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DeeJay has a minion!

Phasma the Eloa




DeeJay


The Scribble Serpenth
Owner: Balloon

Age: 1 year, 2 months, 3 days

Born: December 16th, 2017

Adopted: 1 year, 2 months, 3 days ago

Adopted: December 16th, 2017


Pet Spotlight Winner
February 20th, 2018

Statistics


  • Level: 47
     
  • Strength: 117
     
  • Defense: 118
     
  • Speed: 117
     
  • Health: 118
     
  • HP: 118/118
     
  • Intelligence: 203
     
  • Books Read: 199
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Web Developer


profile and story by Balloon - photo from The Last Jedi
fan pet for the character DJ from Star Wars

Web Developer at Bits and Bytes


Her blue eye burned up at him from within the cracked helmet, as full of resentment as any eye that had ever looked at him—and plenty of eyes had held plenty of resentment for DJ over the years.

“Look, you really n-n-need to take the helmet off,” he argued.  “Your face is probably burned, and I kn-n-now it’s bruised, I can see it right—ow!”  DJ yelped when Captain Phasma smacked away the hand he’d been reaching toward her face.  He shook the sting out of his hand and shoved it into the pocket of his coat, then glared down at her and chewed on his lip.

He didn’t get it.  She’d taken off the rest of her armor as soon as he got her on the ship.  Yeah, she took it off slowly, had to with a broken arm and a broken leg and a broken who knew what else, but she took it off on the bunk and sat there in her tattered black bodysuit and treated her burns herself with one of the ship’s medical kits.  DJ watched her do it, despite the scorching glare she turned on him from time to time.  Didn’t give him a single word of thanks for saving her hide—and he was a little surprised to discover that she even had a hide under all that chrome—just glared at him, and did it with only one eye because she left the stupid helmet on.

When DJ had tried to help her with an especially nasty burn, already blistering up the shin of her broken leg where she couldn’t quite reach it, she’d slugged him in the jaw.  He generally prided himself on keeping his temper, but he couldn’t help grumbling about how ungrateful she was being.

In response, Phasma spoke the only sentence she’d said to him thus far: “You should have left me to die.”

DJ had already made sure there wasn’t anything in the cabin she could use to hurt him.  The only weapons left in the room were Phasma’s fists and feet (and her mouth, probably, but with the helmet on, at least she couldn’t bite him), and while DJ was smart enough not to underestimate those, he figured she was mostly harmless until her broken limbs could be set.

“Don’t you want some painkillers?” DJ asked Phasma after another couple minutes crept by.  “There’s plenty here, and it’s gonna be a while before I can find you a m-m-medic where we’re going.”

The blue eye had been staring, vague and unfocused, at the rip in Phasma’s leggings that exposed her blistered shin; but at DJ’s comment, she pinned him with her glare again.

“Where are you taking me?” she snapped.

DJ replied, “Where I told your General Hu-hu-hux I was going when we n-n-negotiated for my payment—somewhere on the edge of the galaxy where I can get n-n-nice and lost.”

Phasma’s eye burned with all the fire of a blue-white star, and she snarled, “Not with me, you are not.  If you’re intent on ransoming me, why would you take me away from the First Order?”

Sighing, DJ began, “Look, lady—”

Captain.

Captain Lady, m-m-my plans changed.”

“I suppose you think you’re being funny,” Phasma hissed.

“No, I don’t stutter to be funny,” DJ replied, deadpan, but her eye wavered in its glare for the first time.

She glanced aside and muttered, “I was not referring to that.”  Then she looked right back at him again and demanded, “Then what are your ‘plans’ now?  The First Order will pay you nothing to ensure my return.  Nothing.

DJ frowned as he pondered this.  He started to sit down on the edge of the bunk, but when Phasma drew back her good leg a little, he realized he was inviting a literal kick in the butt.  He resorted to leaning against the console by the bunk instead and drumming his fingers against it.

“I kn-n-now your reputation, Captain,” he muttered.  “You’re invaluable to them—to General Hu-hu-hux especially.  When they learn that you’re still alive, and that I rescued you—”

“You are wrong.”  She spoke without shame, and without breaking eye contact with him.  “They will not want me back.  I am worthless to them now that I am damaged.  General Hux would be the first to tell you that you have wasted your time.”

For a moment, DJ just stared at her.  Yeah, the woman—okay, the captain was hurt, and hurt pretty badly, but it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t get better.  When DJ looked at her, he saw a soldier taller than him and stronger than him, with powerful arms and legs that went on for miles and a finely honed body that would heal quickly enough with the right care.

Finally, he blurted out, “Listen to you, you’re talking like you’re a m-m-machine—a ship or a droid or something.  ‘Damaged.’”

“No,” said Phasma, “droids can be repaired.”

“Well so can you—I m-m-mean, you’ll get better if you—”

“You have not answered my question,” the captain spoke over him.  “Why are we flying toward the edge of the galaxy?”

“Because whether the First Order is going to want you back or not, this isn’t a good time to swing by for a chat,” DJ informed her.  “Last I heard, they did track what’s left of the Resistance down to the surface of that planet you guys were so sure they were eying—but the Resistance is fighting back.”

Phasma turned her head toward him so sharply, her battered helmet rattled.

“Fighting back?”  The sheer disbelief in her voice amused DJ, despite his irritation at the whole situation.  The woma—captain sounded so utterly amazed that the Resistance hadn’t just given up and surrendered. . . even though they hadn’t given up and surrendered any of the other hundred or so other times their cause seemed hopeless.

Whatever sort of head’s under that helmet, it’s full of ideals and opinions on how things are supposed to be, DJ decided as he nodded solemnly at Phasma.  Sometime, I’ll have to ask her just how that’s different from the Resistance fighters she despises so much.

Aloud, DJ went on, “With you already being damaged and all, I decided to get us both away from the fighting for a while.  Get you he-he-healed up, and let things calm down.  Even when your precious First Order finally has their little Resistance problem ha-ha-handled, I’m sure they’ll welcome you back, despite your concerns.”

She glared up at him with the one eye, and he gazed back until he thought of something else and added with a shrug, “And uh, if the Resistance should m-m-manage to come out on top—since they seem to ha-ha-have that kind of dumb luck—I bet they’ll pay for you too.  I bet they’ll pay a lot.”

The blue-white star of an eye widened, just for a second; then it narrowed and cut straight into him.

“You cowardly, duplicitous scum,” the captain hissed.

DJ shrugged again and said, “Yeah, well, so you’re better’n m-m-me.  You don’t gotta keep that bucket over your he-he-head to prove your point, so why dotcha take it off and let m-m-me fix your face?”

She blinked her eye.  “Better than. . . what are you going on about?”

“Oh, you know,” DJ retorted with feigned casualness, “you’ve got your perfect en-n-nunciation, and your belief that since you’re a little scuffed up, you’d be better off dead.  All those pretty, high-minded convictions that m-m-make you a captain first and a person n-n-never.”  His fingers drummed faster against the console without him realizing it, until they sounded a rippling tattoo as he finished: “Hu-hu-hiding your face doesn’t m-m-make me feel like less than you—the m-m-most you’ll get out of it is an infection from not treating those burns.”

Phasma sat silent a moment; then she leaned toward him a little and said, “Take it off me, then.”

DJ hadn’t expected his rant to have any effect on her, but she seemed to mean it—at least, that eye stayed fixed on his face when he reached for the helmet, and she didn’t try to hit him this time.  He grasped the bottom rim of the dented helmet and lifted.  Phasma hissed when some of her burnt skin came away with the faceplate; even DJ winced at the sound it made.

Yet when he set the helmet aside on the console and got his first look at her, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.  Phasma had a couple old scars and the nasty fresh burn on her cheeks, and there was the bruising he’d seen where the helmet had cracked around her left eye.  She had a pretty, oddly innocent-seeming face framed by short blond hair all mussed and sweaty from the helmet and the fire and nearly dying and everything.  Now two starry blue eyes glared up at him, wide-set in the angelic and slightly sooty face.  Even “damaged,” DJ decided, the captain was a looker.

“You’d’ve ended up with a hu-hu-hole in your face if you left that thing on m-m-much longer,” he informed her as he rummaged through the first aid kit for more antiseptic.  She didn’t reply, but she held still for him to clean the burn on her cheek.  In fact, she barely even flinched although it must have stung like hell.

When he was finishing up, DJ asked her, “You want anything to eat?”

“No,” she said.

He sighed, trashed the used antiseptic pad, and tried again: “Anything to drink?”  Phasma didn’t answer until he turned and looked down at her again, eyebrows raised.

She wasn’t even looking back at him, but she muttered, “Yes, water.”  Then she lifted her eyes up to his and added in the smallest, most reluctant voice he could ever imagine her using, “Please.”

“Sure,” DJ said, and he sauntered off to the galley reveling in how gracious he was being.

Phasma downed the whole glass of water he brought her without pausing for breath, but she refused when he offered to bring her another.  She also refused when he asked her a second time if she wanted the painkillers, even when he told her he wouldn’t leave them with her in case she changed her mind.

“Of course you won’t,” she replied, “because I might inject them all at once, and then you wouldn’t get any payout from the First Order or the Resistance.”

“Right,” DJ muttered.  He tossed the hypodermic he was holding back into the first aid kit and slammed the lid shut, then tucked the kit into an interior pocket of his coat.  “Call on the intercom if you change your m-m-mind, or you n-n-need anything else.  I won’t lock you in since I guess even you can’t get very far on a broken leg, Captain.  I’ll trust you n-n-not to steal the ship out from under m-m-me.”

“Even if I could take control of the ship, where would I go?” Phasma murmured, looking down at her muscular legs in their ripped leggings.  DJ knew she wasn’t asking him.  “What use could I be to anyone now that I’ve failed the First Order?”

DJ turned away from her and headed for the cabin door.  He was already certain she wouldn’t use the intercom, wouldn’t ask him for anything—she’d have to eat something sooner or later, but to get her to do it, he’d probably have to beg.  He was halfway out the door when she stopped him.

“DJ.”  He froze in the doorway until Phasma asked, with less confidence, “You did say that was your name, correct?”

“Yeah. . . ?”  DJ came back in a few steps, until the automatic door slid closed behind him with a “snick.”

Phasma drew in a breath, then said all at once, “I do not think I’m better than you—except for the fact that you are a coward, and duplicitous, and scum if you’re truly considering making any deals with the Resistance.”

DJ smiled a little and said, “Oh, I’m n-n-not offended at that.  You can call m-m-me scum if you want, I’m kinda starting to like it.”  Her eyebrows quirked upward slightly before she continued.

“I would never judge your worth based upon how you speak or what you look like, only upon your actions—and I should thank you for those.”

DJ hid his surprise by folding his arms over his chest and scoffing, “Really.”

Phasma narrowed her eyes but replied, “Yes, really.  You should have left me to die, but you did not, and you’ve been kinder to me since then than you would have to be.  So.  Thank you.”

“Then you’re welcome, Captain,” DJ said.  She nodded, and just maybe there was the faintest hint of the tiniest smile around her mouth.  DJ thought he could learn to like that smile quite a bit, and that it might even be worth all the trouble that would inevitably come along with it.

“I’ll get you to a doctor soon,” he promised.  “And uh, if you’re right and the First Order’s too stupid to want you back. . . I’m gonna be n-n-needing some protection with a fancy ship like this.  Someone who can fight, kinda watching m-m-my back.”

“That sounds like your problem, not mine,” replied Phasma.  But then she glanced over at her old helmet, and the look on her bruised, blistered face made DJ think she might change her mind, eventually.

“Right,” said DJ.  He started for the door again, then stopped and said over his shoulder, “If the hu-hu-helmet thing was about your looks, you shouldn’t’ve worried.  You’re awfully pretty, you kn-n-now.”

Indignance burned in Phasma’s eyes at the same time as a blush burned on her cheeks.  But then she pursed her lips and replied, “You know. . . you’re not.”

DJ threw his head back and cackled with a laugh that kept him smiling all the way back to the bridge, and a good while after that besides.

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D Sticker

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How To: Safe Crackery

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