Sonya and Greg’s Meeting

Westner hunkered in the shadows, his cybernetic eye humming faintly as it sharpened the starlight scope’s gaze on a Nathal team moving through the rubble. Their heat dampeners baffled standard scans, but his enhanced optics cut through the veil. He steadied his rifle, the weight of Carver’s death still heavy in his chest. A missed shot last mission had cost a squad mate. He would not miss again.

The five-man squad moved in tight formation. The next-to-last soldier gestured sharply—team leader. Westner shifted his aim to the heavy weapons trooper, exhaled, and locked his cybernetic hand on the grip. The armor-piercing round cracked through the night. The trooper dropped with a muffled thud.

The Nathal troops froze, then dove for cover. Westner’s lips twitched—a muted grin. They’re good, but I’m better. He lined up a female soldier behind a crate and fired, her form collapsing silently. The leader shouted, redirecting her squad, but Westner’s third shot found another mark, crumpling them. The fourth tripped a resistance mine, the blast hurling him over a rock. Westner focused on the leader, now behind a tree. Smart. Not invisible.

He waited, his cybernetic eye tracking her heat signature. She tossed two flash grenades, and Westner loosed a shot at her arm, slicing her forearm guard as light erupted. He squinted, spots dancing despite his eye’s filters. Dirt sprayed as she returned fire, bolts chewing the ground. Through the haze, he saw her dart for cover, her movements honed by elite training. He fired again, striking her thigh, sending her sprawling, her helmet clattering off as her head struck a rock. Westner approached, his cybernetic leg whirring softly, rifle leveled. “No sudden moves.”

The woman rasped, rolling over, her piercing sapphire eyes defiant, hands pressing her thigh wound, senses sharp with hypervigilance. “Nice shooting. Didn’t think you’d miss the kill shot.”

Westner lobbed a medpack her way, a tight smirk tugging at his lips. “Caught off guard by your charm, I think. Must’ve been that bright winning smile you flashed me.”

She snatched the medpack with a grimace. “I’m not sure what hurts worse the wounds or your puns.  I’ll give you name, rank, serial number. That’s it.”

“Fair enough. I’ll put you down as ‘sassy prisoner’ for now. Bannon can sort out the rest.” Something’s off, he thought, noting her guarded tone.

The woman’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Good to know Bannon’s still in the fight…” She peeled off her forearm guard, hands steady despite the pain, her voice softening but cautious. “I’ll talk to him, nobody else. Got that?”

Westner’s jaw tightened. Sloppy. “Yeah. Don’t tell me you’re his secret admirer.”

She nodded, a faint smirk breaking through. “More like someone I trust.”

Westner nodded, impressed. “Only if you promise not to kick me on the way. Who’re you?”

The woman paused, jaw clenched, weighing trust. “2nd Lieutenant Sonya Blade, Wraith,” she said, her voice firm but eyes haunted.

“Wing Commander Gregory Westner, 32nd Space Wing,” he replied, offering a hand. “Forced to serve, huh? Guess we’re both stuck with a bad hand.”

She gripped his hand briefly, a wry smile flickering. “Stuck with you’s not the worst, Greg. Lots of people would shoot me on the spot. Let’s hope Bannon’s willing to hear what I have to say.”

“Can you walk?” He adjusted his hold, wary of her strength.

She tested her leg, a sharp intake marking the pain. “Need a crutch. Stay out of swinging range—appearances, and I’ve been known to bite.”

Westner chuckled, a lightness cutting through. “Noted. I’ll keep my distance, tough girl. Let’s move.”

Twenty minutes later, he escorted her into the underground bunker, its damp air thick with rust and ozone. Two guards seized Sonya roughly, their grips bruising her arms. Westner paused. “Take her to Bannon. He’ll want words.”

One guard sneered, recognizing her. “Aye, sir. Clumsy little traitor.”

Westner loomed, his cybernetic frame casting a shadow. “We’re not the enemy. Treat her properly, or we’ll have ‘words’ and you will not like them. Understood?”

The guard nodded, chastened, and shoved her down the hall. As they moved, the cruel guard muttered, “Admiral Seti wouldn’t be soft.”

“Man’s got a point,” the other said, conflicted. “Acting like them makes us no better.”

“She’s a traitor—vids proved it,” the first snapped.

“You heard him.  Commander’ll skin us if we mess with her,” the second replied, pushing Sonya forward.

Ten minutes later, Westner entered Bannon’s office, flickering lights casting jagged shadows. Sonya stood, hands bound, her skintight mesh suit hugging a taut, muscular frame. Her blonde ponytail hung askew, sapphire eyes blazing with pain and resolve despite the bruises. Bannon, gruff yet paternal, waved a hand. “Commander, you’ve already met Lieutenant Blade—nice work snagging her.” His tone carried a faint, sardonic edge.

Westner nodded. “Yeah. She’s got a lot of fight in her.”

Bannon leaned forward, voice low. “She’s briefed me on Imperial activity—good intel, as usual. We’ve got 48 hours before they find us.”

Sonya’s breath caught, her gaze dropping. “If I’m not found with the others, they’ll assume I turned, and they’ll slaughter the civilians in retaliation—my parents are among them.” She let out a pained exhale. “The Empire doesn’t know that, because if they did, they’d hold them over me. It has to stay secret.” Her voice quivered with guilt but steadied as she faced Bannon. “I’ll give my life to protect them and the other civilians.”

Westner shook his head, voice solemn. “What if we chain you in one of the cells down below in the old cell block? Your wounds will sell it—we interrogated you, didn’t get anything, then left.” No more Carvers, he thought, the weight of past losses pressing down.

Bannon nodded. “That should work. We’ve got a lead on the civilian hostages. We’ll free them.”

“How do we get off-planet?” Westner pressed, eyes narrowing.

“Later,” Bannon said, firm but weary. “Take her to the cells, keep it quiet. Too many here want Wraith blood.”

Sonya straightened, a sharp intake marking the pain flaring in her thigh. “Sir,” she said to Bannon, discipline masking her dread. Minutes later Westner led her to a rusted cot in a cell. “Your quarters.”

“Not five-star,” she muttered, a bitter edge to her smirk. “Two stars at most.” She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “Greg. Just… please save my folks.”

“I’ll do everything I can to free those hostages, you have my word,” he replied, locking the cell, his tone steady with conviction.

Her nod was tight, trust flickering through her fear. For them, she vowed silently, the thought of her parents anchoring her defiance.

Ten minutes later, the cell’s bolt slammed open. Sonya jolted upright, senses razor-sharp, memories of Team Seven’s costly interloping and Nathal vids branding her a traitor. Five resistance fighters entered, led by the cruel guard, an officer lurking behind them, his face obscured. “Against the wall, traitor,” the guard barked.

Sonya complied, heart pounding, something was wrong about this. The guard shackled her to the wall, forcing her onto her toes. “This woman screwed us,” the officer said, voice cold and unfamiliar. “I think it’s past time she learned how it feels.”

The guard sneered, unbuckling his belt. A wave of icy dread crashed over Sonya as the metallic clink echoed, her breath hitching. Her mind reeled—panicked, her pulse hammering, but she clenched her jaw, fighting to bury the terror beneath her training. The guard’s leer widened, and her stomach churned, every instinct screaming to escape the nightmare unfolding. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Sonya snapped a kick, her raw strength folding him with a bone-jarring crunch that sent the cruel guard nearly flying backwards to the ground. As the cruel guard curled up into a fetal position in extreme pain, she yanked at the restraints, their metal groaning, but a rifle butt cracked against her skull, dazing her and stopping her escape attempt. A second strike plunged her into darkness.

When Sonya awoke, agony consumed her—hanging with a broken arm, shattered legs, face swollen, nightmares of violation clawing at her thoughts. “Learned how it feels, Blade?” the officer’s head tilted slightly, his voice dripping with disdain. “What, can’t even spit?”

She forced a bloody smirk, defiance burning. “You’re not man enough to be worth it.”

His face twisted, backhanding her. She sneered, weak but unyielding. “You hit like a child.” He struck again, snarling, “You’ll die here alone,” then turned. “Let’s go.”

Sonya shouted, a hoarse curse escaping. “I’ll see you all go to hell.” She blacked out as the door slammed shut.

A day later, Nathal troopers blasted the lock. “Emperor be merciful!” one gasped. The medic quickly entered and unstrapped a stretcher, looking up at her in shock. “How in the Emperor’s name is she still alive? We need to evac her immediately!” As the others cut Sonya down, the medic did his best to triage her, hands trembling over her broken frame. “Stay with me, ma’am!” They hoisted her onto the stretcher, rushing her to a field hospital.

Two days later, Sonya sat in the Olympia Medical Center, the worst of her injuries already fading under the sterile lights. Her mind still felt heavy with the assault’s scars.

Thrawn entered, blue skin stark against the white walls, one hand briefly touching the Chiss pendant beneath her uniform.

“Lieutenant, how are you feeling?”

Sonya saluted, the movement pulling a sharp intake of breath from the remaining pain. For a moment her eyes went distant, fixed on nothing in particular, before she forced them back to the Grand Admiral.

“Better, ma’am,” she said. The words were controlled, almost flat. “Doc says a couple days, then I’ll be cleared for duty.”

Thrawn studied her in silence for a beat longer than necessary, red eyes unreadable.

“Are you ready for that?”

Sonya looked away, the briefest flicker of something raw crossing her face before she locked it down again.

“Honestly, ma’am… I’m not sure.”

“Your endurance is a rare composition,” Thrawn said. This Wraith could tilt the war, she mused. She handed Sonya a datapad. “The Emperor has decided to transfer you to Ta’charin, Project: Red Thunder.”

Sonya nodded. “The other Wraiths?”

“Reassigned,” Thrawn replied, cryptic. “Use this recovery time well.” She left, plotting silently.

Sonya opened the datapad: Steal Project: Red Thunder in two weeks. Your parents will be safe by then. Have faith, Sonya—it’s up to us. –Thrawn. It vanished. Redemption awaits, she thought, gazing out the window.

e upon a time...