Chapter Text
~When not even the galaxy itself has your back~
SOLDIERS OF THE FUTURE, WE NEED YOU!
ARE YOU A PROUD CITIZEN OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS STARLIGHT FEDERATION? ARE YOU IN SEARCH OF A WAY TO PROVE YOUR LOYALTY TO OUR BELOVED EMPIRE? IF YOU’RE A STUDENT BETWEEN THE AGES OF 17 AND 25 YOU MIGHT QUALIFY FOR A POSITION AT STARBORNE ACADEMY, OFFICIAL PILOTING SCHOOL OF THE STARLIGHT DEFENSE.
ENLIST TODAY!
- Newspaper Advertisement, The Daily Nova, 40xx
I’ve always hated the West Wing. 
I hate its towering ceilings that turn even the faintest sound into an echoing shriek. I hate its aluminum walls, frigid to the touch and blindingly bright in their ivory sheen. Most of all I hate the memories it holds, how they linger overhead in a thick, suffocating fog. Every minute spent traversing the dreaded corridor is a minute I yearned to be anywhere else in the universe, perhaps a timeline where I’d chosen a simpler path in life as a farmer or mechanic. Hell, maybe even continuing the family coffee business (as horrible as that would be). To be honest pretty much any career would be less nerve-wracking than working as a pilot for the Starlight Defense (in training, that is). But Dean Victoria was already generous enough to give me another shot, the last thing I had the right to do was complain. So as any good soldier would I shut my mouth and sucked it up, boot heels clicking against the metal grates in a melodic march to my doom.
As much as I loathe the hallway itself, reaching the end is always the worst part. The double doors loomed over me in a cruel taunt as if to question why I bothered to return another day— I often found myself asking the very same thing.
Deep breaths Tweek, this is nothing new. Stop being a wuss.
Swiping a card reader is pretty hard when the growing tremor in your hands makes even holding your student ID an undertaking, but after a couple failed attempts the machine finally let out that satisfying beep . With a metallic clunk that sent shivers through the walls the door slid open and gave way to the place where it all happens, the crowing achievement of Starborne Academy: the Hangar. Despite my history with the place I gotta admit, it’s basically every aspiring pilot’s dream: spaceships soaring in and out like a swarm of silver-clad insects, every inch of the walls adorned with intricate maps and star charts, and most impressive of all, a breathtaking view of nearby galaxies in all their vibrant splendor. My first time stepping foot in the place can only be described as magical; it was as if the vivid descriptions of the cosmos detailed to me every night as a kid were painted across the sky, illustrations of pop-up picture books and late-night bedtime stories leaping to life right above my head. Back then when things were still exhilarating, when just the thought of manning my own ship was enough to make me giddy. Two years and too many mistakes later, the place only made my stomach churn. Nothing like being one slip-up away from expulsion to turn a once-beloved spot into a factory of anxiety.
I weaved my way through the crowd of students hustling to and fro, head pointed at the ground in my best effort to avoid eye contact at all costs. Thankfully most people have better things to do than glare at the school freak, but the few glances I got were enough to poke holes in my already deflated spirit. Contempt, annoyance, even the occasional look of pity; each pair of eyes was a fresh dagger to the back. Though, it wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to. Word travels fast in academies as small and elitist as Starborne. Halfway through my first year I was already known as the guy who’d fucked up more missions than most people get assigned. Of course this wasn’t entirely true, otherwise I’d have been kicked out ages ago, but pompous assholes love to exaggerate the truth. If you ask me they were all counting down the days until I finally got the boot.
Suddenly a leg stuck out from the tangle of limbs, breaking me out of my thoughts and nearly sending me face-first into the floor. Luckily the tight packing of students was enough to keep me from a major spill (though not without earning another handful of disdainful glares from the victims of my flailing arms). From behind I heard a snicker, or more accurately the snorts of a sickly animal. Eric Cartman. Figures. Most of my peers pretend I don’t exist but not Cartman, no, dominance was his drug and screw-ups like me were the lighter. In that moment there was nothing I wanted to do more than tackle him to the floor and pummel him until he burst; the guy may be big, built like a boulder with his stout frame and scale-shattering weight, but I could take him. I have before. Unfortunately for me he wasn’t the one on thin ice right now. Getting into another fight would definitely squeeze out any last drop of goodwill the Dean held toward me, and he knew that. Cartman may be a grade-A douche but he’s also one of the best pilots in the force. Not as good as Kevin mind you but still pretty damn good. Surprisingly strategic and craftier than a fox, the guy's skill set was hand-tailored for a place like this. He had the uncanny ability to flip through emotions like he was picking them off a menu, not to mention his knack for sucking up to authority. No way a guy like that would ever get in trouble with the staff. A guy like me would be expelled instantly. Unfair yes, but that’s just the way things are. Those who can flow with the tides will rise to the top. And those who don’t? Well, we’re lucky if we can stay afloat.
“You’re late.”
I winced as a pair of dark brown eyes bore into mine, cutting off all escape routes. “I know, sorry Jason.”
Jason White: roommate, assigned co-pilot, and one of the few people at school who actually talks to me. Though I wouldn’t go as far as to say we’re friends, more like he tolerates my presence for the sake of getting his diploma. In fact, he’d been especially pissy as of late since my repeated blunders had gotten us saddled with the “lame jobs”, shit like deliveries and maintenance checks. In the wise words of Eric Cartman, “Can’t trust a spaz with anything important.”
“You left the dorms before me Tweek, how are you still late?” he continued. Without waiting for an answer he turned his back and headed off toward our ship. Reluctantly I followed.
“It was an accident, I swear! I took a detour to the assignment room to double-check the mission and-”
“You’re supposed to have it memorized by now.” Irritation flickered at the edges of his tone, like the only thing holding back a harsher response was the fact that we were stuck with each other for the next few years.
“I do, promise! It’s just that I wanted to- I thought it would be best if-” I scoured my brain for an answer that wouldn't sound like complete bullshit but nothing came to mind. It shouldn't have been hard, I was telling the truth after all. A week of sleepless nights, 3 whole bags of maximum-strength coffee beans, and a pack of now-dried highlighters went into drilling every little detail into my mind. Just take a look at my print-outs, whose margins were a mess of hastily scrawled notes and hand-drawn diagrams that even the biggest over-preparer would find unnecessary. All that work and for what? To be seen as dead weight by everyone around me?
“Sure you do Tweek. Sure you do.” Guess that answers that.
The walk over was awkward as all hell. Talking was out of the question, he’d made that crystal clear, so my choices boiled down to continuing my staring contest with the floor or fixing my eyes on his back in hopes that it’d make him hate me less. Fortunately I didn’t have to make that decision, before long a looming hunk of metal came into view: our ship. While enrolled at Starborne each pair of students is gifted the same standardized training cruiser, only distinguishable by the unique serial number plastered on its side. Long and metallic with a rich blue hue, the shape can only be described as boxy aside from its protruding tail and nose slanted into a dull point. Four rickety legs elevated the thing just high enough for a person to walk under (given they’re crouching) and enter through a hatch in the bottom. Completing the look was our serial “1906” scrawled across the outer wall in gaudy orange paint.
If I’m being honest? They’re kinda shit. You’d think such a respected school would have top-of-the-line equipment but the ships feel more like cheap hand-me-downs than anything else. My theory is that the higher-ups weren’t willing to break the bank for a bunch of cadets so they decided to work with what they had. A bucket of orange paint and some leftover Era-3 ships later and boom: “new” academy fleet. Of course, I would never say this out loud; people already think I’m enough of a loon, throwing “paranoid conspiracy theorist” into the mix wouldn’t help… even if it is sorta true. Anyways, despite all its shortcomings I had a soft spot for the ole’ thing. It was my first ship, the first step to the rest of my life! To unlocking those picture-book worlds that lit up my childhood. In the beginning I wanted to name it, a little personal touch if you will, but Jason said that was dumb. “Once we’re outta here we’ll have a real ship! Something better than this pile of scrap metal.” Even now those words would ring through my head. Sometimes I missed the feeling of having a friend.
With a swipe of his card the hatch creaked open and we clambered up the ladder. At Starborne your ID is your lifeline; without one you can barely get into classrooms much less your ship. Needless to say I’ve lost mine so many times that the woman at the help desk no longer asks what I’m there for when I pay her a visit. 
The inside of our spacecraft was nothing special either, essentially one long room plus a bathroom in the back. Upon entering you’re immediately greeted by stacks of boxes housing assorted clutter: rocks I collected from various planets, homework assignments long overdue, wrinkled brochures from every pitstop I’d ever visited— you name it we had it. Jason’s always said I’m a bit of a hoarder. He used to lecture me constantly about getting rid of junk but every time I’d throw something out a fresh storm of trinkets would sneak their way in. I know it’s a bad habit but I can’t help it! You expect me to travel the universe and not bring back souvenirs? Plus, life as a soldier (in training) is unpredictable, you never know what you might need! What if a future mission called for a jar of soil from Thestea or a bag of local Sarulion gummies? When that time finally comes I’ll be ready. In contrast to the mess that was our floor, the walls were bare except for some shelves and a set of built-in bunk beds. Mine (bottom bunk of course, top is practically asking for a broken back!) was rarely used since I’d rather pull an all-weeker than dare fall asleep mid-mission. I don’t trust the locks of a decrepit old ship like this to keep us safe from invaders, there are some real wackos out here! Hostile species outside the Federation’s union, rebellious parties, even lawless pirates galavanting the galaxy like they own the place! I’ll take sleep deprivation thank you very much. The back of the ship is the bathroom and entrance so we spend most of our time up at the front: the Flight Deck. Where the magic happens so to speak. In fancier ships this would be its own little room but in ours it's only separated by some stairs. Still, it's by far my favorite place to be. The seemingly endless console of buttons and levers gives me a sense of control that the rest of my life currently lacked, or at least my brain told me it does. Plus, nothing hits quite as hard as a front-row seat to all the beauties the universe has to offer.
Once inside I instantly sank into my seat, letting it cradle me between its worn cushions that always seemed to reek of space gunk. To my left Jason powered on the console and got to work. You see, piloting is more than firing up the engines and blasting off. Here at the Academy there are protocols, methodical steps that must be taken before flying around all willy-nilly. And what do you know, I happen to completely suck at following them. It's just so many rules man, doing everything perfectly is way too much pressure! No matter how many hours I spend cramming information into my head something always slips through the cracks. Unfortunately perfection isn’t a choice, it's a requirement. Systems like these are why the Starlight Federation has thrived for so many centuries, a well-oiled machine powered by rigid structures and diligent citizens. Freaks like me who can barely keep up with simple instructions aren’t fit to call themselves a part of it. So if I ever wanted to be seen as more than a disappointment it was time to step up my game. I sat up and was about to lend a hand when Jason paused, turning to face me for the first time since this morning:
“Hey Tweek,” he began, tone hesitant as if his tongue was on tiptoes. “Can you just–not touch anything?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
His eyes shifted back to the console. “Leave everything to me today, alright?”
I stared at him blankly, what does that even mean? Then confusion changed to annoyance. “Alright? No, not alright, you’re telling me to sit here doing nothing? Why would you want that!? I mean we’re partners man, we’re in this thing together! For what reason would-” Then it dawned on me. My stomach lurched. “You—you don’t trust me, is that it? You don't think I can handle it.” My voice came out a shaky, stuttery mess. Fuck! Soldiers don’t stutter.
“Well…” he hummed. “I don’t wanna go around pointing fingers but I’m not the one who got us stuck on this supply run-”
“You can’t be serious-”
“-And I wanna make sure we get this one done, you know? It’d suck to spend the rest of the year doing bottom-of-the-barrel grunt work.”
I couldn’t stop my eyes from rolling, “Oh come on, all I did was load the wrong type of fuel! The mission went fine! I’d even say it flew smoother-”
“Then why did we get a write up, huh?!”
I jumped; Jason rarely raises his voice. “It was an accident! I just forgot-”
“Cut it with the bullshit Tweek, there comes a time when excuses like that stop working. If you really work as hard as you say why can’t you remember simple instructions? Do you even care about this school, is this place a joke to you?”
“I… I-” I wish I could answer that. It’s not like I try to forget, it just— happens! Sometimes I think my brain is beyond repair, a tangle of leaky pipes spilling the important details all over the floor. Even so, I don’t get why it was such a big deal! Everything worked out fine, I even made sure to check the fuel compatibility with our ship beforehand! So why was I given yet another lecture about what a failure I was turning out to be? At this point the talk was getting old, I’d gotten it from pretty much every teacher in the school, “People who don’t pay attention won't last in this line of work. The empire has no space for slackers.”
“Listen Tweek, I’m not asking you, I'm telling you. Don't lay a hand on the fucking controls. If you wanna flunk out be my guest but don’t you dare drag me down with you.” With that he turned away completely. No further comments. Arguing was pointless so with a heavy sigh I slumped back into my chair and set my sights on the window.
Our task was a simple one: fly to the nearest intergalactic trade station, pick up the assigned crates, fly back. Simple as that. Honestly he probably could’ve done the whole thing by himself (and by the looks of it he was), so why I had to show up was beyond me. As expected the ride was dead quiet, conversations like that don’t create the most comfortable atmosphere, so I was left with a lot of time to think. Too much time. When you leave an anxious disaster like me alone in his head for too long things are bound to devolve; I was spiraling before we even took off, my head throbbing from the thoughts battling for dominance of my brain. You’re a failure, a lost cause, what will Mom and Dad think? DROP OUT ALREADY! No, you can’t, then you’re letting them win! Is that what you want? …Is it? What do you want? As the thoughts piled up my throat grew drier and drier, leaving each breath painful and raspy. Soon my vision was starting to blur, ears flooding with a sea of static that drowned out the deafening silence. Great, perfect timing.
“I’ll be back.” Without waiting for a response I stood up, clutching my stomach. Something tells me he didn’t care.
BLEGHHHH — as soon as I reached the bathroom what little I’d eaten that morning came right back up and stared miserably at me from the bottom of the toilet bowl. It was truly a pathetic sight: 20-something years old and still vomiting every time he felt the slightest bit anxious. Sadly this was yet another common occurrence for me; as if being the twitchy fuck-up wasn’t bad enough I was also known around school as the panic attack guy. A fitting title considering the circumstances. My tongue stung with the bitter taste of bile and regurgitated coffee but our ship didn’t have running water, so all I could do was swallow in shame as I waited for round two. Soon heavy breathing grew into full-on hyperventilation; my head spun from a combination of overthinking and dehydration, and my throat was so dry it crackled with every retch. Water felt so far away, even though it was just on the other side of the door sitting quaintly in a bag on a top shelf, but there was no way I was going out like this. No, for the time being the bathroom was my little sanctuary. Sitting there alone in the dark with only a roll of toilet paper to keep me company somehow felt like both the longest wait of my life and like it was over in a snap. I didn’t even realize the ship had touched down until the rattle of the hatch opening shook the floor around me. Guess he has it under control. A wash of silence took over and my breathing slowed, hyperventilation calming to deep, shaky breaths. Being treated like some kid who needed babysitting was a humiliating experience but at least this horrible day would be over soon. To take my mind off things I let myself daydream about what I'd do once we were back at the Academy. I should take the night off, watch a movie or something. Yeah, that sounds nice. With visions of buttery popcorn and documentaries under my bedcovers dancing through my brain I was swayed into a light sleep.
BRRRRR– After who knows how long the clank of metal shook me awake. It’s about damn time. Warmth spread through the ship’s floors as the engines beneath me roared; it made the place almost cozy (or as cozy as a glorified closet that reeked of vomit could). For a moment I let myself bask in the atmosphere’s loving embrace before taking one last deep breath and picking myself up. Everything still felt shitty, it always did, but wallowing wasn’t making it any better and I might as well take advantage of the view while we were out. So with a final hurrah I pushed open the door, ready to announce my presence.
…
That figure.
Shit.
That’s not Jason.
My first instinct was to scream at the top of my lungs. Luckily I managed to stifle it by biting down on my finger; the salty tang of blood seeped into my mouth from between my teeth but I didn’t care, it was better than the alternative. As quietly as possible I tiptoed back into the bathroom and shut the door, cringing at the shrill click of the lock. Hopefully the drone of the engines drowned it out. My next course of action? Absolute panic.
HOLY SHIT, WHO IS THAT? WHAT'S HAPPENING? WHAT DO I DO? UGHAAAA IM GONNA DIE, AREN'T I? I paced back in forth and strained my brain for ideas.
Ok, relax Tweek, this was in the manual. Just… Just call for help! Yeah, that’s it! I reached into my pocket only to come up empty-handed. Fuck! I must’ve left my communicator at the flight deck. One internal cussing fit later and I managed to regain composure.
Calm down Tweek. I’m sure you can find something useful in one of those boxes, your collection spans about half the galaxy! Surely one of them has an old communicator. Everything will be ok. With a new sense of hope I reached for the doorknob, ready to enact my genius plan to get the hell out of here, when–
CRASH!!
…
…
I fucking tripped.
The slam of my fall was definitely loud enough to catch the intruder’s attention. I didn't even know what I tripped on, all I knew is that young adult male + metal floor = earsplitting crash. Not to mention the resounding “SHIT!” I cried out on impact. To put it simply: I’d give myself about 30 seconds. I retreated back into the bathroom before I could get a good look but I knew they noticed, how could they not? Panic truly set in as a set of heavy footsteps echoed down the hull.
Clunk, Clunk, Clunk.
Frantically I searched for an exit, somewhere to hide, but it was no use. Escape was a pipe dream at this point.
Clunk, Clunk, Clunk.
With nowhere else to run I scooted into the corner, pressing myself snugly against the toilet bowl. The half-used roll of toilet paper laid sadly across from me, I must’ve taken it down during the fall. At least I had a stress ball.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
The footsteps grew louder and louder, matching the increasing volume of my pounding heart. Tension pulled at my insides so fiercely that it just about strangled me alive.
Clunk.
They stopped. That's when I knew I was a goner. No one wakes up in the morning expecting to die. There were so many regrets swirling around my head, so many things I wanted to do with my life that I’d never do. What a pathetic way to go. A sad death for a sad existence. Then the door swung open.
A scream. I think it was mine? Suddenly a roll of toilet paper went flying through the air and bonked the stranger square in the nose. They blinked. For a split second a pair of electric blue eyes pierced mine, then they whipped something out of their pocket and pointed it right at me. A light red mist and I was out.