Star Crossed

Communication

There were cameras everywhere. On the ceiling, on the machinery, in the droids. Everywhere. Everything we said, the most simple gesture was recorded by the facility. Only private quarters tended not to be bugged ... depending on the personnel. I knew, from Director Krennic himself, how a good third of the base reported to him as spies. Which meant that, if I wanted to have a true conversation with Erso, I would have to get creative.

That man's motives puzzled me, and secret motives could be dangerous. To us, to the team, to the facility and to the Galactic empire's goals.

I couldn't afford not to understand my boss. The solution came when I saw Erso, in a frenzy, typing in and scribbling things anywhere he could. I just had to fish out my notebook – I couldn't live without writing – and find a place with a dead angle. As a matter of fact, it turned out that the large desk that overlooked the room was the best spot to stand to keep any writings to myself. I realised, with surprise, that it was also Galen Erso's most frequent positioning. A slight smirk quirked my lips; he wasn't so clueless after all.

If Erso could lose track of time and zone out into space, he wasn't the naïve researcher I expected. So, I gently trailed by his side and pturned my back to the camera, putting my notebook down on the desk. Pictures and schematics intertwined with little order, legends and comments added upon the drawings. Yet, they were perfectly consistent to me.

His eyes lit up when he spotted my wild pages; I'd seen his notes, they were even messier than mine. Something to do with a busy mind that took every opportunity to unload his ideas.

— "What is that?" he enquired, watching a schematic of mine.

I used coloured inks to link notions together, a habit from my younger days. Plenty of people had found it very girly, but it helped separate and classify information with just a glance.

— "An attempt at summarising what you said the other day about using neutrino generators to return energy."

Erso gave me a penetrating stare; another one I couldn't decipher, before he stole the pen from my fingers and started adding notes here and there, explaining so many things as he worked that my mind threatened to shut down. Words flew from his mouth, "heat sink", "generators", "projectors", "neutrino radiators" ... ideas telescoped as he went back and forth, digressing, then getting back to the main line before regressing. I probably understood 60% of it, and congratulated myself on not dying of an aneurysm.

His mind run so fast, in every direction, that I could feel how difficult it was for him to channel it into words. To him, communication on a single channel – sentences – was too slow, too limited for the vision that took hold of his mind. I could relate; I had felt so hopeless, so often, to get people to understand my vision. When Erso he eventually handed the notebook back to me, my raw schematics had become such a mess that it was nearly unintelligible. His chicken scratch was so bad – but I was used to it – because his hand couldn't run as fast as his brain; it covered the entire page, in every direction.

A few seconds of silence followed his explanation, and I was grateful of his insight for I had misinterpreted fundamental things. Seeing the mess he had made, the scientist's feature morphed into a sheepish expression that called a smile to my lips.

— "Ah, sorry, I got a little carried away."

Instead of snorting in disbelief, my smile widened.

— "I guess I always wanted an autograph."

The corner of his lips quirked incredulously, and I marvelled at this foreign expression upon his face. I'd never seen him smile, and it suited him. Given his amusement, I realised that I held this opportunity in my palm. So I pointed to the notebook.