Private On Her Shoulders

[Mia Monroe]

Mia’s steps were heavy, the bottle of amber liquid in her hand near empty as she staggered through the dark quiet streets of Keldabe. The few still awake gave the former mand’alor a wide berth, averting their eyes from her grief. She had no idea where she was going, only that her feet would take her there.

Maybe she’d wander into the wastes and a sithspawn would find her. Give her something more to focus on than the pain that burned through her chest, the pain that no amount of whiskey seemed to be able to numb.

She had returned to the galaxy to find everything she had known was dead and gone. Her daughter. Her husband. Her friends. She had vowed to rebuild her home, and a family. She had Ijaat and her brother returned. She’d found two daughters.

But Mia was cursed. She was cursed to walk the galaxy with nothing. This was her punishment for her crimes, to forever be surrounded by mandalorians, to give her everything to them and to have nothing in return.

Only her brother remained and even he was not himself. He was not the man she remembered.

Elise had gone first, turning away from Mia, finally seeing the ruthlessness that lay quietly beneath the surface.

Then Liorra had left, unable to see the bigger picture, to understand that some choices were made for the greater good.

And now Ijaat.

Gone.

Tears blurred her vision, not for the first time that night.

Mia was alone. She would forever be alone.

She lost her footing, falling to her hands and knees, the bottle shattering beneath one. Pain lanced through her hand as she sat back on her haunches, looking down at the shards of glass that embedded themselves in her palm.

Oblivious to her surroundings, the sea of tents on the outskirts of Keldabe, she tried to focus on her palm to pull the glass free.

Mishel

 

[Mishel]

Mishel shifted her sunglasses up on her head as the dust devil finally subsided at the southern end of the camp. The surrounding wasteland was a harsh red, the dust swirling in the air and settling over everything. The landscape was barren, with jagged rocks and sparse, resilient vegetation dotting the horizon. The camp itself was a mixture of prefabricated buildings and tents, all coated with a fine layer of red dust. Generators hummed in the background, providing the necessary power to keep their operations running smoothly.

"Turn them off, just two at a time. Can't afford to lose all power," Mishel ordered, her voice carrying a tone of authority mixed with warmth. She adjusted the jacket over her shoulders, a relic from when the Galactic Alliance stood for something. Perhaps it was just nostalgia from the old days when she was still Coren's padawan, galavanting around the galaxy.

Mishel moved efficiently from tent to prefab, checking on supplies and organizing tasks. "Let's get these supplies taken care of. Anything that isn't of use, break down, recycle," she directed another member of the Lotus Enclave. Dust had caked their tents, and she smiled slightly as she instructed, "Alright, let's get the dusters and make this place look a little more like we live here."

Her features, conveyed both strength and compassion. Her dark, wavy hair framed her face, and her expressive eyes carried a depth of empathy tempered with a sharp wit. She moved through the camp with a purposeful stride, her presence a reassuring constant amidst the chaos.

"Boss! We got a live one!" The shout drew her attention, and Mishel rushed toward the commotion. Someone had stumbled across Mia Monroe , shards of glass embedded in her hand. Mia was being carried, an arm flung around one man's shoulder, another arm across the shoulder of a very beefy lady. "Shit," Mishel muttered, realization dawning on her.

"Right, let's get her down to a secure tent. Small team, it's the al'verde," Mishel directed, her tone urgent yet composed. They needed to act quickly but carefully. "We get her patched up and sent back to Keldabe. Last thing we need is a bunch of angry bucket heads assuming jetii have taken their al'verde," she explained as she helped them get Mia into a tent.

Once Mia had been settled into a cot, Mishel assessed her injuries. "Well, I've seen worse," she commented, her voice laced with dry humor as she took Mia's hand. "This will probably sting, but if you so much as try anything funny, you'll be repeating Mandalorian proverbs in Catharese." It was more of a promise than a threat as she began to pick the glass out of Mia's hand with precise, careful movements. Gloved hands, and tweezers worked in tandem to remove the shards from the woman's palm.

The red dust from the wasteland outside continued to settle, but inside the tent, Mishel's focus was entirely on the task.

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia offered some very colourful words at the two who had hauled her to her feet, none of them pleasant in nature, but she hardly had the coordination to fight them off, so she resigned to her fate allowing herself to be half dragged into a tent, giving a snort of laughter at their concern over the mandalorians worrying about where she was.

"Doesn't matter if it hurts or not, I can turn that pain off." Her words were slurred and she clicked her tongue. "Waste of good whiskey." she muttered looking away, losing herself in her own thoughts as Mishel began to remove the shards from her palm. A memory came to her mind, Ijaat calling her a hellcat and pinning her with his back to a wall so he could strap the same hand after he'd shattered it in their fight.

The thought brought a fresh wave of silent tears to roll down her dusty face.

"Ijaat is gone." she said quietly.

Mishel

 

[Mishel]

Mishel's eyes softened as she took in the sight of Mia, drunk and slumped in the chair, a look of despair etched on her face. The dimly lit medbay was quiet, the soft hum of medical equipment the only sound save for their breathing.

"Well, aren't we fancy," Mishel quipped in response to Mia's slurred words about being able to turn off the pain. "You know, that would have been a fantastic ability to have while giving birth. Just, flip a switch—no pain, not feeling a single one tearing me apart." Her tone was light, but a hint of wistfulness underpinned her words. She focused on stitching up Mia's hand, her movements delicate yet precise, as she hummed a soft Monastery song about a poet, a soldier, and a king.

Her touch was gentle but firm when necessary. "Sorry, we're all out of the auto-stitchers," she said sincerely. "So, we'll do this the old-fashioned way." She held up the small needle for Mia to see, then resumed her careful work. When Mia muttered something about wasting whiskey, Mishel simply smiled and continued to exude a calming aura.

As she worked, Mia quietly confessed that Ijaat was gone. Mishel's heart ached with a familiar pain. She knew the strain of having a loved one constantly away; Shia's absences had put a strain on their marriage and family. "I'm sorry," Mishel whispered, just loud enough for Mia to hear. "I hope he returns to you soon." Her voice was sincere, conveying her understanding and empathy.

"There," she said warmly as she finished the stitches, her fingers pressing gently on Mia's hand. "Come back in about two weeks, and we can see about taking those out."

Mishel handed the discarded materials to her staff and disposed of her gloves before returning to sit beside Mia. "And, I'm here if you want to talk, about... mostly anything," she offered with a gentle smile. "When you're ready, of course."

The room felt cozier, warmer, as Mishel's presence radiated reassurance and comfort. She understood the complexities of pain and loss all too well, and her offer to Mia was genuine—a lifeline extended to a friend in need.

Mia Monroe ​