In space, nothing is constant. Everything is moving, changing, altering based on it's surroundings, perceptions and baisis. You measure things only in their relation to other things. It doesn't hurt as bad as the first time, you were closer to death this time, you almost had him in your sights. Time is no exception. It's been two days since your last patrol, two weeks since your last warm meal, two months since your last promotion, two years since you enlisted, and too damn long since your last shore leave. Everything in stark contrast to another. However, when the alarm rang angrily at 0300 hours, there was only one thing on Commander Shimir Sheerelk's mind: It was WAY to damn early.
With all the technological marvel and wonder that the Empire possessed, it would seem only natural that they would have devised a cunning new method of waking a man up. This however, was not the case, and Shimir awoke to the same high-pitched squeal that trillions of other beings awoke to every morning. Shimir shouted his own choice selection of expletives at the machine, before absentmindedly slapping it across the barracks. Then, rolling off his cot, he dragged himself towards the showers.
The water was cold, naturally. Given the immense size of the SSSD Sovereign, heating the water would have been a logistic impossibility. However, even had the task been feasible Shimir doubted that a half a time cycle of warm water would have been granted them. The TIE Corps liked it's pilots bitter. The more bitter you were, the more people you killed, and the more of your own boys got killed. Being bitter meant winning. The Empire loved bitterness. And a cold shower at 0300 has an unparalleled penchant for making you bitter.
As soon as his time was up, Shimir dried himself quickly, and threw on a pair of shorts. Wrapping his robe about him, he silently punched his access code to unlock the barracks main door, which slid open slightly. The noise was soft enough to even pass without the notice of Colonel Astarosta, who was rumored to slumber in a state of semi-conciousness. Only Commander Zyrax, newly appointed and apparently having worked through the night, stuck a weary pair of eyes out his office window to notice.
"Same routine then Commander?" Zyrax yawned an inquiry.
"Yeah, be back in an hour or two" Shimir answered, setting the timer on his chronometer, wanting to assure he would be back in time for the patrol. Zyrax made a quick check of something on his desk, before returning.
"You sure? Today's our day on standown." The Commander explained, jerking his head back towards Shimir's bed. Shimir thought for half a second.
"Standown huh? Okay then, better make it three hours." Zyrax chuckled.
"Suit yourself Commander." Zyrax moved to return to his office, before doubling back. "Is that your towel?" He asked, pointing to Shimir's neck. He felt the ice cold rag cutting into his flesh, the fabric still wet from his shower.
"Yeah" he answered. Zyrax reached back inside and threw something at Shimir. He caught it, a whit towel, and ran his spindly fingers over the embroidered Imperial logo on the face.
"Here, take mine" the Commander said with a smile. Shimir nodded his thanks, and slipped out the door.
Shimir slid open the large, plate glass double doors that granted entry to the pool area. The Sovereign did supply this rather large aquatic center, though it was rarely used for recreation purposes. Typically it was used only during emergency ditching drills, or for particularly rambunctious promotion celebrations. When Shimir had initially requested that the pool be unlocked for him every morning, the maintenance crew had actually laughed at him. Once the slash marked had started stacking up on the side of his fighter, they had become more receptive. Today, he found the cover rolled back, the lights on, and a copy of the news on the table. He allowed himself a brief smile.
Shedding his robe, he slowly lowered himself into the pool. This water was cold too, perhaps colder than the shower water, if it was possible. The mere touch seared the skin, and sent chills down the spine, penetrating into the inner depths of the body. Shimir caught his breath as the cold washed over him. It was damn cold, he thought, but a hell of a lot warmer than the void that his hand had sent dozens of Rebels into. Shimir wondered whose hand would send him there. He stood there for minutes, a sentinel; his reflection dancing against the clear-blue ripples of the pool. Then, taking a deep breath, he planted his feet against the wall, and shoved off.
One, Two, Three, Breathe. Shimir counted as he angrily attacked the water, his kicks sending plumes of water high into the empty room. His back and shoulders rippled with muscle as he streaked towards the other end, water slipping to either side of his streamlined body as he cut through: A weapon homing on his target.
One, Two, Three, Breathe. He was a weapon. A weapon of hatred, anger, bitterness and rage. A weapon forged by the hands of those now targeted by him. He had not wanted it this way. No, had things gone the way he had planned, he would not be here. He would have been tucked away, in the green valleys of his home world, with a wife and some kids. He would be happy. Those were his dreams; dreams that had been vaporized in the red flash of Rebel lasers. Those were dreams he could never revive, only avenge.
One, Two, Three, Breathe. Things were so different now. Gone was the dark haired, chocolate eyed boy of the past. His subtle features, soothing voice, and dashing smile were too a thing of the past. He was dead. Risen in his place was what now kicked off the wall at the start of his fiftieth lap. Voice turned snarl, and smile turned to sneer, he was but a bitter vestige of his former self.
Death was his business, and he dealt in bulk. Death was everything. Nobody lived without another dieing, nobody thrived but on others suffering. The universe itself existed in a state of ironic parallel. The only way to keep from suffering was to stay on top, and the only way to stay on top was to cause another to suffer. It was the way of things. Suffering and death were the great engines that drove existence. And hate was their fuel.
A fuel Shimir had in abundance. He lived hate, breathed it. The very water he swam in stank of his own hatred. One, Two, Three, Breathe. He spent nearly every waking hour of his day hating people, and the time absent of hate was spent thinking of who else had wronged him; who else to hate. For Shimir, there was no grey shade. You were either on his side or not. The former, he embraced as brothers, the latter, died. There were no exceptions.
One, Two, Three, Breathe. He hated that bastard Maidine, for betraying his parents to their deaths. For leaving his sister to be raped on the kitchen table by the Rebel raiding party, and leaving her for dead. She's not though, and she is coming for you, Maidine. If there was one person in the cosmos who harbored more hate than Shimir, it was her. He hated his parents, for ever trusting a bitch like him. One, Two, Three, Breathe. He hated those damn rebels for standing in his way. For screwing everyone else over in the name of "freedom" or "liberation." In the Empire's "Oppressive Captivity" Shimir had a home, a family, people who loved him, things to do, places to go. He had a life. Until the Rebels so graciously "liberated" him. Now he had none of that. He hated them, and hoped everyday for somebody to come along to "liberate" them. He would be more than happy to perform the task himself.
He hated his uncle, his instructors, the Rebel propagandists. He hated the sympathizers, the well-wishers, those bastards back home who flew the Rebel crest. He hated Incom, Verpine and Soro-suub. He hated the Wookies, the Mon-Calamari, the Sullustans and the Droids. He hated most everyone who was not on this ship. And he trusted only those fast asleep in the Kappa Barracks.
One, Two, Three, Breathe. And he hated her. With everything he had he hated her. For leaving him, and running off with that Goddamned X-Wing Jockey. He placed more trust in her than he had in anyone else. He had given to her his aspirations, his hopes, and his dreams. He had loved her. And she took it, abused it, and cast it aside, before turning to somebody else. She used her knowledge of him to place Shimir, and his squadron mates in danger. She undermined a mission of the TIE Corps. And she had betrayed him. And he would never forgive her. One, Two, Three, Breathe. But above all, he hated himself... for still being in love with her.
One, Two, Three, Breathe. It was getting harder now. His body struggled with each stroke. 90 Laps. His breaths came short and quick. His muscles ached, and lungs burned. The splashes came frequently as he struggled against the water. 95. He brought his head up, no longer able to continue without continuous oxygen. The room swam in front of him, as it tilted dizzyingly to one side, and then the other. Spots sprang to life in his eyes, and danced from left to right; his vision obscured. For a sickening second, he sank beneath the water line. The sharp sting of Chlorine permeated his eyes and bade him to return to the surface. He inhaled sharply, and water rushed in, down his throat. He felt it slide down his esophagus and begin to fill his lungs. 99. He could not go on like this. He felt his arms and legs grow heavy, and eventually ceased to move. He looked up, and saw the edge, a mere eight feet away. He reached one hand out towards it, grasped the smooth, marble edge, and slipped. I'm going to die here, he thought. Me, the hero of the Pakunni campaign. Shimir Sheerelk, the murderer of hundreds of Rebels, is going to drown, alone, and unarmed. And then he slipped below the surface.
A rough hand grabbed Commander Sheerelk by the scruff of his neck. Shimir vaguely felt the water dripping from his brow as he was lifted from the pool, and dropped on the cold floor. He immediately fell into a violent coughing fit, expelling water from his saturated lungs. Water that soon gave way to blood, a crimson concoction that filled the grout-cracks of the marble tile, staining red the previously immaculate Imperial floor. Above, Major Algaron Xerves looked on in horror. "Bloody Hell Shimir..."
"'Mornin Algy, thought you would sleep in today" Shimir began, allowing again a brief smile, revealing his rusted teeth, and coughing up once again. Algy let out a hollow laugh.
"Rather fortunate that I didn't it would seem, or I might just have to take that Flight Leader's badge from you." He held out a hand that grasped a cold, metallic mug. Shimir eyed it suspiciously. Algy explained "Earl Grey." He was sipping lazily from his own mug. Of all vanities, this was Shimir's single weakness. He knew not from which planet the tea originated, nor did he care. But it was one of the few things in the universe that afforded Shimir pleasure anymore, and virtually the only thing he allowed himself to indulge in. Major Xerves motioned toward the table, and both men sat.
And for a while, they talked. They laughed, the allowed themselves to be men instead of killers. Algaron spoke of his late sister, and they sighed, and then of the latest comics in the paper and they laughed. They talked of the pinups and smiled mischievously, and of their superiors and laughed again. They talked of things as people often do. And did so without care, nor remorse. But such triviality is not meant to last forever, and after a long pause, Algaron spoke again.
"Why do you do this to yourself 'Elk?" Shimir raised an eyebrow in a feeble effort to feign confusion. Algy waved towards the pool. "Come in here every morning of the bloody week and beat yourself to within an inch of your life. I mean, I could understand it as a Sub-Lieutenant when you had something to prove." Algy leaned in. "But you are a Commander now. You are a damn good pilot, and a hell of an officer. I specifically requested to be transferred to your flight so as I could serve with you again. You have peoples respect. Who are you trying to impress?" Silence hung stagnate in the air for a minute. Shimir wanted to tell Algy, wanted to tell him everything. But he would not understand. Nobody ever did.
"Not trying to impress anyone sir, just trying to stay alive." Algy sighed.
"Where's your damage pilot? On the surface, everything seems perfect. You have the rank, the medals, the kills. You have everything a pilot would want. But underneath... something hurts you." Shimir glanced over at the water. On the surface, it was crystal. The rippling waves reflecting the dimmed lights overhead. But underneath, was all the pain and anguish Shimir had just washed off. Underneath, there was suffering.
"Still waters run deep Major." Shimir answered, his voice distant, and without emotion. Algy sighed.
"Shimir, how long have we known each other?" Algaron asked. Shimir thought for a few seconds.
"Ever since I joined, nearly two years." The Major nodded. Shimir could see the road he was taking.
"And over that time, would you say it is fair to state that we have become friends?" Shimir shook his head no, and Algy furrowed his brow. Shimir brought his head up and for a second the two men's eyes met.
"Not friends, brothers. We have become like brothers." Algy smiled and nodded his approval.
"Then why not tell me? I know there is something there, you did a damn lousy job of hiding it. Tell me, tell all of us. We will help you through it. We are worried about you. We want you to be happy."
For the briefest of moments; a time shorter than even the smallest of measure. A moment so short that had you blinked, it would have passed you by several times over. For that astronomically small passage of time, Shimir considered it. He thought about telling Algy everything, breaking down and weeping on his shoulder. Feeling his strong embrace. There, on that cold white floor, about surrendering all his suffering. About going back to the barracks, and telling Temp, Zyrax and the others. About smiling again, being happy again. He allowed himself to think about giving up his hatred. But he knew that he couldn't. The moment he gave up his hate, he might as well turn in his wings. His edge would be gone. Hate was so much of who Shimir Sheerelk was. No, Hate WAS who Shimir Sheerelk was. Almost as if through telepathy, Algy let out a long sigh and a sad nod.
"Right, not yet. I see..." He began.
"You will be the first to know" Shimir said, "When the time comes."
Algy nodded, and stood up, setting his mug down on the table.
"Press-ups then?" he asked, dropping down into the ready position. Shimir nodded, and followed suit. "150 today?"
"No" Shimir answered, thinking briefly. "That was yesterday, two hundred today." Algy took a muttered stab at Shimir's lineage, before setting his chronometer.
"Ready...and go!" The two men began. One, Two, Three, Four, Five. The more bitter you were, the more people you killed. Shimir almost pitied those poor bastards they would go up against tomorrow. Almost...