selective service
chapter one

Joining the war effort is one of the easiest choices Rey has ever made in her life.

She'll make a good nurse, she thinks. It's the only thing The Republic will allow women to study anyway, and she doesn't want to work in the mess hall. They give her free books, and library access, and a tiny room, with a roommate and a bunk bed, that has more than enough space for her few dresses and one photo. She gets three square meals a day, and water whenever she wants, hot or cold. She can shower every morning if she so chooses and she gets a new pair of shoes with sturdy soles and clean laces.

Rey doesn't think she's ever owned a new pair of shoes.

She likes it here, already, even if she's not sure if she's supposed to. Her dresses start to fit again, her boyish figure disappearing with every hot meal. Her headaches go away and she begins to forget how spoiled dinners taste. She's no longer afraid that she'll have no medicine when she's sick or no soap when she's dirty. She reads again, and laughs again, and suddenly Rey is not just a mess of some blurry past she barely understands and a future that involves praying she'll eat this week and hoping nobody will try to hurt her in her sleep. Rey has a purpose.

Rey learns how to make friends. She makes new secrets with her pretty, tiny roommate, Rose, and laughs with the funny doctor, Finn, that teaches her anatomy. She blushes when a dreamy pilot, Poe, sits next to her in the mess hall and tells her he likes her dress. She likes the way Poe makes her heart flutter; it's different than when it races because a man is looking at her funny and he might be moving toward her, because the street lights turn out for the night and she can't feel her toes anymore to run because it's snowing—

Rey doesn't worry about being cold now, either. Now she has sweaters, and fleece sheets, and a new wool coat that fits her just right with a small seal of The Republic on the collar. If it's too cold to sleep, they hand out extra blankets. There's heat in the barracks.

She's never been as grateful for anything in her life as she is for The Republic. When she signs her papers promising herself to them for six years, she knows she'll want to stay longer within her first week in the barracks. She'll want to be a teacher, like Finn, or serve the front lines, like Rose's sister Paige. She'll be happy to stay a barracks nurse if it means she gets to continue to serve her country and wrap bandages on men like Poe.

Her entire barracks piles into a crowded room, ladies packed together in front of a tiny, staticky television with long antennae and a not quite loud enough speaker. Rey can only make out a few words coming from the program. She makes out "terrorism" before the room buzzes to life.

Leaning into her friend, she asks, "Can you understand what's happening?"

Rose shakes her head. "I think there was an attack," she whispers, "but I'm not sure.

She frowns. "Can you see anything?"

Rose stands on the tips of her toes, but shakes her head again. "You're taller."

Rey lifts her head as high and she can, but she only sees a man at a desk with a nasty combover. She sighs, and fiddles with the collar of her dress. "I hope everybody is okay," she says.

When the program finishes, Dr. Finn turns the television off and Rey can already tell that something is wrong by the look on his face. His voice is much clearer than the broadcast. "We're entering the war," he announces, and the room fills with a wave of gasps. Rey can't even contain her own. "I'll keep this brief. All registered nurses should be ready to ship out. Those about to finish their program will be here to check the new recruits, and will ship out with them."

"Ship out?" Rose whispers. "Ship out where?"

"Where are they getting all these new recruits?" Rey counters.

"Selective service," she says, and when Rey looks confused, she adds, "the draft."

Rey's eyes widen before her lips set into a grim line. "I didn't know it was that bad."

"Neither did I," is Rose's somber reply.

Finn ushers them all out of the broadcasting room as soon as he's finished speaking. He yells over the chorus of ladies tears and confusion, "Your assignments will be delivered to your rooms."

Rey and Rose quietly stay behind. When the room is empty, Rey puts a delicate hand on her superior and watches him relax. "It's bad," he admits, leaning against the wall. Rey thinks he's not half as handsome with a painful frown on his face.

"Why are we entering the war?" Rey asks.

"Because we're in the military," he says, and Rey thinks his eyes look wet. "They've made an attack on our soil. We'll be moving the war overseas."

Rose nods her head. "When will the draft begin?" she asks.

"It already has," he replies. "The boys will be here as soon as tomorrow. You'll be finishing your classes while they train, and be assigned to units."

Rey feels her pulse rise. She thought she'd be fine with joining the front lines, but not this soon. She's never done more than put salve and a bandage on a man, or check their ears for an infection. She realizes all too quickly she'll be asking dozens of men to undress tomorrow so she can check every mole, sore, and scratch on their body and sending them off to risk their lives.

She'll be the x that marks the spot on every boy's application that allows them to die for their country.

"We'll be meeting in the lecture hall after dinner to go over a basic exam one last time," he tells them, and begins making his way toward the door. He tells them, "I doubt they'll have us withholding any men from active duty."

She shivers. "When did it get so bad?"

Before leaving, Finn waves them off with a hand. "Since when has The Republic kept us privy to any important information?"

Rey tries to hold back her tears. "Those boys had no choice. They went to bed last night children, and woke up this morning soldiers."

Finn pauses. "Rey," he says, voice soft, and Finn has a way about him that makes her feel like she's the only person on the planet. "Every man knows what it means to register for the selective service. The last thing this is for them is a surprise."

Rey is reminded of what it's like to have her heart race in fear.

Rey is only eighteen years old, but The Republic has no qualms with her approving application after application to send boys nearly ten years her senior into open combat zones. She puts another application in the approved file, and calls, "next!"

She scribbles down a few notes while another man sits on her examination table. She offers him a smile and a greeting that freezes in her throat.

This boy that sits at her table is frighteningly large, far too lanky for her standard seating. He has gangly arms, and legs, and a very serious face. He's broad, and maybe a little too thin for his own height, with the most endearingly giant ears she's ever seen and perfectly long nose. When he speaks, cropped, dark and messy hair covering a small forehead, his voice is just as deep and perfect as she could have imagined. "Uh, hi," he offers, maybe a little weakly, and his big ears look like they're turning a pretty pink.

Rey shakes her head, cheeks rosy, an awkward smile on her face because she must have been staring. "Sorry," she mumbles, and then asks, "file?"

He hands it over, and his awfully large hands make her blush even darker. He pushes his hair back, out of his face, and she gets a glimpse at such a nice, modest forehead. Rey could stare at this handsome man for the rest of the day, but when she knows she's been looking for too long she finally asks, "First and last name? You can start undressing."

"Ben Solo," he says, and she confirms with a check. He slowly takes off his dark shirt, and his flared jeans, until he's left in white briefs and an awkward smirk.

"Can you stand up?" she asks, and he obeys. She admires the happy trail of dark, thick hair that she can't see the end of, and realizes all too quickly that she's being very inappropriate, and if Rose were right there next to her, she'd never hear the end of it. With hot cheeks, she instructs him, "against the wall," and measures him carefully.

"Six-foot-three," she ticks off, and ushers him onto the scale. "190 pounds. You can sit again. Date of birth?"

"November 19th, 1943," he says.

She purses her lips. "So you're—"

"Twenty-six," he confirms.

"Alright," she checks off something again, "It's just a routine check-up. Any surgeries?" she asks, and begins to press her hands against his neck, and then under his armpits, and she feels him shiver. "If it tickles, you can tell me."

He snorts. "I'm fine, and no."

"No infection," she tells him, and then begins pressing her stethoscope against his chest. "Quiet," she tells him, and maybe gets a little closer than necessary. His breathing is heavy, and he smells like soap and cotton detergent, like his mother still washes his clothes. She smiles. "Your heart is definitely there."

"That's a good sign, nurse," he quips.

"Take a deep breath," she says, and he does. "And again." It's quiet, for a long moment, and she can feel him looking at her face, dark eyes under dark eyelashes. She pulls her stethoscope away quickly and throws it down on the exam table. She takes a step back, and she tells him, "You are perfect, Ben."

His lips turn up into a smile.

It takes her a moment to realize what she's said, and she corrects herself with a fierce blush and an awkward cough, "In perfect health, I mean, of course."

"Thank you, nurse," he says, and he begins to clothe himself without her recommendation. A pity, she thinks, to let his pretty body get scarred with war. When he's fully clothed, he asks, "Aren't you a little young?"

She snorts. "No." She turns away, and takes out her stamp. When she hands him back his folder, there's a bright, red "approved" stamped across the clean manilla. "Thank you for your service, Ben."

He shrugs. He takes the folder from her hands and their fingers brush; his hands are soft, but Rey knows they won't be for very long. "Thank you," he says. He looks at her name tag, and smiles a little, "Rey. I'll see you around."

The President of The Republic states that there are nearly four-million men eligible for the draft. Ben is one of one-hundred thousand drafted this first month, to be split across thousands of units, of which she will be assigned to one. The odds of Rey seeing Ben Solo again are not in her favor.

She shakes his hand, and she believes him.