Mini-writing prompts 1/2

So one of the Discord servers I’m in has been running writing prompts, and I did a couple. I’ll be posting them here in my blog, and perhaps this will become a regular thing.

Prompt 1:

Write a scene with a character that shows their thought process on the following topics:
-an enemy
-a significant event
-a love
-a past injury

The shuttle shook violently as it escaped the pull of Onderson’s atmosphere. No words were spoken, no breaths taken as the vast expanse of space filled the view of the cockpit. The only sound was the constant hum of the engine, a sound that was as assuring as it was mildly annoying. It meant that all systems were operational, that they weren’t doomed to float about until the last of the air inside was spent, that this stolen imperial vessel wasn’t their coffin just yet.

The Ithorian was the first to release their held breath. “Well doc, looks like we made the right call.” He clapped a large, heavy, spindly hand around the pilot’s shoulder. “Nice job.”

Dr. Dam’et Gim shivered and buckled under the weight as he tried and eventually pulled free. With a groan, he removed his own hands from the controls and stretched his webbed appendages. The Galactic Empire rarely designed anything with species outside of humans in mind, and the T4a was no exception.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he grumbled. He turned to the side panel of flashing lights and various knobs and buttons. His eyes narrowed as far as their bulging shape would allow. He had performed surgeries and autopsies less confusing than this.

The third and final crew member stepped forward and flipped some switch that caused a couple of lights to turn blue. “Open channel established,” she announced before returning to her seat. “Now we wait.”

Dam’et sighed as he turned back to stare out into the sea of black before him. A pointless endeavor, his eyes weren’t going to catch anything the ship’s sensors couldn’t, but there was precious else to do while they waited. It was like something out of a bad and borderline offensive joke; a Mon Calamari, an Ithorian, and a Duros sit in a stolen Imperial shuttle. Now how did that punchline go?

Static suddenly crackled out through the ship, along with a soft beeping. “Sensors and channel are both picking up something,” the Duros announced, having rushed over to the panel.

“Is it them?” asked the Ithorian as he rushed over to the compartment below the cockpit. Dam’et could just spot the outline of the laser cannons jutting out from within.

“Clearing up the signal now,” was the reply, the steadiness in her voice and the blankness of her face betraying nothing. Dam’et forced himself to swallow as he gripped the controls in front of him tightly.

“...to Whisper Base. This is Epsilon Five Two Five. Please respond. Does anyone read?” came a barely audible voice from the ship’s communication speaker, the Imperial accent unmistakable even with all the static in the way.

“We read you, Five Two Five,” the Duros said into the receiver as she worked at the control panel. The display that was before Dam’et flashed, and upon it he could now see a vessel similar to their own highlighted in the distance. “We’ve been sent to escort you down. There’ve been reports of rebel activity in the area.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Dam’et’s hand wandered over to the ship’s blaster cannon control, ignoring the fact that the target was far out of the weapon’s optimal range.

“Rebels, here?” the other ship finally responded with a scoff. “I can’t tell if they’re getting bolder or just more desperate. Very well then, let’s get to it.”

The Ithorian below him stifled a snort. “We’ve got them. Easy.”

“It’s not over yet. We need to get closer.” The Duros made her way to the copilot’s seat and gave Dam’et a short nod. “Don’t do anything that’ll draw suspicion. Fly casually.”

“Fly ca—“ Dam’et interrupted himself with a huff. “Fly casually, she says,” he muttered under his breath. “Nothing casual about this. Should have sent an actual pilot on this blasted mission.”

How was it that of their entire strike force, the only being with any flying experience was the amphibious one? Surely the Duros would have been better suited to be in the pilot seat, but no, the mechanic’s specialties were in taking apart and putting ships back together, not getting them off the ground. He had had his misgivings over joining the alliance to begin with, and this poor organization of personnel was yet another example of his ‘superiors’ lack in competence. Maybe he should turned away that injured agent that day, should have made some excuse or simply refused them treatment or even informed the Imperial authorities. Maybe then he’d still have his clinic and his patients and not having to deal with shootouts and flying.

The shuttle continued to hum as the distance between it and the other ship slowly shrunk. Eventually, as the unique shape of the fellow T4a could be spotted, the good doctor loosened his hold on the center stick and allowed the blood to flow back into his knuckles. His raised shoulders dropped and he let his arched spine fall against the cushioned back of his seat. He took a quick second to remove a hand from the controls to wipe away the moisture on his brow. So far, so good. Just a little closer now.

The communication speaker buzzed against. “Um, pilot, what is your designation?”

Dam’et entire body turned tense once more. He looked to his copilot who motioned him to continue forward while she walked over and picked up the receiver. “Repeat your last, Five Two Five?”

“Your designation. Protocol dictates that designation is to be exchanged during unscheduled meetups. Just something to put on the record.”

Dam’et struggled to keep his gaze forward as he continued to look over his shoulder. The Duros’ default blank expression made it impossible to determine what she was thinking, and he could only hope that she was coming up with some believable excuse.

“We, forgot it.”

A groan came from below as the Ithorian slapped a hand over his hammer shaped head. Dam’et might have done something similar if his attention wasn’t on the ship before them that was now suddenly starting to turn away from them and move further away.

“They’re getting away!”

The Duros slammed the receiver down and rushed back to the copilot position. “After them!”

Their ship accelerated forward as their target started to speed away. The cannons below fired away at the retreating vessel, but the shots went wide.

“Damn it,” the Ithorian swore. “Get me in range!”

“I’m trying to,” Dam’et said through grit teeth. He push the throttle forward, pushing the engine ever closer to its limits. The ship shook from the effort, but all systems stayed stable, and the distance between them and their foe had been drastically cut. This time, as all four forward guns fired, one of the heavier laser shots met its mark, though any damage that would have been done was absorbed by the ship’s shield.

Before they could even think of celebrate, however, laser bolts flew out from the enemy’s behind, shot by the vessel’s aft weapons, and struck their vehicle directly, causing it to jerk and lose speed as the controls slip out of Dam’et’s grasp. By the time they had stabilized, the distance between them had grown.

Again, Dam’et gave chase while his companions sent volley after volley of blaster and laser bolts, of which their opponent appeared to easily maneuver around while responding with blasts from their own weapons. “Keep her steady!” shouted the Ithorian. “I can’t get a clean shot.”

“We’re taking too many hits,” the Duros beside him said. “You need to take evasive action.”

“Which is it?” Dam’et snapped. “Get a shot or get shot?”

A sharp blare suddenly filled the cabin as the panel to the side flashed red. “Front shields are low,” Dam’et’s copilot announced. She stood up and hurried over to the panel. “I’ll have to divert power from the side and aft, but any more of this and we’ll be taking hull damage.”

Dam’et grunted, and that’s all he could afford to say as another wave of shots from the enemy came to greet them. This wasn’t working. The enemy pilot was obviously more skilled, and at this point there was no way of winning a war of attrition. Retreat would mean surrendering Whisper Base back into Imperial control as the escaping shuttle would no doubt bring word of this back to its main force, but with how much of an uphill battle this was turning out to be, was there any avenue for victory?

Dam’et gave the cabin a quick once over. The others were busy, the gunner with his guns and the mechanic with the ship’s processes. From his jacket, Dam’et pulled out a case, and from it he removed a loaded syringe. Stimpacks, designed for emergency medical treatment and much more if you knew what you were doing and weren’t too concerned about the risks.

Or just very desperate.

Dam’et rolled up his sleeve and pressed the stim onto a vein. He winced as the needle sprang out, and the chemical cocktail was injected directly into his bloodstream. The empty syringe dropped to the floor, and his eyes dilated as he grabbed at the controls and forced the ship forward. Bolts continued to fly toward them, but fewer of them found their target as Dam’et’s eyes better recognized their trajectory, and his hands settled more comfortably over the controls, allowing for smoother and tighter maneuvering.

The hum of the engine, the roar of the cannons, the shouts and exclamations of his comrades became muffled into the background, as if he was underwater. The display in front of him had become a blur, the target the only thing that was registering as his heart pounded against his chest in a bid to break its way out.

Something touched his shoulder, causing him to almost fall out of his seat. He looked up to find both the Duros and Ithorian standing over him. “Are you alright?”

The world spun as Dam’et’s head suddenly became both light and heavy all at once. He took in several deep breaths to steady himself, then nodded. “Y-yes. Just, having a rush.”

“Hm.” The Duros pointed back to the front display, drawing Dam’et’s attention to the enemy ship. It was still intact, with a few bolt marks marring the hull, but it had gone completely dark and was no longer moving away from them.

“Looks like we managed to disabled their systems,” she explained. “We’re getting ready to board.”

At this, Dam’et noticed the blaster pistol she was holding out to him and the rifle that was on her back. The Ithorian, meanwhile, had a pair of swords out. “You ready, doc?” asked the larger alien.

Dam’et took another deep breath. “I’ll be fine,” he assured as he took the weapon and slipped it into his jacket, brushing past his case of stims.

“I’ll be fine.”