arnan had found it fascinating when he'd seen the images in the requisition catalogue, but quickly found the circular draw-like storage buckets to be deeply impractical: sheets of flimsi were too big, and circles were hardly the optimum storage medium for anything solid.

It had become a repository for odds and ends, two of which he retrieved before returning to the heart of the room. A small table was retrieved along the way, intended by design for mugs of caf or the like, but appropriated in this instance as a stand for his oddities. He placed one, an ashtray, beside the other: a compact air filtration unit, largely defined by a wide ring-shaped intake fan that used rotating magnetic fields rather than moving blades to draw air into the unit. He switched it on, the device humming to life and rattling ever so slightly against the table's wooden surface, before settling back into his reclined stance once more.

The stylus fidgeted in his fingers once more, the subtlest of hints at why Arnan was so prepared for such a request.

He left the invitation remain unspoken, another moment of quiet passing before he said anything more. Words were important. What patients said, and how they chose to say it were often equally important: a turn of phrase here could hint at a sobconscious interpretation there. Communication was rooted in perception, and how a patient perceived themselves and their experiences was often at the heart of their psychological struggles.

"I saw in your file that you're transferring in from Ossus, having spent time with the Jedi refugees, and that you actively sought your assignment here. Why was that? Were you choosing to move away from Ossus, or towards this assignment?"

[Untaaura Verratoa]

The Major hadn't expected him to go the extra mile. Maybe she'd been at a duty station too long. Was this guy a civilian? Either way, the mindfulness and hospitality didn't go unappreciated.

"Thankss." she gave a curt nod of her head before slipping a beaten pack of smokes from her jacket pocket. She tipped the whole pack to her lips, withdrawing with a single cigarette snugged to her lower lip by the filter. A clean pass from a pen lighter and Untaaura pocketed everything, drawing a sharp intake of breath before exhaling two neat lines of smoke from her nose that instantly dissipated into the portable filter.

For the sake of keeping her filthy habit tidy, Untaaura shifted her seating position to lean in a little close, propping elbows on her knees instead of hands.

"A ljittle bjit of both. Ourr mjisssjion on Osssuss wass to asssjisst the Alljiance cjivjil engjineerrss jin the consstrructjion of modularr dorrmjitorrjiess and facjiljitjiess at thejirr Ssanctuarrjy ssettlement. When that asssjignment ended, jI wass gjiven veterran'ss prreferrence. Could've gone back to a galleon battaljion, but jI wanted ssomethjing elsse."

[Arnan Jsorra]

"A construction assignment?"

Arnan's response came with just the right amount of interest: not so much that he seemed surprised, or probing, but enough to keep it a case of casual intrigue rather than objective assessment. Untaaura's file described her as smart and insightful; she'd likely pick up on it if he was being disingenuous.

"That's not a typical sort of assignment for a member of the Royal Marines."

The especially not one with your service record was left unsaid. The Major was a decorated veteran, and you didn't need to see her service record to realise that she was tough as nails. Granted, Ossus was - as far as Arnan's vague awareness went, at least - a dangerous sort of place, and there was too much Jedha in Arnan's bones for him to overlook the potential significance of defending the last surviving light side champions of the Force of Others; whether honour-bound or duty-bound, Arnan didn't doubt that Untaaura saw her time on Ossus as important, from some combination of a political, spiritual, and tactical perspective. But how did she feel about it being her sent to defend them, and not some less valuable member of the Marines?

"Are you glad to be away from there, or do you think you'll miss it?"

[Untaaura Verratoa]

"Well, tjypjical jiss grround combat and hosstjile sstarrsshjip boarrdjing actjion." she conceded with a nod, tapping the graying edge of her cigarette along the ashtray rim. "But we'rre engjineerrss ssecond. jIf therre'ss a rragjing rrjiverr between jyou and jyourr enemjy, jyou need a brrjidge beforre jyou can fjight them."

Untaaura's stumped ear flicked as she inclined her head to keep eye contact. "Garrrjisson barrrackss, forrtjifjicatjionss, sschoolss and clean waterr forr the local jindjigenouss jyou want to keep on jyourr ssjide, that ssorrt of thjing. Offjicerrss have to majintajin an engjineerrjing prrofjicjiencjy. Ourr trrooperrss carrrjy out the tassk, perrforrm manual laborr and sso forrth."

The next question came with what felt like a natural progression. The Major leaned back, still keeping her cigarette hand draped over her knee and close to the filter.

"jIt wass a good posst. Pleassant envjirronment, good weatherr, and a frrjiendljy populatjion morre orr lesss. jIt'ss good to drraw dutjy ljike that frrom tjime to tjime, but jit'ss no place forr a Marrjine once the sspannerrss arre put up. jIt'ss ljike jyou sajid, that'ss not the tjypjical ssorrt of asssjignment."

She hadn't quite answered the question fully, and Untaaura paused to draw again from her cigarette.

"Wjill jI mjisss jit? No. What would jI do jif jI went back? jIt'ss not a place forr ssomeone ljike me."

[Arnan Jsorra]

Such a simple answer held such a wealth of information. Someone like me spoke volumes; and were this a proper session, Arnan would have delved into that, slowly unraveling the spiral of thoughts that led down to the route of why it came so naturally for Untaaura to verbally exclude herself in such a way. Was it merely a soldier's mentality? A damaged veteran? A comment her lack of Force ability, distancing herself from those for whom the settlement on Ossus was constructed?

He fought the urge to make notes to that effect: truth be told the stylus and datapad were unnecessary, his eidetic memory was more than sufficient to recall the details of this session in hindsight; the datapad was more for show, a physical representation to the patient that Arnan was engaged, paying attention to their words, taking note of that which they felt was noteworthy. To physically record everything led to paranoia. How would Untaaura react to the sight of him scribbling down words that she had uttered with indifference? That flame fueled itself; it did not require Arnan to douse it with rhydonium.

"Many would say that Jovan Station is not a typical assignment either," Arnan replied, a brief pause to respect the answer that Untaaura had provided before engaging with the earlier part of her response.

It was quite the understatement: seldom did you find such a diversity of races, cultures, and backgrounds living and working together in such confined conditions; and when you did, you were usually standing in the dark and corroded slums of Coruscant and Nar Shaddaa, not amid the brightness and technology of Jovan Station and it's cultural cocktail blend. It could be jarring for the Major on a number of levels: artificial confines instead of open space and natural air; a further step beyond the comfortable Cizerocentricity of the Carshoulis Cluster; but it was Untauura's own words that Arnan focused on, his emotive brows knitting together momentarily as he contemplated what her response might be.

"If the Jaani'sarri are soldiers first and engineers second, where does this assignment rank on that scale? Recent events notwithstanding, soldiering and engineering are not skills you will be called upon to use on a daily basis. Are you prepared for that? Why do you think this assignment requires a veteran of your particular pedigree?"

[Untaaura Verratoa]

Busying her hands, the Major tilted her cigarette along the ashtray's rim, trimming the wooly frayed ash before returning for another draw.

"Therre arre a lot of ejyess on uss out herre. Afterr the Ta'u saai Fey'danna attack, farr morre of them. The Rrojyal Commandant rrecalled Majorr Iniirraahe forr herr fajilurre to keep the peace. Therre jiss no marrgjin forr errrorr, because Jovan jiss a ssjymbol of ourr Alljiance, and jitss a ssjymbol we jintend to prresserrve."

Untaaura's jaw tensed. She put on a small and tight smile, for show if anything.

"jI don't ljike to be told what can't be done. jI come frrom a worrld of tall mountajinss. jIf jyou wanted rresspect, jyou had to learrn how to cljimb them frrom a jyoung age."

[Arnan Jsorra]

Arnan frowned a little at her response. What he'd intended as an implication that she was overqualified had been transformed into a suggestion that she wasn't right for the task, or up to the challenge. A subconscious projection, perhaps. Addressing concerns she felt herself before they had the opportunity to be voiced by others.

"Does that make you a symbol as well, then?"

The doctor didn't continue right away, the question having escaped him in a form that didn't quite capture his point adequately. He drew in a pondering breath, and tried again.

"You're talking about having a lot of eyes on you, about there being no margin for error, and about the importance of symbols and appearance. That, to me, does not sound like someone who believes she is here because of her abilities, but rather because of how she believes her abilities will be perceived by the public. That is a flattering reflection on your service record, sure enough, and undeniably perceptions are important -"

He trailed off, shifting in his chair towards a more conventional posture, allowing him to lean a little closer and more conversationally towards Untaaura. The faintest hint of vapour from her smokes toyed at his nostrils; he tried not to enjoy it too much.

"That doesn't sound very satisfying or engaging for you, though. You strike me as the sort of person who derives satisfaction from getting things done; from climbing the mountain, from overcoming the challenge. The biggest downside to being placed on a pedestal by others is that it can move those satisfying opportunities too far out of reach."

[Untaaura Verratoa]

He'd framed a question difficult enough for Untaaura to not immediately notice that he'd crept close to her personal space. It was also a question she had faced before, when she'd asked herself that very same thing. Was she coming or going? She'd made it through the sieges. She'd survived numerous boarding actions against pirates on open space lanes. After that? The billet on Ossus and Jovan were more symbol than function. She wasn't establishing a beach head. She wasn't storming an objective. Success in both places required intangibles beyond her control to align, in addition to whatever she brought to the table. Was she hoping to move up the chain? Get her own regiment? Division?

"Mjy people arren't compelled to sseek thejirr forrtuness bejyond the motherr worrldss, well, not bejyond ssjimpljy trravelljing to a worrld to trrade. No explorrerr trradjitjionss, no colonjial ambjitjionss. The bjillet on Osssuss wass, forr nearrljy all of uss, the farrthesst we'd trravelled frrom home. jIt took a lot out of mjy marrjiness. Took jit'ss toll on focuss, on morrale. Therre werre djisscjipljine challengess. jI met them. jI kept mjy battaljion jin check sso that we completed the mjisssjion, no matterr how farr frrom home we werre."

Untaaura gaveled out her cigarette, leaving a crimped butt in the ashtray.

"The djifferrence between therre and herre? New marrjiness. The challenge jiss to rrepeat the ssame orrdeal, jin a hjigherr prresssurre envjirronment. Low jintenssjitjy enforrcement, hjigh vjigjilance, and prrecjissjion engagement when called forr. jInsstead of homessjick marrjiness hammerrjing najilss, mjy marrjiness now have to keep a closse ejye out forr trrouble that majy offerr no warrnjing."

The Major leaned back on her seat, no longer tethered by her cigarette and finding the Doctor's proximity to be a little close without that common reason.

"But majybe jI ljike the djisstance. Therre'ss ssomethjing ljiberratjing about bejing that farr awajy frrom jit all."

[Arnan Jsorra]

He'd spoken of reach, and she'd turned it into distance. She found commonality with her marines over their mutual discomfort with that distance, and then ripped it away with herself. For some, making a mountain of their work was an unnecessary burden, but for Untaaura it seemed essential, and now that she had conquered her last mountain, she planned to stand atop it and encourage her new subordinates to climb up towards her. It fit with the profile, and the testimonials from prior commanders that Arnan had read: a stern authoritarian, one with unwavering expectations who her soldiers were unwise fall short of. It played into what Arnan could see before him as well: the reluctance toward proximity, the untreated scars worn as armour; more of that distance she claimed to like.

It was a common trait for officers. Distance was a fortification, separating yourself from those whose lives your decisions might affect, or merely using the gulf as a differentiation to help ensure a desired kind of protocol and propriety. Often, officers strove to be respected rather than liked, and the distinction between the two was important. You obeyed those you respected; you questioned those you liked. From what little Arnan knew and understood about the Jaani'sarri, it sounded like a fairly standard practise; but then the same was true of almost every military that Arnan had encountered. Some things just seemed to transcend beyond the boundaries of species and culture, it seemed.

She hadn't answered though, not really. Much had been said, but she hadn't addressed the heart of it: she had framed this assignment as a challenge, yes, and expressed her determination to overcome it; but would that provide satisfaction? Would the objective achievements she set for herself feel like worthwhile subjective ones? Or, was this all a recipe for disaster? Would she apply the same techniques that made her an effective military leader to being a leader of this Jovan community, addressing the station's delicate problems with a hammer and a boot rather than a thought and a word?

There was something more to it, though. Something subtle, something nagging. Liberating. She'd referred to being away from the Cluster as liberating, and yet moments before she had spoken about how the Cizerack lacked the desire to roam and explore. What was it she felt liberated from, then? If she saw herself as apart from that culture of isolationism, then why join the Jaani'sarri? Why become part of an institution that upheld and exemplified an attitude you didn't feel part of? It didn't track. Something else, then. The notion of running towards or running away entered his thoughts once more. Was there something in her past that she was running from? Something that had transpired, perhaps on Ossus or elsewhere, that drove her towards the Alliance and its different approaches to command, culture, and integration? Or was this distance merely a buffer, a barrier keeping people out of view of something she didn't want them to see?

"You've come a long way, and to an odd place, if your hope is to be on your own," he observed, mirroring Untaaura's retreat and settling back into his chair. He shrugged, a hand waved towards the doorway as a gesture at the entire station that lay beyond. "And the other Cizerack on the station have brought as much of the Cluster with them as they possibly could. You might find that you've not gained as much distance as you'd like."

[Untaaura Verratoa]

"jI've earrned asss much asss jI can carrrjy."

Cryptic and incomplete, but Untaaura was starting to feel the boundaries in her responses. With her hands back to her knees, the Major resisted the urge to probe the fabric of her officer's jodhpurs with claws. She needed a fixation. Something to focus her thoughts.

"jI went back to Taltjimant, mjy home, afterr medjical rreleasse frrom the Thalasssjian Ssjiegess. jI wanted to be back therre morre than anjythjing, but when jI got therre..."

Untaaura's eyes tracked to the ceiling, as if she was trying to stitch out a thought in the tiles above.

"...everrjythjing wass the wajy jI rrememberred jit, but jI wassn't the wajy jI ussed to be."

[Arnan Jsorra]

It was a common observation for people to make: that they had changed, and the places they once belonged no longer seemed to fit them. Everyone went through it to some degree, whether as a result of trauma, or loss, or simply from growing and evolving as an individual. But to say as much, for Arnan to state such an observation in response to hers, held no value. True, there was solace to be found in understanding that your struggles were no different from the struggles of others: it served to lessen any alienation you might feel, and perhaps to open your mind to the possibility that there were those out there with whom such burdens could be shared. There were other struggles however where that knowledge did nothing. Learning that others struggled the same way that you did could push you inwards, potential empathy replaced with a desire not to burden others with more than they were dealing with. It could lead to self doubt, and self detriment, condemning yourself for struggling inwardly where others did not seem to outwardly.

"Is that a bad thing?"

Arnan presented a challenge instead, something to appeal to the warrior nature of his patient.

"Most sentient beings crave the feeling of 'home', but it is a concept that varies wildly, not just between cultures but within them as well. Home may where you are from, but it can also be where you are now. It can be a place, a people, a state of mind. In common parlance, we go 'home' at the end of a day, separating our personal selves from our public selves. A human might tell you that home is where the heart is. Another might tell you that home is wherever you hang your hat. Every understanding is different, and all of them are equally right: we can choose to define it in whatever way best suits our needs."

His face shrugged, though his shoulders remained stationary.

"Taltimant no longer feels like home, because you have changed. You say that as if you are at fault. Perhaps the fault lies with Talimant, and the fact that it no longer serves the definition of 'home' that you require."

[Untaaura Verratoa]

"Ssome of the fault doess."

Untaaura closed her eyes, dipping her head so that she could run her hands up each side of her face. Her hands lowered, and she sighed, giving herself permission to lean back against the couch far enough for her back to touch the cushion.

"jI knew when jI was jyoung that therre wass ssomethjing djifferrent about me. Mjy parrentss jusst thought jI wass sshjy, djidn't make frrjiendss eassjiljy, thjingss ljike that. jI ussed to thjink jI djid ssomethjing wrrong. The prroblem wjith Taltimant djidn't happen untjil jI rrealjized therre wassn't anjythjing wrrong wjith me."

She swallowed hard.

"Then jI jojined the Marrjiness and went to Thalasssjia."

[Arnan Jsorra]

None of what Untaaura said was news to Arnan, and she must have understood that: after all, the specifics of her career history were documented in her file, and the Major must have known he would have familiarised himself with it before speaking to her. Yet, the way in which she presented the information was not nearly as basic or meaningless as one might presume. It was a first step in leading somewhere else, yes, but it was more to it than that.

Arnan considered her words carefully. Many cultures believed that understanding where you had come from was essential to understanding yourself; and such was a cornerstone of many branches of psychology. Arnan had suggested that the Major's time away had been what altered her relationship with her homeworld, but here, Untaaura described that shift as happening before she left, as coming as the result of some insight or better understanding of herself. Her parents had thought of her as an introvert, but Untaaura had come to realise that her reticence and difficulty in forming bonds and attachments with her childhood peers had come from somewhere else. That could have meant anything, from sociopathy to sexuality, and a spectrum of alternatives between. Perhaps that was something the Major would feel comfortable exploring more in time. For now, however, it seemed like her intended narrative needed to progress forwards.

"Thalassia was where you were injured, yes?"

It was a blunt question, but delivered delicately. Scars, particularly those that significantly impacted a person's appearance, could be a potent source of discomfort and ongoing trauma. Yet, there were ways for such things to be treated and corrected, and the Major wore hers like a badge of pride. She had to know it would draw attention, and raise questions; Arnan took a gamble, hoping it was an indication that the Major was prepared to address the curiosity her medical choices inspired.

[Untaaura Verratoa]

The way the Doctor said it sounded so matter-of-fact. Thalassia was where you were injured, like it was grav paddle elbow. That jarring disconnect wasn't novel or new by any degree, and Untaaura didn't expect a civilian like Doctor Jsorra to have a word or words for it that fit. Shit, she herself barely did. There was a fetid stew in her head of words and fragments, but no matter how many times she dipped the spoon, the alphabet soup never came out looking right. There was always that feeling of despair of living in a bubble, cut off from your tribe by a language barrier that hadn't existed the day before.

She smoothed her shock of hair over with the blade of her hand.

"Kassujyehrr vallejy. We werre jinsserrted to prrovoke a ssusspected battaljion of Thalasssjian jirregularrss jinto attackjing, to gjive awajy thejirr possjitjion."

Untaaura rested the tips of her fingers against the surface of the table between them, slowly spreading them open.

"We advanced, each companjy openjing forrmatjion between each otherr to conceal ourr full forrce frrom ljine of ssjight obsserrvatjion. The jidea bejing that thejy mjight bloodjy one of them up, but not beforre everrjyone elsse clossess on top of them."

The Major paused in the telling, her eyes fixed on her fingers.

"Ourr numberr came up. That'ss jit. But jit wassn't one battaljion of enemjy, jit wass thrree. Sjixteen hundrred Thalasssjianss agajinst one hundrred twelve of uss on a horrssesshoe rrjidge."

A tremor started to form in her hand, and Untaaura quickly withdrew it to her lap, covering it with her other hand. She shook her head.

"jI sshouldn't be aljive."

[Arnan Jsorra]

Survivor's guilt. Post traumatic stress. Without a doubt, they were woven into the fibres of Untaaura's being. Yet, in this galaxy, in this day and age, you would be hard pressed to find a veteran where that wasn't true - particularly within the Alliance of Free Planets. On one of the inner worlds, in one of the fashionable and more civilized corners of the Core or the Colonies, the role of a psychotherapist such as himself would be to diagnose, to identify those who had problems and pull them from circulation so that they could be treated in a proper and thorough way. The Alliance of Free Planets did not have that luxury: even in the wake of the Treaty, the Alliance was so desperately starved of trained and experienced officers that declaring someone unfit for active duty could have a devastating impact. There were no luxury clinics where troubled officers could spend a few peaceful months of rehabilitation. There was no vast pool of underlings and alternatives ready to be switched out and slotted into place. There were no easier roles, or easier postings for Untaaura to be weened back to full service in a gradual way. The soldiers of the Alliance were the same as their starfighters: find a work-around, attach it with a few rolls of mesh tape, and hope for the best.

Before one could jury rig a solution however, one had to identify it. Guilt and trauma were symptoms. They were a loss of power in the thrusters, or sluggishness in the flight controls. You could calibrate and compensate, but if you didn't find a way to repair or address the underlying fault, it was only a matter of time before the situation grew worse, perhaps beyond the point of no return.

For Untaaura, the symptoms were clear, but they could be interpreted a number of ways. I shouldn't be alive. She felt guilty, unworthy of her survival compared to the hundred and eleven other soldiers. Given her tone, and mannerisms, she seemed to have internalised the blame for that, rather than ascribing it to the enemies who'd attacked, or the superiors who'd dangled them as bait. That was common within the military: superiors needed to be seen as above reproach, and there was often an unspoken respect for their counterparts on the other side of a conflict, an understanding that their obedience to commander and to country and their willingness to sacrifice themselves for that cause was something both sides had in common.

But there was more to it, something that Untaaura wasn't saying. A fuel line leaking over the compartment bay, obscuring the dangerous crack in the engine housing beneath. She was factual. Almost too factual. Hiding behind numbers, and terminology, compartmentalising the deaths of so many as the expected and justified loss of a unit. Arnan kept his voice gentle, and chose his words carefully.

"You must have lost a lot of friends that day. People you were close to."

[Untaaura Verratoa]

Untaaura remained silent on that question for a while. She wet her dry lips. She fussed her hair into order again. She blinked a few times, pointedly looking away from the Doctor as her breath deepened. At one point she tried to smooth it away with a smile, but it became a grimace. Another deep breath. A shaky release on the exhale. Her chest rose and fell deeply, and she swallowed hard. Only now did she look back in Jsorra's eyes. Untaaura's own were showing the onset of a swollen flush.

"jYeah. jI losst a lot of marrjiness that dajy. Forrtjy-two KjIA. Thjirrtjy wounded. Sjixteen of them, jI'd come up wjith all the wajy frrom Cana'darri. Offjicerr corrpss, a few of 'em. The bojyss, mosst of 'em, asss ussual. Thejy alwajyss took the worrsst."

The sudden sting of triggered emotion had subsided into an aching numb.

"jI losst mjy besst frrjiend therre. We'd come up togetherr back home, grrown up, decjided Taltjimant wass too ssmall forr uss and...and went jinto the Corrpss. We werre sso rreadjy to go."

She smiled, ears rising at the thought.

"At the top of the mountajin, overr the whole worrld, rreadjy to kjick asss becausse nothjing could sstop uss."

[Arnan Jsorra]

More numbers. More terminology. More hiding behind the language and detachment of military nomenclature. Even when she deviated from that, she held her fallen comrades at a distance. The boys. It took Arnan a moment to remind himself of the role in society and the military that fell to male Cizerack. They always took the worst. It was a rationalisation, a justification, an assertion of the way that things were and were supposed to be.

But then her emotions faltered, and her language slipped. A best friend. Not a colleague, not a comrade, not a fellow officer: a friend, one who'd known her since her life on Taltimant, and one who shared her choices and experiences. Arnan contemplated such a relationship from a distance, a critical mind weighing the kind of effect that the loss of such a bond might have on a person. It was another common trend across the species, that people often formed a special bond with one person in particular - a friend, a sibling, a mentor - that transcended beyond the conventional definitions of such relationships. For many of Arnan's military patients, it was a wingman, a bunkmate, or a CO whose leadership had struck a particular chord - and often those relationships were surrogates, forged in the wake of the loss of a relative or loved one who had been ripped away by the war with the Empire. Others struggled with that absence, unable to bring themselves to replace a vital relationship that to them seemed unreplaceable. Arnan counted himself in the latter category, languishing here on Jovan Station while his elder brother indulged a suicidal desire to keep fighting the good fight in the grimy streets of Corellia. He understood firsthand how difficult that absence was to deal with, and in his case his brother was - he hoped - still alive out there, somewhere. He understood how difficult it was to give yourself permission to let go of a past relationship like that, and how it could feel like a betrayal to allow yourself to forge that kind of relationship with someone new.

Arnan forced himself to take a step backwards, detaching himself from the comparison before he allowed too much empathy to set in. While his ability to understand and empathise with the thoughts and emotions of his patients was an essential part of his job, it was also a dangerous pitfall. His patients looked to him to be objective, to be clinical and critical in the way he analysed and assessed their struggles and demons. While there was value in Untaaura learning that her pain was not unique, and that her ongoing struggles were not a malfunction that set her apart from the rest of sentient life, such things were the foundation of the kind of relationship that she needed to forge anew. Arnan's task was not to say the words that would make Untaaura feel better, or to provide her with the comfort she required: it was to guide her to a better understanding of her thoughts and feelings, so that she could find that comfort and those words within herself, or in others.

"It must be difficult, losing someone who understood you so well," he stated gently, offering it up as an undeniable fact so that it would not be a show of weakness if Untaaura were to agree. "We often project ourselves into those close to us, and regard their perception of us as a welcome replacement for our own self-opinion. When you grow to rely on that outside perspective to help define your sense of self, it can seem impossible to understand who you are without it."

He paused, and observed for a silent moment, watching the Major's thoughts and emotions play out across her features.

"If your friend were here, what is it you would want to hear them say?"

[Untaaura Verratoa]

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

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

"jI..."

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

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

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

[Arnan Jsorra]

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

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

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

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

He hesitated.

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

[Untaaura Verratoa]

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

"Okajy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Arnan Jsorra]

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

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

"There is a poem."

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

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

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

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

His brow furrowed as a small breath left him.

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

[Untaaura Verratoa]

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

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

Untaaura raised her head.

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

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

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

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

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

[Arnan Jsorra]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Untaaura Verratoa]

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

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

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

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

She gestured to her docked right ear.

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

[Arnan Jsorra]

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

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

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