rogueskeptic: (what can i say?)
Everything before this post is from waaaay back in the day from LJ and probably shouldn't be considered "DW canon", hah.
rogueskeptic: (fml)
The expressions on their faces had been interesting, when he'd tendered his resignation. Shock, disbelief, it was good to know you'd be missed when you suddenly face someone with the fact of your imminent departure. Truth be told, Hobbie, along with everyone else around him, had always figured he'd die in the service and that resigning wasn't even on the horizon.

Somehow, they'd talked him out of it. Well, not entirely. He was still leaving and he wouldn't be on active duty, but somehow they were keeping him on the payroll. Something about being the Republic's only representative on the not very important, hence no embassy, planet of Terra. Hobbie didn't argue.

The only hard part about saying goodbye to those he knew were having to do so to the people he just knew were thinking, he's never been the same since Janson-... At least he didn't get that from Wedge and Tycho. They only gave him looks full of unasked questions as they embraced him and pressed gifts on him (ryshcate in Wedge's case and a nice bottle of Whyren's in Tycho's) and extracted promises that Hobbie would comm them from time to time and keep up. Or they'd fly out to Terra and check on him personally. With Iella and Winter in tow. He'd laughed a little and agreed to their demands, calling them 'a bunch of mother hens'.

Hobbie even managed to send a message ahead of himself to Wes with his estimated day of arrival. He'd left out location and time though, figuring he'd just actually call when he arrived. Or at some point that day, since he managed to find himself instead wandering around town wondering what the hell he was going to do with himself now.

He'd figure something out, lest Wes do the figuring out for him.
rogueskeptic: (Default)
Just a note that Hobbie's got a new face in Rupert Penry-Jones who I found while trolling around Hollow Art and will likely be making more appearances in the near future. Especially as [ profile] lt_wes_janson has managed to talk him into returning to Earth for realz this time.

That is all.

from Wes

Feb. 26th, 2009 11:37 pm
rogueskeptic: (thinking)
The rules are: comment to this post and I will give you 5 subjects/things I associate you with. Then post this in your LJ and elaborate on the subjects given.

Best friend - Everybody needs one, right? I mean, maybe everybody doesn't have one, but we all need someone to watch our backs. Somebody to get into trouble with. Someone to get you out of trouble. Someone to trust with things you'd never tell another soul, living or dead. Having a best friend is even more important than having a significant other, I think.

Rogues - You know, there might technically be a "new" Rogue Squadron but I never really think of myself as having left it, no matter what I do. Once a Rogue, always a Rogue? Maybe. All I know is that's where I found my true family.

Stuffed bantha - Cuter than a stuffed ewok. And there's one still under my bed. Just in case. [ooc: mun note: though apparently Hobbie wrestled with the thought of sneaking the bantha in with Wes before he was buried.]

It's worse than that - Because it always is! I mean seriously, have I ever been wrong?

bacta - saved my life more than once. Not overly tasty but...hell, you get used to it. And it really is the best skin softener money can buy.
rogueskeptic: (emo pilot)
After everything back on Terra, Hobbie would have been just as happy to never set eyes on the thrice-damned planet ever again. He wasn't quite ready to retire, but he also couldn't quite imagine returning to training squadrons any time soon. It was Wedge who'd suggested a long vacation, most of which Hobbie had spent on Ralltiir, getting to know what was left of his family once more.

He was finally back, though. As a hero of the New Republic, apparently there'd been a memorial service for Janson while he was gone. He wasn't entirely sure he regretted missing it. After all, he'd been there for the actual funeral. Everyone here who knew him seemed to be treating him with kid gloves. Those who didn't just looked at his expression and decided to tread softly.

He had to admit that his first day back could have gone better. Much better. The trainees didn't know what to make of him. Which wasn't entirely unusual, for Hobbie, but the effect seemed to have only increased.

At the moment, he couldn't much bring himself to worry overmuch about it. Maybe later.

At the moment, he was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, willing sleep to come.

Somehow, he managed to slip from consciousness to sleep without even realizing it, which was really the way of things anyhow.

So imagine his surprise when he sits up in his bed, only to see a familiar form sprawled in the bed across from his. If he were actually awake, he'd realize that there was no second bed, being that he'd gotten a single room due to his status. The image, however, was powerfully familiar, like a reminder of home, and he accepted it without question.

rogueskeptic: (i can kill you with my brain)
He doesn't, really, think about it. Not anymore. Some part of him figures he probably would go actually crazy if he thought too hard about it so he just...doesn't. He figures most of them don't. It is, after all, a kind of insanity, what they were doing, wasn't it? These weren't droids he was fighting, not as a matter of course, even if it was easy to imagine that when he was in the cockpit of a fighter, firing on someone who was also in the cockpit of a fighter. Or in a turbolaser turret. Or on the bridge of a ship. Easy to pretend it wasn't another flesh-and-blood person he was shooting for. Aim to kill. Sure, it was life or death but... he'd chosen this life, hadn't he? Volunteered. And he couldn't say he didn't know what he was signing himself for, even if he didn't really understand the magnitude of it at the time. He made his living from the death of others.

It was a handy thing, too, he'd never have to forget. Not when his kill count was emblazoned on his X-wing's fuselage, just under the cockpit, for the galaxy at large to see. He didn't forget, but he tried not to think about it, either.

He'd have rather forgotten about the ones that weren't counted. The deaths that had come from his own hands directly. The stinking smell of charred flesh, smoking wounds inflicted by his blaster. The sound of bones cracking from kick or a punch. The feel of a blade in his hand, ready to kill anyone who got in his way.

Those weren't so easy to pretend about. Those stayed with him. And there wasn't even a pretty explosion to focus on.

It bothered him, what he'd done. Sure, he knew in his head that it was for a Cause and therefore Just and Right. Or something like that, anyway. Sure, he knew they were the enemy, they'd just as soon have killed him or worse. It was what he was trained to do.

It was all he could do.

As much as he tried not to think about what he was, he was even more afraid of thinking about what he'd do when this war was over.

What else could he do?
rogueskeptic: (i can kill you with my brain)
[takes place directly following this]

The flight down to Terra had been uneventful, but Hobbie hadn't expected it to get exciting. There wasn't much around here to take notice of him. Luckily for him, the cabbie he'd gotten Mia to send had been dozing in his seat and had missed actually seeing him land his ship.

Explaining away a spaceship was always awkward but, being where they were, it was much more likely Hobbie had his own plane. Even still, the cabdriver was curious, probably wondering why someone who had his own plane needed a cab instead of having a limo waiting or something. Hobbie didn't bother to answer his questions and eventually the driver didn't bother to ask them.

Of course, for his trouble, Hobbie paid the driver well and was out of the cab almost before it fully came to a stop.

He was just deciding whether to go in or not when he caught sight of Mia and Kit.
rogueskeptic: (uhm...)
It should, thought Hobbie, be more difficult to procure a ship without any money. Of course, that's the nice thing about being friends with smugglers. Of course, the Terriks had always been good to the Rogues in their various incarnations. And it wasn't really procure since Booster expected his skiff back 'without a scratch' and all that jazz. And Hobbie was more than sure the wiley old smuggler (or whatever he was calling himself, these days) would expect a favor out of Hobbie in the future.

No matter. It was the only (quick and relatively easy) way for him to get transport out to Terra. He wasn't technically back on duty yet from his little vacation so he hadn't been given access to any military craft. And Hobbie was fairly certain once he was back on duty he wouldn't be given much of a chance to go jaunting off to Terra.

Unless he came up with a training exercise that involved the planet....

Hobbie filed that thought away for later. Anyway, this was his best bet since civilian craft didn't, as a rule, come out that way. He'd deal with whatever Terrik wanted whenever that came up but Hobbie trusted Booster enough not to make it a hardship. Or treasonous. That sort of thing.

And then he didn't have much time for random thoughts, since the ship was dropping out of hyperspace. He'd set it to enter realspace somewhere around the vicinity of Neptune's orbit. Close enough he could get a message in to Wes, but far enough away not to be noticed until he had his coordinates.

Leaning over the instrument panel, Hobbie keyed in the code for Wes' comlink.

"Janson, you there?"


He tried again, "Janson?"

Still nothing.

"Dammit, Wes, don't make me come all the way out here and then not answer your kriffing comms!" Hobbie rolled his eyes and waited a few minutes. It was possible Janson was in the shower. Or sleeping (what time was it where he was on Terra right now, anyway?). Or something. They probably should have coordinated this better (but then they wouldn't be them, would they?).

After about twenty minutes, Hobbie tried again. And still no answer. Which had him worried but he tried to tell himself he was just annoyed and frustrated. And then he spent a few minutes scrabbling around for wherever he kept extra numbers. Like Mia's. Wes had mentioned she was down there, right?

There really needed to be more Republic comms on that damn planet. It would make things easier.

"Mia?" He paused. "Mia, it's Hobbie. Klivian." Please answer so I can find out what the kriff is going on...


Dec. 6th, 2007 01:27 pm
rogueskeptic: (lip touchy)
His mother stared back at him for another long, silent moment. Overhead, Hobbie could hear the whine of the repulsorlifts of various craft coming in for a landing at the spaceport. She was quiet long enough that he'd just come to the conclusion that this had been a terrible idea and was about to say something awkward and lame-sounding before making good his escape when she took a step toward him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely.

He was shocked enough to drop his bag.

Slowly, gingerly, he slid his arms around her as well. It was strange, she seemed so much smaller than he remembered her being a decade ago. More frail. Even if she was making it a bit hard for him to breathe. He didn't, exactly, mind.

She was huggin him. He was hugging her. And his shirt was wet.

Was she crying?

"Ma," he didn't even notice he'd dropped the more formal term, "you're crushing my ribs..."

The pressure on his midsection loosened, but the older woman didn't let him go. It was as if she was afraid he'd disappear off into the ether again -- and he had been on the verge of doing just that only a minute ago. Her voice was muffled by his chest, but she was talking anyway, "thought you'd never come back. I thought you'd died, Derek." Even though she was muffled, he could hear the regret in her voice, the anguish of a mother who'd lost her only child.

Both of them was paying no attention to the fact that they were both standing on the doorstep looking foolish, holding each other tightly. It was entirely possible Hobbie was doing his damnedest to blink back the sudden moisture that had appeared in his eyes. "I had to go, Ma. I'm sorry." He was carefully rubbing her back in a comforting gesture, a mirror of the way she'd used to do it for him when he'd been very small. Before his father had decided to actually take a hand in his upbringing lest his son 'grow up into a girl' from his mother's coddling him.

His mother looked up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes and forced a smile. "I know." She didn't like it, but she understood. "But look at us, standing out here like a couple of fools. Come on in, boy, let's get you comfortable."

She was tugging him in but he stood there, looking at the door. "Is anyone else here?"

"Who else would there b-..." She trailed off and realized he wouldn't know and turned to smile back at him again, reassuring. "It's just me now, Derek. He hasn't been here for years." It had happened after she'd heard about the mutiny on the Rand Ecliptic. She'd been told her son had died there, not that he'd been among the mutineers. That had been the last straw for her tolerance of her husband. Only later, when Hobbie's name was attached with the infamous Rogue Squadron did she come to realize he'd defected, not died. By then, she hadn't had any contact with his father in years and she wouldn't have taken him back, anyway.

She continued pulling Hobbie into the little house and he let her do so, picking up his bag and carrying it with him. Things looked more or less the way he remembered them. A little older, a little more worn perhaps just like the outside of the house. Just like his mother. But she'd always kept the place as clean as she could manage and that hadn't changed at all.

What had changed? He no longer felt the urge to hunch his shoulders when he walked in, something of the old feeling of oppression had lifted. He couldn't smell stale beer and old alcohol either. And his mother seemed happier.

There were no family pictures anywhere, but there hadn't been those when he'd lived there so he didn't notice their absence.

Dimly, Hobbie heard his mother talking about things he'd missed since he'd been gone. The changes on Ralltiir -- more than a few of which he'd already heard about --, things that had happened in their family, news of cousins getting married he barely remembered having, what had happened to various neighbors, and all the little news tidbits that made up her life. He was still taking in this feeling he could sense filling his chest. Something that made him want to shout and sob all at the same time. He was home.

Eventually, she seemed to realize he wasn't really paying attention and trailed off, watching her son for a quiet, thoughtful moment. "But enough about me." Her smile was wry, "I want to hear what you've been up to." And maybe there was a tinge of something like pride in her voice, my son, the hero.

So, he ended up sitting down with her and he started to talk. He told her about the academy and he told her about finding the Alliance and what happened after the Rand Ecliptic. He told her about Yavin and the forming of Rogue Squadron, he glossed over the actual battle of Yavin since he hadn't been able to participate and mentioned he'd met his friend, Wes Janson there. He talked about Hoth and he talked about Endor and Bakura and Bretaal and everywhere else. He mentioned friends he'd made and the ones who'd been lost. He talked about training squadrons with Wes and about Coruscant and Thyferra and Adumar and everything. He told her about coming to Terra, even if he didn't mention what a bad idea that was. And finally, hours later after it had grown dark outside, he told her about deciding to come back to Ralltiir.

And when he had nothing else to tell, he told her he planned to stay a while, if she'd let him.

She just nodded.


May. 17th, 2007 09:55 am
rogueskeptic: (snow)
Well, he hadn't been declared a criminal yet, or at least no court martial seemed forthcoming. That was good. He'd even managed to find a job for a friend of his. That was better. He would have felt guilty, otherwise. She didn't know it was him, though. She still wasn't talking to him. He still couldn't blame her.

His best friend... )
rogueskeptic: (you're kidding yes?)
There was this girl. Bubbly, he'd described her. Cute. He'd flirted with her and she'd flirted right back. There'd been a date, even. He never went on dates, lately. There went his non-date streak.

Anyway. A girl. A tech. Cute, bubbly, maybe a little too bubbly but also friendly, attractive and into him. She'd even managed to not just make him smile, but make him laugh. And he hadn't been doing it for appearances sake or... anything. He'd meant it.

Amazing, that.

Of course, then he'd gone off and gotten her to help him and Wes go on an unauthorized mission they'd been expressly told not to do wherein they had failed at their objective and Hobbie had gotten himself shot and oh, they were firing the poor girl who'd gotten them flight clearance to leave.

Yeah. He'd tried to contact her. No answer. She hadn't called back. He hadn't expected her to.

Yet another reason why relationships never worked for him.
rogueskeptic: (oh come on)
Soldiers like to compare scars. It's an ego thing, look at this bitch I survived through with no bacta!, or even, it was so bad, it left a scar even after I got dunked in the tank!. It's a thing. A way to make light of death and war and the marks it leaves behind. A way to celebrate, look at me, I'm still alive. They don't acknowledge it's what they're doing but then, they don't have to. They just do it.

Hobbie's got his own scars to show off when the time comes. Sure, he could get the medtechs to remove most of them (they all could), but that's not the point. The scars are badges. A little mark that says, I'm a survivor. And he can tell you what each one stands for. The blaster burn from that firefight on Sullust. The jagged scar on his shoulder from a broken bottle he'd gotten on Ralltiir, just before he'd left home. The small scores and lines on his body from various bits of shrapnel from a dozen or more engagements. The long line around his left arm where he'd almost lost it during the mutiny on the Rand Ecliptic. The mark where he almost lost his right leg in his first mission with the Rebel Alliance.

These are the scars he shows. The ones he lets people see. They speak more loudly than he ever will that though he may be beaten, battered, bloody, he's still here. He's alive.
rogueskeptic: (lip touchy)
If you have to ask me this, you haven't been paying attention.

[this is all he has to say about it, really. Not going to post it in TM since it's short.]
rogueskeptic: (i can kill you with my brain)
I'm a soldier, a pilot. One of my favorite working pasttimes (as it were) is watching ships explode after I shoot lasers or proton torps at them. What do you think?

If you were asking if I wanted to kill another human? Not as a rule, no, no matter what I say about my favorite pasttimes. If it were up to me, nobody'd ever have to kill anybody, but this is a war, and things have to be done. If killing that imp who's on his way to kill me or my wingman or anybody else that I'm backing up keeps my squadronmates alive to see another day? I will damn well kill anybody I have to for that. And it doesn't matter if they're the same species as me anyway. Human, Bothan, Trandoshan, Twi'lek, Wookiee, or cute, adorable little puppy, it's all the same. Of course, with the Empire, it's usually just the regular, average, idiot human.

If you're asking me does it bother me to kill somebody with a face like mine? No more than it bothers me killing anything else.

And that's all there is to it. I hope you aren't expecting anything more out of me.
rogueskeptic: (piloty)
Dear Zaltin Corporation,

I have benefited by your wondrous product for quite a few years now and it's finally occurred to me that maybe I ought to write a letter as I really must be one of your biggest fans. Being that I'm a New Republic pilot and all, I have to say that your bacta has come in handy time and again, saving me from more than a few injuries that would have been otherwise life-threatening. If it weren't for your product, I most certainly would be dead by now and then the Galaxy would be deprived of my dour good looks and witty one-liners which is, you must understand, a great tragedy.

Not only, though, is bacta a life-saving agent that certainly makes it miraculous in and of itself, I've got to say it's got several other properties that make it pretty damn good as well. For one, it keeps my skin soft better than any lotion I've ever seen. You could totally market this as a beauty aid, I think.

I've also been told that it works fantastically as an insect repellant though I haven't had the opportunity to test this out myself. However, after a run in with a particularly vicious stinging insect on Corellia a while back, I am certain that should I ever be in need of insect repellant again (ie. if I have to go back to Corellia), I will certainly be packing some Zaltin bacta in my bag.

I have to admit, though, that for as amazing as your product is, there are a couple of things I wanted to suggest you do in order to make it even better:

1. The color. Sickly pale pink? Can't you do better than that? Maybe a nice cool blue or a really vibrant green or something.

2. The taste. Please, please, please tell me you can do something about the taste. Have you ever had to spend time in a bacta tank then get out only to find that anything you eat or drink for the next week and a half tastes like bacta? It's not a terrible taste (I'm sure it could be worse), but it's definitely not something I want to taste constantly. And lum just shouldn't be bacta-flavored. Seriously.

So there you have it. Keep up the good work! Think about my suggestions. And have a great day!


Major Derek Klivian, New Republic Armed Forces

P.S. If you're looking for someone to do endorsements, I could probably oblige....
rogueskeptic: (disgusted)
Hobbie thought back to the times he'd be slapped -- not as many as Wes, but still a fairly prodigious number. It happened.

He thought back to the girls who'd only been interested in saying they'd been with a hero of the New Republic. Or those who couldn't handle the fact he was gone so often, "One would think," he'd scowled, ranting to Wes once, "that they'd understand the concept of fighter pilot who has to go where the job takes him."

Eventually, he hadn't bothered much with dating anyone, even when the others tried to set him up. Oh, he'd make some form of effort, talking from time to time, but it never went anywhere and he was fine with that. More or less. "It was," he'd once reflected over a glass, "too much effort, anyway." And people like him didn't have relationships, anyway, not those kind. Too much moving, too much uncertainty, too many sleepless nights. Too many chances he'd just end up dead tomorrow anyway.

They don't call it fatalism for nothing.

There's another relationship, almost-relationship, too. But he tries not to think too hard about that one anymore, the what-might-have-been. And anyway, it failed for the same reason the others did and he knows it.

He didn't put in the effort for it. Didn't even try.

Muse: Derek "Hobbie" Klivian
Fandom: Star Wars (Expanded Universe)
Wordcount: 216


Mar. 5th, 2007 09:54 am
rogueskeptic: (laughing)
There was music and for once it actually sounded like music instead of the dying screech of a hawkbat or an ewok in heat or both combined. Hobbie shuddered. That last one was a terrifying thought. But anyway, music. Not only was there music, there was alcohol. In copious amounts. This was something he approved of as a matter of course. There was also a plethora of the opposite sex, which, as a man and a pilot, he was also inclined to agree with. Especially since, as a "Hero of the New Republic" and with Wedge off the market (thank you, Iella!), his stock had risen among said opposite sex rather considerably.

Of course, it was a good thing he and Wes were such good friends or he might be a little put out by the competition. That and the whole "fighting the good fight" and saving the day and everything recently back on Adumar all tended to put Hobbie in a good mood. Or maybe that was the lomin-ale.

Something was missing, though, and it took Hobbie over half of the party to really put his finger on it. Finally, his eyes lit up and he leaned over to Wes, "great party, but you know, it's really missing something."

Wes frowned and raised his eyebrows at his friend curiously, "what's that?"

Utterly straight-faced, Hobbie responded, "ritual duels to the death wherein the parties involved mock each other endlessly first by drawing stick figures in the air."

A bit taken aback, Wes blinked at Hobbie. Then he grinned. "Where's my blastsword?"
rogueskeptic: (Default)
Memories are funny things. One can completely push something to the back of their mind. Assume that thing is gone. Or at least as much gone as makes no nevermind, and never think about that memory again for years.


...until you come across a breeze or a sight or scent or a sound or a word or a person or nothing at all and suddenly...

...suddenly you aren't you anymore, you're him.

A young, towheaded boy laughing for the sheer pleasure of it. Laughing because you've discovered something you're sure no one else in the, the galaxy has discovered (look at this amazing rock that obviously fell from space and originally belonged to aliens nobody ever heard of before except for me!) and you rush to tell your father and in your excitement the words come tumbling out of you in a confused babble and-

You stumble back, a surprised and confused and hurt expression on your face, one hand touching a smarting red mark now covering your cheek. Your father growls something about not bothering him with nonsense.

Your mother says nothing.

You go to your room and look down at the rock you still held clutched in one hand. It's just a rock now, like every other. You throw it away.

Your cheek burns.

wordcount: 210
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