Author: Findswoman Title: The Rains of Scarif Era: Saga–OT: around 0 ABY Characters: Tynnra Pamlo, Mon Mothma, mentions of other Rebels and Rebel officers from Rogue One, and one more… Genre: AU, vignette, drama Summary: Two senators’ reminiscences shortly after the Rogue One expedition… Notes: Written for tier two (five prompts, 48 hours) of the Mods’ Time Trials challenge. The prompts I received were the following: Spoiler: prompts 1. Your TV Tropes is: First Law of Resurrection 2. Your weather forecast is: driving rain 3. Your random word is: addlepated – being mixed up, confused; eccentric 4. Your required line of dialogue is: “Why didn’t he come and talk to me himself?” 5. Your picture prompt is: http://awritinghand.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/Time-Stands-Still-800x445.jpg Many, many thanks to @Raissa Baiard for beta-reading on very short notice. Republic senators Mon Mothma and Tynnra Pamlo stood at the viewport inside the parked shuttle, waiting. They were not exactly sure what exactly they were waiting for. For the driving rain to stop? Perhaps, though there was little chance of that after what had happened. The planet’s oceans had boiled dry in the white-hot death blast—and all that steam had needed to go somewhere. Where it had gone was up into the atmosphere to form clouds upon clouds upon clouds—clouds now pouring down torrents that made Kamino’s infamous rains seem like a pleasant drizzle. For yes, this was Scarif. The two senators were the first members of the Alliance to visit the erstwhile ocean planet since the catastrophic but pivotal expedition three months before. Pamlo had insisted in the strongest of terms. She, and her homeworld of Taris, had been against the mission from the start—but her warnings had not been heeded. True, the Empire’s horrendous superweapon had been destroyed—but too soon afterward the base on Yavin had been discovered and blockaded; and now, without that central bastion, the Alliance was scattered, and many of its smaller outposts besieged. All at the cost of the lives of sixteen brave Rebels who had defied orders—and countless more who had joined them in the fight. The least the leaders of the Alliance could do, Pamlo had argued, was to go to the place where those lives had been lost; it was the only sincere way to pay their last respects. (Others had argued against it, of course—Draven most vocally of all, not wanting to relive what felt to him like a bitter failure—but Mothma had agreed to accompany her sometime university classmate and longtime friend.) And now the they stood there together, waiting for the rain, waiting for something—and time stood still with them. Every so often one of them would glance at her chrono, not knowing why. It was Pamlo who spoke first. “So this is the place, huh?” “Yes.” Mothma didn’t look at her as she replied. “According to the readouts we are are approximately eight-tenths of a klick southeast of former site of Citadel Tower.” “I’ll take their word for it.” Mothma allowed herself a small, wry smile at this remark, and but for the pounding of the rain there was silence for a few moments. Finally Mothma spoke again. “Was it worth it, Tynnra? Any of it?” “There’s no way to know,” Pamlo shrugged. “There’s just no way to know.” “I suppose not,” Mothma sighed. “But when I think of it all—of all the things I could have done—” “Moni, don’t beat yourself up about this—” “—take the whole Erso business. Just what did Davits think he was doing with that assassination order? We could have arranged for some kind of perfectly quiet extraction, per the original plan—” “Moni—” “—but no, he had to take matters into his own hands, and now Galen is dead anyway, and his daughter—and all of them—” Mothma’s voice cracked and quavered, and she turned her eyes aside. “And all because Davits—oh, what was the man thinking? Why didn’t he come and talk to me himself?” “Because he was a damn addlepated fool, that’s why,” Pamlo growled in a voice not too unlike the roar of the rain. “Yes, I suppose so.” Again Mothma smiled despite herself. “I suppose we all are these days. War does that to one.” “Which is exactly why I’ve always said—” Pamlo stopped short. “Sorry, I shouldn’t. Not now.” “No, Tynnra, you were right—you were right all along.” Mothma sighed and looked distantly out into the downpour for several moments, glancing uselessly at her chrono. “Just think what they could have done for us if they had lived. That droid knew everything about Imperial security—the pilot too. The Drabatan munitions fellow—a real pro. Galen and all his expertise. And his daughter—” Here she crumpled and quavered again, almost in tears. “Oh, Tynnra, she’s the one I really let down—she could have become one of our best fighters, and I treated her like a—” She stopped suddenly short as a dull knocking sound pierced the rain. Pamlo, too, came closer to look. A shadowy, indeterminate, and vaguely humanoid figure had emerged from the rain-haze and was standing near the viewport, knocking on it. The two senators looked at each other: they couldn’t simply leave someone outside in a downpour like this. Pamlo (since it was her shuttle) activated the controls for the hatch. For a moment, only the rain and its roar came in—but soon so did the figure they had seen at the window. A soaked, bedraggled, Human figure in a gray shirt and vest and scarf, with auburn hair and twinkling slate-blue eyes… Mothma gasped as she saw. “Sergeant Erso…” “Reporting for duty,” came the reply, along with a crisp, almost playful salute. Again the senators exchanged glances, then Pamlo began tentatively. “If you don’t mind our asking—how’d you—I mean, there must be some reason why—” “Easy enough.” The slate eyes glinted. “The blast kicked up that big tidal wave, you know, but it boiled away by the time it reached me. All I had to do was lie face down on the shore till it passed.” Mothma was still speechless and agape, so it was Pamlo who asked, “And… then what?” “Oh, I just sheltered in the ruins once everything died down. I’ve been trying to eat the, er, lovely boiled seafood... not exactly easy, but at least there’s been lots to wash it down with. But listen—Cassian is out there somewhere, and we need to br—Hey! Mmph!—” For her words had been cut short by a powerful hug from Mon Mothma, who was now crying tears to match the rainwater soaking them both. ¶ Spoiler: notes A few notes on characterization: I admit that Mothma gets pretty emotional in this story, and I know the canon portrayals of her are not like that at all—but, then again, we don’t really get to see her private side in canon very much, and I figure that at the end of the day she’s a sentient being, not a marble statue. Also, the friendship and classmateship between Mon Mothma and Senator Tynnra Pamlo of Taris is my own fanon (as is the nickname “Moni”), but it is established (in Mothma’s Wook entry) that Mon Mothma greatly admired Jyn Erso and thought she could have done great things for the Rebellion if she had lived. I also admit that the business of the rain resulting from the boiling up of the Scarif oceans is somewhat pulled out of my ear. But heck, for a 48-hour story, what does one want? https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Citadel_Tower (the main tower of the Imperial security complex on Scarif) https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Davits_Draven “The droid”: K-2SO. “The pilot”: Bodhi Rook. “The Drabatan munitions fellow”: Paodok’Draba’Takat. “Cassian is out there somewhere…”: A riff on the last words spoken in A Certain Recent SW Animated Series… three guesses which.