Senna Lonis
Character
The clinic lights flickered overhead with a faint electric buzz, like they were still waking up — much like Senna Lonis, who stood in front of the grimy sink trying to scrub caf stains off her fingers.
"Clock in," she muttered. "Clock out. Save lives. Repeat. Totally stable life choice."
The mirror in front of her was cracked, spiderwebbing out from some past outburst of frustration. Probably her own.
She tugged her hair back into a loose tie, letting a few tendrils hang over her forehead like she'd meant for it to look like that. She wore her standard-issue Nar Shaddaa Emergency Services medic uniform: slate-gray scrub pants tucked into sturdy boots, and a jacket with the clinic's sigil — a worn, half-faded "V" shape in gold, stitched sloppily over her left chest. A utility belt hugged her hips, lined with med patches, bacta injectors, and a pair of gloves she never wore until it was already too late.
Senna popped a stim tab in her mouth and walked through the back door into the clinic. She stopped.
The line was out the hallway. Out the kriffing hallway.
Droids, mercs, Rodians with blaster burns, a Twi'lek holding what looked like her boyfriend's severed prosthetic arm, and a Gamorrean sobbing over a stubbed toe. The Gamorrean was first in line.
"Oh good," she said aloud. "Nar Shaddaa's elite."
"LONIS!" barked her supervisor, a chain-smoking human woman named Jorra Tael, who always sounded like she was halfway between a lecture and a lung collapse. "Get your skinny force-damned ass on the floor! We're three hours behind!"
"I just clocked in, Jorra."
"And I just found a kidney in the icebox that wasn't labeled! We're all having a day."
Senna sighed, rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, and pulled on her gloves.
She waved in the Gamorrean, who waddled in dramatically, snorting and gesturing toward his foot like it had personally betrayed him.
"Stubbed it chasing your neighbor's droid again?" she asked, crouching to scan the toe. "That thing's programmed for parkour, Blorg. You've gotta stop."
Blorg oinked affirmatively, tears welling in his tiny eyes.
Senna handed him a cold compress in the shape of a dancing Rancor. "Here. Put this on it and avoid gravity for 24 hours."
He grunted something sincere. She patted his arm. "You're a brave boy. Now go. Try not to die on the way out."
Next came a Bith musician whose fingers were locked in a cramp from overuse of his double-flute.
"You didn't warm up your wrists?"
"I was feeling the soul of the notes."
"You're about to feel the soul of cortisone."
She jabbed the medstim into his forearm and watched his knotted fingers twitch back into motion.
"Thank you," he whispered, almost dramatically. "I may weep now."
"Charge extra for that," she said, waving him off.
Senna moved through five more patients, each more ridiculous than the last — a slicer who electrocuted himself on a faulty dataport, a Devaronian whose horn was "weirdly itchy," and a couple who came in not for treatment but to argue in a sterile environment.
By the time she reached patient #12, she was halfway through a stim drink, legs crossed on a counter, her jacket unzipped enough to catch the breeze of the sputtering fan. Her thoughts were already drifting.
You could be off-world by now. Somewhere warm. Somewhere that doesn't smell like expired bacta and bad decisions.
She didn't really mean it. Not fully. But some days, the dream of leaving pulled harder.
Still, she liked the chaos. The grime. The people. Even when they were ridiculous, they were real.
A young Mirialan boy stepped in next. About ten. Holding his own arm like it might fall off. Big eyes. Nervous energy.
Senna sat up straighter. "Name?"
"Th-Thari. I fell off a glidesled. I think it's broken."
She softened. "Let me see, Thari."
He sat down, wincing as she gently ran her fingers along the arm. Nothing shattered. Some light fractures. Easy fix. She gave him a gentle smile and a thumbs up.
"You get points for dramatic presentation, but it's not broken. Just cracked. I'll patch it."
He watched her work in silence, then said, "Are you… a Jedi?"
Senna froze — just for a heartbeat — then gave a small grin without looking up.
"Do I look like a Jedi?"
"You have that… look. Like the girls in the old holos."
She finished wrapping his arm and tapped his nose with her gloved finger.
"I'm just a medic, kid. But keep saying things like that and I might get promoted."
By the time the last patient was out and the next shift had clocked in, Senna peeled her gloves off with a dramatic sigh, stretched her arms behind her back until her spine popped, and walked over to the breakroom.
The caf was cold. The stim was gone. She didn't care.
She stood by the grimy window that looked over a crooked alley of neon signs, smoke trails, and floating speeder bikes zipping past each other like hornets.
Her reflection stared back — tired, smirking, still here.
And somewhere below it all… the city breathed. A pulse she could feel in her bones.
You're not done here, she thought. Not yet.
"Clock in," she muttered. "Clock out. Save lives. Repeat. Totally stable life choice."
The mirror in front of her was cracked, spiderwebbing out from some past outburst of frustration. Probably her own.
She tugged her hair back into a loose tie, letting a few tendrils hang over her forehead like she'd meant for it to look like that. She wore her standard-issue Nar Shaddaa Emergency Services medic uniform: slate-gray scrub pants tucked into sturdy boots, and a jacket with the clinic's sigil — a worn, half-faded "V" shape in gold, stitched sloppily over her left chest. A utility belt hugged her hips, lined with med patches, bacta injectors, and a pair of gloves she never wore until it was already too late.
Senna popped a stim tab in her mouth and walked through the back door into the clinic. She stopped.
The line was out the hallway. Out the kriffing hallway.
Droids, mercs, Rodians with blaster burns, a Twi'lek holding what looked like her boyfriend's severed prosthetic arm, and a Gamorrean sobbing over a stubbed toe. The Gamorrean was first in line.
"Oh good," she said aloud. "Nar Shaddaa's elite."
"LONIS!" barked her supervisor, a chain-smoking human woman named Jorra Tael, who always sounded like she was halfway between a lecture and a lung collapse. "Get your skinny force-damned ass on the floor! We're three hours behind!"
"I just clocked in, Jorra."
"And I just found a kidney in the icebox that wasn't labeled! We're all having a day."
Senna sighed, rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, and pulled on her gloves.
She waved in the Gamorrean, who waddled in dramatically, snorting and gesturing toward his foot like it had personally betrayed him.
"Stubbed it chasing your neighbor's droid again?" she asked, crouching to scan the toe. "That thing's programmed for parkour, Blorg. You've gotta stop."
Blorg oinked affirmatively, tears welling in his tiny eyes.
Senna handed him a cold compress in the shape of a dancing Rancor. "Here. Put this on it and avoid gravity for 24 hours."
He grunted something sincere. She patted his arm. "You're a brave boy. Now go. Try not to die on the way out."
Next came a Bith musician whose fingers were locked in a cramp from overuse of his double-flute.
"You didn't warm up your wrists?"
"I was feeling the soul of the notes."
"You're about to feel the soul of cortisone."
She jabbed the medstim into his forearm and watched his knotted fingers twitch back into motion.
"Thank you," he whispered, almost dramatically. "I may weep now."
"Charge extra for that," she said, waving him off.
Senna moved through five more patients, each more ridiculous than the last — a slicer who electrocuted himself on a faulty dataport, a Devaronian whose horn was "weirdly itchy," and a couple who came in not for treatment but to argue in a sterile environment.
By the time she reached patient #12, she was halfway through a stim drink, legs crossed on a counter, her jacket unzipped enough to catch the breeze of the sputtering fan. Her thoughts were already drifting.
You could be off-world by now. Somewhere warm. Somewhere that doesn't smell like expired bacta and bad decisions.
She didn't really mean it. Not fully. But some days, the dream of leaving pulled harder.
Still, she liked the chaos. The grime. The people. Even when they were ridiculous, they were real.
A young Mirialan boy stepped in next. About ten. Holding his own arm like it might fall off. Big eyes. Nervous energy.
Senna sat up straighter. "Name?"
"Th-Thari. I fell off a glidesled. I think it's broken."
She softened. "Let me see, Thari."
He sat down, wincing as she gently ran her fingers along the arm. Nothing shattered. Some light fractures. Easy fix. She gave him a gentle smile and a thumbs up.
"You get points for dramatic presentation, but it's not broken. Just cracked. I'll patch it."
He watched her work in silence, then said, "Are you… a Jedi?"
Senna froze — just for a heartbeat — then gave a small grin without looking up.
"Do I look like a Jedi?"
"You have that… look. Like the girls in the old holos."
She finished wrapping his arm and tapped his nose with her gloved finger.
"I'm just a medic, kid. But keep saying things like that and I might get promoted."
By the time the last patient was out and the next shift had clocked in, Senna peeled her gloves off with a dramatic sigh, stretched her arms behind her back until her spine popped, and walked over to the breakroom.
The caf was cold. The stim was gone. She didn't care.
She stood by the grimy window that looked over a crooked alley of neon signs, smoke trails, and floating speeder bikes zipping past each other like hornets.
Her reflection stared back — tired, smirking, still here.
And somewhere below it all… the city breathed. A pulse she could feel in her bones.
You're not done here, she thought. Not yet.