FORESIGHT and SCOPE: BOOK TWO

C H A P T E R F I F T Y-T W O

FERN'S POV

"Hey!" I exclaimed, sprinting over to what anyone else would assume was a pile of junk. I mean, yes, it was, but when I awoke at dawn, I discovered my perception on our misfortunes was more positive, and I spotted something that could change our luck. I enjoyed the feeling of waking up that morning and wondering what wonderful adventure the new day was going bring us.

Why did that sound familiar?

"What did you find?" Hunter walked over, followed by Tech, Omega, and a very cranky Wrecker. I skipped in place next to the scrap heap, presenting it with wide, open arms like it was a chest full of gold and silver credits. My squad exchanged unimpressed glances to one another. Sighing in defeat, I dropped my arms and tepidly kicked sheets of bent, rusted metal to reveal a busted-up speeder bike.

"Oh," Tech's brows raised, then cocked his head at me. "Why didn't you just say that?"

"You're no fun." I cheeked.

"Do you think you can get it working?" Hunter asked.

"Yes," Tech and I said in unison. I then nodded to his lower half. "You got any useful tools in that utility belt of yours?"

"Fern," The intellectual clone rolled his eyes, fishing his handy spanner from one of his back pockets. "rhetoric of that scale does not suit you."

All five of us got to work immediately while the morning was still fresh. The warm sun peaked over the edges of the broad mesa in the east, transitioning the pink-orange sky into a pearl-green and blue hue. The dark clouds above stretched thinly, presenting no threat of impending storms. The air was crisp in my lungs, for now. We needed to work diligently before it grew too humid and we were baking in the unforgiving desert. Alas, hours went by, and we made very little progress. While the good news were the energy cells that powered the speeder were still intact, the rest of the skiff was more or less salvagable, proving to be a more problematic solution rather than a helpful one. Slumping back against an old, crusted icebox, I chomped down on a fiber roll—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—in frustration.

"I don't understand." I groaned, raking my fingers through my tangled hair. "Have we replaced every part we were missing?"

"This spaceport provided an adequate substitute for each necessary part, yes." Tech replied.

"Have we connected each wire to its proper place to distribute power evenly?"

"I verified twice." he sighed.

I snapped my fingers. "What about the ignition component in the engine? We didn't compensate for the new parts to function with the original ones."

"You may be onto something." Tech said, an impressed grin crept across his lips. "I will disclose your theory momentarily." He retrieved the necessary tool from the dirt ground and handled the task.

Meanwhile, my head lopped over and noticed a small three-prong utensil nearby. After leaning over in my spot and claiming it, I swiftly removed my grey headband, gently unraveled my bunched-up hair, and carefully emancipated it from my entangled braid. Using the makeshift comb, I frugally extricated the minor knots from my dead ends and gradually moved my way up to the crown of my head, then commenced on the next section. Thank the Force, I did not acquire a tender skull...It was tedious to a T, to say the least. Once I was finished, however, my slender fingers groomed through the thick, raven strands as they spilled over my shoulders and back; the natural oils glossed over every inch of hair, gleaming in the sun's yellow glow.

As I wove it into a sleek, single braid over my shoulder, I noticed Tech, Hunter, and Wrecker had made excellent progress on the speeder. "Nice work, boys."