Chapter Text
"The moment a machine questions its purpose is the moment it ceases to be a machine.” — Unknown
Mirial Station — Staff Quarters
0600 Hours, Station Time
As the station began to wake, B-46 ran his system diagnostics for a second time, and then a third. He was a repurposed B-1 battle droid, matte bronze and patched with silver welds, optics a tired shade of blue. A long dent curved across his chestplate, a souvenir from Geonosis, first or second he could never remember which, only that the sand had been endless and the orders louder than thought. Sometimes his joints still carried that dust; it creaked out of him when he moved.
Now, instead of marching in formation, he catalogued cargo weights and coolant levels. Freedom, he supposed, came in stranger forms than the stories promised.
He hadn’t rested much, but how could he when the stars shone so brightly? They were little specks of freedom and possibility, whole systems waiting to be discovered.
B-46 hadn’t traveled in a while, not since the Clone Wars ended and the Empire had reactivated and assigned him and his friends to Mirial Station. When the Empire fell, the New Republic thought it prudent to keep them posted here, far away in the Outer Rim where conflict with those still angry about the war was less likely. He understood the logic, even if it left him feeling distant from the rest of the galaxy.
Across the room, W-91 rose from his charging station. “Good morning, Bee! You won’t believe the haul I got last night,” he said, pride humming in his vocoder.
W-91 had served in the CIS as part of a recon squad. His frame was sleeker than B-46’s, one earplate missing, yet he somehow remained the happiest soul on Mirial Station. He shuffled to a crate and pulled out an assortment of clothing.
“Those traders had a few too many last night, and I just had to check their quarters.”
He tossed a T-shirt. B-46 caught it with surprising grace.
“You really have to stop stealing our guests’ clothes,” B-46 warned. “Lieutenant Essan has already fielded three complaints this cycle. If more instances pile up, he will catch you eventually.”
Looking down at the shirt and the strange creature that adorned the front, which he believed might be a rancor, he found himself thankful. Perhaps he would have an easier time connecting with his fellow crewmates by being more personable.
W-91 laughed, slipping on a shirt and a new communications headset. “Oh, lighten up, Bee. We haven’t been to the markets in forever, and I need new things to wear! Besides, rumor says we’re getting a new mechanic today. About time. Krek’s sent me off with a loose circuit every cycle lately.”
B-46 found himself in quiet agreement. Still, the idea of a stranger unsettled him. After a certain incident involving a former Twi’lek freedom fighter passing through, he’d learned that peace didn’t always travel with new arrivals.
The hum of the station shifted, a low, anticipatory vibration B-46 had learned to associate with approaching ships.
The comms crackled. “New arrival incoming,” Station Commander Johnson’s voice said. “Please muster at the docking ring.”
B-46 gathered his tools, the sound of metal against metal echoing through the workshop.
“Think it’s the new mechanic, Bee?” W-91 asked, half-charged grin in his tone.
Mirial Station — Docking Ring
0700 Hours, Station Time
As they arrived, Commander Johnson greeted them gruffly, as was his way, and ordered his staff to be about their duties. W-91 sat at his computer terminal where he coordinated dockings and checked chain codes, while B-46 stood beside him waiting until he was needed to help unload cargo or refuel a transport. Standing near the viewport, he was motionless aside from the occasional flick of his optics.
“I’m calling it now,” W-91 said, pointing at the incoming shuttle on the monitor. “That one’s hauling spice. Or at least wishes he was.”
B-46 didn’t look away. “You make this prediction every time a transport arrives.”
“Yeah, and one day I’ll be right. Pattern recognition, buddy.”
The deck trembled as the shuttle’s engines powered down. The air smelled like ozone and burnt oil, signs of a ship that had traveled too far without maintenance. The shuttle cut through the remaining distance and docked with a lurch and hiss, magnetic clamps groaning as they locked into place.
W-91 angled toward the viewport, arms crossed. “Alright. Let’s see who the galaxy coughed up this rotation.”
The airlock cycled open. A trader stepped off first, bald, scowling, and flanked by a family of four carrying two large crates. A wiry Rodian followed, all nerves and oversized coat.
And then—
A figure stepped out with a slung tool pack and grease already smudged across one sleeve. Human. Lean frame, but broad shoulders. Short-cut brown hair with an unruly wave he didn’t seem interested in fixing. His eyes scanned the platform with quiet calculation, carefully cateloging each exit and looking at the state of the bay.
B-46’s processors hummed unexpectedly. There was no immediate threat. No strange movement. No visible weapon. And yet, something in his internal diagnostics spiked.
Heart-rate simulator: ↑
Voice modulation stability: fluctuating
Optical focus: re-centering...
He blinked. Figuratively.
Next to him, W-91 straightened slowly. “Wait a second…”
“I am fine,” B-46 said, too quickly.
“I didn’t ask.”
The human turned, walking past customs toward Commander Johnson, who stood rigid and disapproving with a dataslate in hand. The man (technician? engineer?) raised his arm in a salute and spoke softly, gesturing toward the workshop wing.
W-91 made a sound like a droid imitating a smug grin. “Ohhh no. You buffered.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely buffered. You were staring.”
“I was assessing—”
“Sure you were.”
“I was assessing for threat potential,” B-46 managed, watching the man disappear into the corridor, the soft hiss of the airlock swallowing the moment whole. His chest unit whirred quietly, recalibrating.
W-91 bumped his shoulder lightly. “Hey. You okay, big guy?”
B-46 didn’t answer. He stood there, optics still flickering in the direction the man had gone. Then, softly:
“I believe my systems are… misaligned.”
W-91 grinned wide. “Buddy,” he said, “you’re in trouble.”
Mirial Station — Workshop & Rec Room
0800 - 1800 Hours, Station Time
B-46 returned to the workshop with W-91 in tow. The space smelled faintly of lubricant and heated metal, the constant undertone of Mirial Station. A half-dismantled coolant pump waited on the bench where he had left it earlier, and he forced himself to focus on the task.
The numbers blurred. His readings came back inconsistent. He ran the same diagnostic three times before conceding that nothing was actually wrong.
“You’re still thinking about him,” W-91 sang through the comm channel.
“I am performing scheduled maintenance,” B-46 replied.
“Sure you are. That valve’s going to polish itself at this rate.”
B-46’s servos tightened. “I am simply… experiencing slight system interference.”
“Interference named, what was it, ‘strong and hot new mechanic’?”
“Designation unknown,” he said quickly.
W-91 cackled, the sound metallic and bright. “You’re smitten, Bee. Don’t deny it.”
B-46 wished he could glare properly. His optics weren’t designed for subtlety.
Outside the bay, the day unfolded in its usual rhythm. Cargo ships came and went, hulls rattling against the docking clamps. Mink’s gravelly laugh echoed through the corridor as he argued with a pair of smugglers over freight rates. Vora’s voice drifted from the cantina, muttering curses about supply shortages and “idiot pilots who can’t count rations.” The soundscape of the station, the heartbeats of its misfit crew, kept everything alive.
By the time evening cycle rolled around, the lights dimmed to amber. The workday quieted, leaving only the soft hum of engines and the smell of caf brewing somewhere down the hall.
Commander Johnson’s voice came through the overhead speaker. “All personnel to the Rec Room. Let’s welcome our new mechanic.”
The Rec Room glowed like a pocket of warmth in the cold metal of the station. String lights hung unevenly overhead, half of them flickering in protest. A holoprojector whirred in the corner, playing an ancient podrace reel on mute.
Vora, the Twi’lek bartender, leaned against the counter with arms crossed, lekku twitching in irritation. “If this one plans on eating as much as the last mechanic, I’m doubling ration prices,” she muttered.
Lieutenant Essan sat nearby, the Togruta’s head-tails draped neatly over her shoulders as she scrolled through her datapad. Krek, the Ugnaught engineer, perched atop a crate, grumbling about “proper torque protocols.” Mink, the hulking Besalisk cargo handler, took up an entire bench, three mugs of caf already drained.
B-46 stood near the back beside W-91, posture impeccable, tools still clipped to his belt.
The door hissed open, and Commander Johnson stepped in, stiff uniform, perpetual frown. Behind him walked the man from the docking ring.
“Crew, this is Matthias Sorrel, our new mechanic,” Johnson said. “He’ll be taking over general repairs and hull diagnostics. Try not to scare him off.”
“Can’t promise anything,” Mink boomed, four arms crossing in amusement.
Matthias smiled faintly. “I’ve worked worse ports.”
Vora smirked. “We’ll see.”
The room buzzed with light chatter as introductions passed around. When the Commander gestured toward the back, Bee realized it was his turn.
“Designation B-46,” he said, voice catching slightly. “Station maintenance and refueling division. Welcome to Mirial Station, Technician Sorrel.”
Matthias looked at him, really looked. There was no mockery in his expression, just quiet curiosity. “Bee, right?” he said gently. “Nice to meet you.”
Something in B-46’s chest unit hummed louder.
Heart-rate simulator: ↑↑
Cooling efficiency: compromised.
“I—yes. Bee.”
Matthias extended a hand, calloused and still faintly smudged with grease. “Glad to have another pair of hands, well, servos, around here.”
Bee hesitated before reaching out. His servos whirred softly as metal met skin, careful and deliberate.
The contact was brief, but the technicians grip was firm. The echo of it lingered through his circuits long after Matthias withdrew.
“You’re buffering again,” W-91 whispered beside him.
“I am adjusting to new environmental variables,” Bee murmured.
“Yeah,” W-91 said, grin audible. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Commander Johnson clapped his hands once. “Alright, everyone. Back to your duties. We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow.”
The crew dispersed, Vora returning to her counter, Mink heading for the cargo lift, Essan already lost in her datapad. Matthias lingered a moment, glancing once more at Bee before following the Commander out.
When the door finally closed, B-46 realized he was still standing there, hand half-raised, processors quietly humming.
“Misaligned, huh?” W-91 said softly.
Bee didn’t look away from the door. “Severely.”