Sub-Lieutenant Wesley “Wax” Waxpool released a string of expletives as the view of his cockpit filled with a monstrous sight. Here he was, on a training patrol, where all he was supposed to do was fly loops and fire on training drones, and what did he face instead? A MC-90 Calamari Cruiser, that’s what! One of the largest cruisers in the whole forsaken Rebel military, and it had just dropped into this sector in the middle of a training mission! He may as well have been caught with his pants down.

Good thing that never stopped him before.

Wax threw any remaining laser energy into pumping up his shields, then kicked his throttle to max and headed straight towards the cruiser. Back in the old days, he’d never have dreamed of doing this. He’d have retreated back to base, or slunk behind his fellow pilots, waiting for others to make the first decision, take the first hit… making it easier for him to justify holding back, avoiding direct fire. But that had been in the days of flying a lowly, unshielded TIE Fighter. Not like now. Now he flew a Godfighter. He might as well command the Force! He had a TIE Defender! Four SFS L-s9.3 laser cannons paired with twin Borstel NK-3 medium ion cannons bursting with power! A pair of Novaldex deflector shield generators pumping out 100 SBD of practical invulnerability!

And if that wasn’t enough, the rockers housed in his SFS M-g-2 general-purpose warhead launchers would bring down a power the likes of which he had never commanded before.

For once in his life, it wasn’t time to fall back. It was go time!

“Typhoon 1-4, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Wax barely recognized the voice of his squadron commander. He had only been stationed on the Challenge for less than a week, not long enough to get to know anyone. He’d never dreamed of re-enlisting in the Imperial Navy. Truthfully, it had been a relief when he had first been discharged. “Now my life can begin!”, he remembered thinking. “I can do anything!” he had once thought.

Turned out, there wasn’t a whole lot out there to do. Or, at least, not a lot out there that anyone wanted him to do.

So when a fellow nerf herder told him that an Imperial Remnant was nearby recruiting anyone with flying experience, Wax jumped at the chance. His past experience got him quickly out of being a Cadet again, and now here he was: flying the greatest ship ever created, face-to-face with the largest warbeast those demonic Mon Calamari had ever spawned.

What the hell was he doing? For once in his life, he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing!

“Rebel cruiser in-bound!” Wax screamed through the radio, his voice slightly cracking. “Read one MC-90! Less than five clicks from the Challenge!”

Wax cleared his throat before saying the next part. He wanted this one to sound clean, crisp. And well, you know. Heroic.

“I’m starting my attack run!”

“The hell you are!” the voice screamed back at him. “Check your IFFs! You’re on an attack course against friendlies!”

Wax barely heard his squadron commander. He knew an enemy when he saw one, and this cruiser had him focused. Determined. He switched to his rockets and set them to dual fire. Left his targeting computer off. He wouldn’t need it. Not against a ship this big. He couldn’t miss.

“Looks like the training scenario just changed…” Wax heard another pilot say over the radio. Damn straight it has.

He was too focused, too zoned in, to hear much of the chatter afterwards.

“Typhoon Flight 2, come about force Typhoon 1-4 to disengage.”

“You’re the one with the ion cannons, Typhoon Leader.”

“Fine! Typhoon Flight 2, hit your SLAMS and engage in missile prevention. Typhoon Flight 3, assist where possible. Typhoon Flight 1, ions live. I’m updating your IFFs. Engage Typhoon 1-4.”

Wax barely made out what they were saying, but it sounded like they were fixing their IFF issue, and engaging with him. Good. He might be flying an invincible godcraft, but this was an MC-90. He still needed all the support he could get.

He was closing in. Before long, he found himself in cannon range. Wax started weaving, dodging, ready for the cannons to begin at any moment. Oddly, they didn’t. That didn’t deter Wax though. Instead, he felt relief and reaffirmation. He had seized the moment. He’d gone after the MC90 the second it exited hyperspace, and now he had the advantage. He had a window to get a clean shot in. And he was going to take it.

He was, however, surprised as his craft began to shake from laser fire hitting from behind. What was going on? Had the MC90 scrambled fighters already? No, that wasn’t possible. Perhaps it had hypered in with fighters? How had Wax missed it?

No matter. He was an invincible TIE Defender. There was nothing to fear. He kept dodging. He was too close now. Just another half a click and it’d be impossible to miss, even without his targeting computer.

He fired his first pair of rockets.

Almost instantly, both immediately exploded, seemingly destroyed by laser fire. But from where? Wax didn’t have time to consider the possibilities. Instead, he dove into a wild dive, throwing all his laser power into his engines and heading towards the MC-90 on what might as well have been a collision course, if it wasn’t for the superior maneuverability of the TIE Defender.

He fired another pair of rockets.

This time he didn’t wait to see if they hit. He continued his wild weave, swinging around in patterns he barely gave time to even think about before doing them. As soon as he found himself face-to-face again with the MC-90, he fired off a third pair of rockets, then swung around for another weave.

Only to find himself face to face with three TIE Defenders, pouring ion cannons directly into him.

All the alarms on his ship came alive, as he tried to pull away from his attackers. His engines were down. His shields were barely alive. His rockets… he still had one last pair of rockets.

And a clean shot, only a quarter of a click away from the MC-90.

He fired. He fired knowing it might be the last thing he ever did. How did this happen? When did the Rebels get TIE Defenders? Nothing about this made sense. None of this made any sense!

Especially the part where his rockets hit their target, and all they did was spray blue paint over the hull of the rebel cruiser.

His weapon systems cut out. Looking at his console, all that was still operational were his life support systems. His ship had been completely disabled. He was dead in the water.

He was dead.

Wax’s comm system started to light up with chatter

“You let one get through Typhoon Flight 2.”

“You try stopping eight missiles in one of these things. We’re designed for firing missiles, not stopping them! We’re working with a single laser cannon over here!”

“No excuses, Typhoon 2-2.”

“I’m pretty sure those training missiles move a lot faster than the real thing too…”

“No excuses! Still, good job reacting to the moment.”

“TUG inbound from the Challenge to collect Typhoon 1-4.”

“Alright, I think that’s enough ‘training’ for the day. Typhoon Flights 2 and 3, head back home. Typhoon Flight 1, stick around with me, we’ll escort the TUG and keep an eye on Typhoon 1-4.”

“Hey now, why do we get stuck with escort duty? I think we just nailed record time for disabling a TIE Defender…”

“Because Typhoon 1-4 is in our flight. That means he’s our responsibility.”

“So… our idiot… got it.”

“Exactly. Now cut the chatter - let’s get to work.”

It took Wax a few moments to begin processing what he was hearing.

He wasn’t dead. His life hadn’t been in danger. Everyone was engaging in a… training mission. Had any of this been real? Was he in a simulator right now? What was going on?!?

Did he pass?

Maybe… Wax thought, with far more hope than his situation deserved.

---

“So where’s Sub-Lieutenant Trigger-Happy?” Prost Varsis, the Flight Leader of Typhoon Flight 3, asked as he walked into Typhoon’s Ready Room, with one less pilot present than earlier this morning. He navigated himself over to where Squadron Commander Triji Boliv and Squadron Executive Officer Locke Setzer were huddled, reviewing the footage of the training incident.

“Already knocked down to Cadet, on his way back to the Daedalus.” Boliv replied. “We had a friendly conversation about the importance of an IFF system. He was very receptive. The binders on his arms and legs, along with the stormtrooper escort, might have had something to do with it though.”

“We sure can’t seem to keep Sub-Lieutenants around here…” Prost quipped.

Locke shrugged. “Failure of training. Lots of people flew TIE Fighters back in the day; didn’t mean they were very good at it. Or understood all the systems. Or even had to. Most just went where they were told, fired and things they had to fire at… and never had to do any critical thinking. That was fine, for then. It’s not fine now, especially when we put them in a TIE Defender.”

“You can say that again.” Boliv said. “‘I was overcome with the power of being in a TIE Defender’. That’s what he said in his deposition. Like we had just made him a god, or something.”

“Do you think this is going to be a recurring problem?” Prost asked. “Rebel ships, mixed in with the Battlegroup? Pilots getting confused, responding by instinct instead of by logic?”

Locke shrugged. “Training should overcome that. We just need to be more careful about rubber stamping anyone with history in the Imperial Navy.”

Boliv sighed. “At least the Infiltrator Wing squadrons aren’t still housed here. If this nitwit had been around back then and saw that, he might have tried to blow up the entire hangar…”

Locke and Prost both nodded. With the room settling down, the two flight leaders took their seats, while Boliv walked up to the podium.

“Okay pilots. Today’s lesson: why Rebel ships may SOMETIMES be your friends…”