ashes to ashes, stardust to stardust

what to do when some kid crashes his jet in your yard (step by step)

Most nights, Patrick Wynter was woken up by gunfire or soldiers running down the halls or panicked generals barking orders. These were the things he was equipped, trained, to handle. A fighter jet crashing just outside the base was not an incident he was accustomed to, and the sound of metal hitting the ground at 200mph made for a very unpleasant alarm.

After the initial shock wore off, Patrick forced himself up and out of bed just as his door was flung open, revealing Lady Azura, a Scholar and close friend of his, still in her pajamas.

"Sir, it seems there's been an accident."

"What kind of accident?" Patrick replied. "Was anyone hurt?"

He tugged his boots on and stretched as Azura fiddled nervously with the hem of her cotton t-shirt.

"We're not really sure, sir. It was a fighter crash, no one's gotten close enough to see the pilot, if there even is one. It's out just past the wall."

"Very well. Have Daryll meet me at the stables, we'll head out and take a look."

Although he was putting up a very nonchalant front, the second Azura left Patrick sat on his bed and let out a long sigh. Sure, he was a commander, THE commander, but jet crashes weren't really part of the job description. He was used to strategizing, planning, foreign relations, and maybe a little sparring on the side. He certainly wasn't ready to handle some (potentially) dead guy on his damn lawn. But someone had to be responsible, he supposed.

When Pat reached the stables, which were not actually stables but speeder bike storage, Daryll was already there waiting.

"Sir, always a pleasure."

"Good to see you, Daryll. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes sir." The bandit said, patting the holster on his hip. "'S' got fresh ammo and everything."

"Great. Shall we?" Patrick wasn't one for small talk.

The two mounted their respective bikes, and Patrick took the lead, speeding rather recklessly through the courtyard and out of the base. According to Azura, the crash site was just west of the gates, meaning they'd be coming up on it any minute now. And there it was, the metallic remains of the fighter reflecting the early morning sun. Patrick slowed to a crawl, Daryll following suit.

"We don't know what or who's in there, we need to be cautious." Pat warned Daryll, who was already dismounting his bike and wandering off towards the wreckage.

He may be brave, but he sure wasn't the brightest lightbulb in the box. Patrick dismounted his bike as well and joined Daryll, stopping just in front of the once-jet. From what he could see, the cockpit was still intact, which was either a very good or very bad thing depending on what or who was inside. Slowly, Pat approached the window and looked inside. It was dark, but he could make out a figure, unmoving, in the pilot's seat.

"Daryll, go back to the base and prepare for medical transport."

"But sir, we don't know who's in there. They could be a zombie. Or worse." Daryll argued.

"If they were a zombie, they'd have been up and moving the second we got near. There is an injured person in this jet, and it's our job to get them to safety."

"As you wish, sir. Just don't blame me if this sparks an outbreak."

With that, Daryll left, and Patrick was alone with the maybe-corpse. Now, he had two options. He could sit and wait for Daryll to get help, or he could retrieve the mystery pilot himself, potentially exposing himself to infection but also potentially saving a life. Normally, he wouldn't be the self-sacrificing type, but he was feeling charitable today.

The back of the fighter had been partially torn off in the crash, so that's where Patrick started. He inched his way in through the opening, careful not to scrape himself on the jagged metal. It was mostly empty inside, save for a gun and a pair of welder's gloves. Whoever the pilot was, they'd obviously been in a hurry.

Pat maneuvered his way around the pilot's seat and into the cockpit, and got his first good look at the person in front of him. He was young, maybe 20, with messy black hair and tan skin. He had a few bruises, along with a small cut on his forehead. Other than the gun in the back of the ship, the boy didn't seem to have any weapons on him, and looked otherwise harmless. Patrick leaned over and began carefully extracting him from his seat, making sure not to jostle him. Even if he wasn't infected, waking up with a stranger in his face probably wouldn't go over well, especially considering he had at least one or two broken bones from the crash.

Once he'd gotten the boy's seatbelt off, he gently pulled him up from the seat and carried him over his shoulder out of the ship, where Daryll was already waiting, along with two soldiers and a stretcher. Patrick laid the boy down and fastened the restraints on his wrists and ankles. This was common protocol with any casualty or patient, as most of the planet's residents were... jumpy.
With the boy set up, Patrick and Daryll, as well as the soldiers, got back onto their speeders, the soldiers carrying the stretcher between the two of them. The group rode slowly so as to not disturb the boy (yes i know i keep saying "the boy" leave me be) or cause him any further injuries. Whoever he was, he had been running from something, and Patrick needed to know what that something was.