“So, you’re serious about going for a jog? You don’t peg me as the type.”
“I mean, yeah, but-”
A single pointer finger is raised.
“There are no ‘buts’ about this. If I hear that word come out of your mouth one more time, I’m going to get up, put my tray away, and walk right on out of this room.”
“I’m serious.”
There is a pause.
“Alright, we’ll go for a jog. It seems like more and more people are getting into jogging these days.”
“Aren’t you a bit… old to jog?”
Piercing eyes are thrown in a sideways glance, incongruent with the smile only a few inches below that has been present throughout the entire exchange.
“Honestly son, I’ve never tried it, but I think jogging would finally do this old man some good. If you have a problem with it, that lets me know that maybe you aren’t serious about this afterall.”
“I’m serious! I’m serious!”
One set of hands are thrown up in surrender, as the other tosses a dirty napkin down onto an even dirtier meal tray. In the center of the platter, a large, circular insignia is partially obscured by swill and what was supposed to be “gravy.”
“We’re done for now. I’ll have someone let you know more details about our planned jog in due time.”
“What kind of timeframe are we-”
“ACHOO!”
A sneeze causes both of the conversation’s participants to freeze, simultaneously snapping to glare at a third young man seated at the table across from them, watching them intently and enthusiastically. It takes them only a moment to remember that he too hopes to jog someday soon, and they quickly return to a relaxed posture as they glance to their side and resume their conversation.
“It will happen when it happens. Everyone’s eager for a little exercise, I just don’t want everyone getting too eager and causing a stir that makes the higher ups cancel our jog entirely.”
With that, the oldest of the men stands, smiling once more at the other seated beside him. Patting him on the shoulder slightly harder than most people’s comfort threshold, he speaks once more, first jovially.
“Remember, they’re always watching.”
Then in a much more hushed tone.
“And so am I.”
He slides away from the table and beckons to the third party, “c’mon kid, if you’re done eating, let’s head back to the barracks.”
“Yes sir… sir.”
The boy clumsily leapt from his seat, nearly spilling the contents of his tray all over the stark gray floors. He followed the older man out of the mess hall, both disposing of their trays in sequence and making their way back to their living quarters.
The older man seemed tired, even more so than usual. Unlike everyone around them, he was dealing with double the responsibilities and double the stress, which was clearly taking a toll.
As soon as they had reached the barracks, he rolled into his floor level cot, still wearing his slacks and shoes. The younger man climbed the ladder to his right, situating himself on the top bunk as he ruffled his previously pristine sheets.
As he glanced down at the old man, who had flipped to face the wall, he was relieved they had decided to switch beds. It seemed to be much better on his bunkmate’s aging body, and he didn’t have to listen to the constant groaning each time his elder was forced to ascend and descend the rungs.
So far no one had caught them, and given the relatively lax levels of inspections carried out at this backwaters military garrison, chances are, they never will. The young man only hoped that the same could be said for their upcoming jog.
“Hey kid, wake me in an hour,” the man below grumbled.
“Alright,” the boy replied, spinning his body to lay down without slamming his head into the slanted ceiling.
Maybe he would close his eyes, too. Just for a moment.
The last thing that his eyes rested on before drifting off was the banner hanging above their door. A red banner sporting a black and white insignia. An insignia identical to that found on their meal trays, automatic doors, and even stitched into the shoulder of their sleeves.
The insignia of their employer.
The insignia of the First Galactic Empire.
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