“No, you have to use this to clean the hull otherwise you’ll mess up the paint and the metal will corrode easily.”

That’s what Omega had been attempting to tell you for…hours.

It was exasperating, having to supervise you like a hawk solely to make sure you were scrubbing down your ship and not soiling it more than you already had. Omega was admittedly astonished that you had made it this far into the rebellion; while you could outmanoeuvre a TIE Fighter as effortlessly as breathing, you couldn’t conduct even the most rudimentary of tasks. Such as cleaning.

Omega had been in the rebellion for quite some time, but had been recently relocated to a diminutive base on Dantooine. With the rebel base covert within the dense, serried forest, masked as a sap farm to any outsiders who could stumble across it, Omega had taken to relaxing a little more—compared to the rigidness of Yavin 4. However, you had spoiled that harmony entirely.

Sometimes she felt as though she was babysitting you. In a way you reminded her of Batcher: wild and blithe, racing like a storm—untamed and unpredictable. Yet you were loyal to a fault, and dense in a way that it was almost adorable.

Omega could hear General Antoc Merrick’s voice somewhere nearby, instructing the new cadets. Honestly she wondered how long it would take before he was barking orders at the two of you. Which was why Omega was making an effort to look as occupied as possible as she wiped down the hull of your X-Wing, while simultaneously handling you.

The breeze was pleasant. Her choppy flaxen hair was tied back with a scarlet headband, dusty carob eyes at least holding a semblance of warmth. Honestly Omega was the only one who could put up with you at this rate—your irritable, stubborn nature.

“See how this one actually cleans off the grime? That is used to clean off paint, not for cleaning ships.” Omega clarified as she handed you the correct cleaning product, soap suds soaking her tanned forearms, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

Maybe this time you’d get it...