0630. Another day, another dollar, so the saying goes. Zackel from his bed. Bleary eyed, and in need of a caffeine drink he made his way over to carry out his morning ablutions. Sitting on the bed he dressed, black trousers, shirt and shoes, the cap that completed the ensemble lying on the side next to the water heater. His head throbbed like he was living inside a bass drum, the constant throb marking out the rhythm of the day.

Making his way over to the small kitchen he poured the hot water into the ration pack he had taken from the cupboard above. The freeze dried rations swelled with the hot liquid infused the cells of the food, reconstituting it into something replicating a meal. He knew from past experience that it would not be enjoyable, but it would fill his belly so he ate it. Filling a mug with hot water he took a sachet of caffie from the drawer, along with a couple of sucrose capsules. Sipping at the warm beverage he smiled, eyes closed. Now that hit the spot. If there was one thing that was prerequisite to his day it was a hot mug of caffie, he found that over the years he could not begin the day without it, and his colleagues he worked with would willingly testify to that.

Grabbing his pass he made his way out of his accommodation, the door locking behind him. Trudging away down the corridor he made his way, as he did every morning, he started his commute towards the Citadel. He noticed nobody as he walked across the open plazas, through the small park pathways, and nobody noticed him. He was another member of the great unwashed, the little people who made sure that all the jobs too menial for the upper echelons of society to sully their hands with, but without whom the whole system would collapse.

During his twenty three years of working for the system he had seen many of the greats as they passed him by. The Grand Masters, the Jedi, the Sith, the great leaders in battle, the diplomats, the security experts, the great and the mighty of the Brotherhood, but very rarely had they even glanced in his direction, never mind granting him the honour of a word or a handshake. He didn’t mind these days, although in his younger days he had. He accepted his lot in life as one of the unsung multitude, the proletariat carrying out the thankless tasks with not a thought given to reward or recognition.

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t care about the tasks he was given. No, he would do everything he did with a sense of pride that came from within himself. He liked to do things properly. There were many of his colleagues that could learn from him he thought as his feet began climbing the steps before the entrance to the Citadel, his body had made the commute that many times that he didn’t need to consciously think about the journey. They should use him as an example he was thinking, show the younger members of the team that their task, and by inference, they themselves, were important to the Brotherhood.

Showing his pass to the guard at the entrance he was waved through. The guard didn’t really need to see his pass, his pass was his face, a constant familiar within the massive building. The guard hadn’t even glanced at the small facsimile of his face as he passed. He knew it was Zackel, it was 0658, the same time that he went past every morning, you could set your timepiece by him. Steady old familiar Zackel in his black uniform, the cap arranged as per the regulations, his trousers and shirt pressed and clean. Moving to the elevator he waited for it to arrive on the ground floor stepping inside as the doors hissed open. Without having to look his finger found the button for the forty third floor, the change in pressure telling him that he was speeding his way aloft towards his work station. Less than a minute later he was padding across the carpeted landing past his secretary and into his office. Sitting himself behind the desk he booted up his workplace computer.

The door to his office swung inwards as his secretary entered carrying a steaming mug of caffie, and a pile of data pads, both of which she placed on the desk before him. The smell from the hot beverage wafted towards him, a heavenly smell borne on the breeze.

“That’s all the latest news stories, and the boss wants a piece on the Grand Master’s latest brainwave, you know, the one about the Jedi?” The secretary’s sing-song voice informed him, ”and the editor wants to look over the piece you’re writing on the latest First Order’s conquests and it’s economic impact to the Galaxy.”

Zackel nodded, “Thank you,” he said, “could you contact him and arrange for a meet at eleven?”

“Yes, Sir.” She replied, spinning on the spot and heading out to her own desk on the landing.

Picking up the top data pad he began reading, making notes on a separate pad that he could look over later as he constructed the piece. Placing the reports in front of him on the desk he raised the mug to his lips. Hmmm, delicious. Sometimes, he thought to himself, being a writer is where all the action is.