Rochester peeled off his sweat-slicked undershirt and grimaced. The Empire really needed to provide better quality clothing. The grey dye had managed to mix somehow with his sweat, leaving dirty streaks across his stomach. Some lint had even become trapped against the cybernetics there. He gently teased it out, feeling the metal shift slightly as he did so. He fought down the urge to gag and silently congratulated himself for not vomiting.

He went to remove his sweatpants and stopped. The doors were locked, but Rochester double checked the entry permissions. Officer clearance only, good. The communal showers had just received the obligatory quarterly deep clean and he was required to ensure everything was in order. The inspection was not supposed to take long, but for Rochester this was the only time he would be able to enjoy a proper, water shower. The disinfectant and anti-fungal treatment had worked well, he noted as stepped onto the cool tiles, so none of the crew should be complaining about athlete's foot again.

The panel-tiles reacted to touch and the temperature controls were displayed. At least they were working again. The screens had been replaced, after the cleaner droids had scrubbed the panels near to oblivion. Hot water... hot, to the designated temperature. Cold water... very cold, unexpected, but not unreasonable. Rochester made a note to mention it on his report, though it was a minor concern.

The water hit his scalp and flowed quickly down his body. Warm like the summer rain on Dromund Kaas, but with a bite of cold. He smiled as he started to work soap into his hair. A little bit of home among the stars.

He’ll shock me for this, I just know it. I made the mistake of looking him in the eye as he walked past, not thinking about the consequences of such carelessness. I can already feel the searing pain radiating through my body, see my limbs jerking uncontrollably under its power. Maybe it lasts 30 seconds, maybe a couple minutes, but the pain feels like it won’t ever end. He’s never hurt me before, but an unspoken “yet” punctuates the end of that statement. Because he will someday. The Sith always find a reason to. I brace myself for it. And wait.

Time passes and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. With a sharp exhale I peer around and see him paying no attention to me at all. He’s turned his piercing eyes on the young slave boy with dirty blond hair and scars on the left side of his face. The boy has spilled something. Or broken something. Or maybe he just looked at the Sith lord the wrong way.

I can’t quite make out his voice, but I know from the boy’s quaking and Lord Romari’s boisterous gesturing that things aren’t going to end well. I flinch at the flash of lightning coursing through the boy’s body, turn my head away as he twitches and shakes before slumping to the floor. He can’t be older than twelve.

And the Sith lord saunters away, makes his way toward where I’m kneeling on the floor. Kneeling — more like cowering. I don’t dare look at him as he stops in front of me, but he puts a finger under my chin and lifts my head to meet his gaze. His lips, curled in fury not thirty seconds earlier, now turn up in something resembling a smile, and he brushes away a strand of mousy hair that’s fallen in my face.

"And what's your name, slave? I've not seen you here before."

My throat feels dry. "Anaelia," I finally manage to tell him. It takes every bit of energy I can muster not pull away from his touch. To do so would be fatal.

“You’re so lovely, Anaelia,” he whispers. “Wear your hair down from now on.” He says the words softly, like he’s making a request to a lover, but there’s no mistaking that it’s a command he’ll expect me to follow.

“Yes, my lord.” I feel myself blush at his touch, his attention. Nausea comes in waves, but I fight the sensation until he slinks off down the corridor. When I no longer hear his boots clicking against the stone floor, I take in a sharp breath, both relieved and terrified at the encounter.

“Sir! I was wondering when I might find you alone. I…have a purely professional question for you, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Wynston turned away from his thoughts to face the pretty ensign who somehow managed to know both too much for safety and too little for utility. After the current crisis was resolved Ensign Temple could grow to be a very valuable team member; she had both good intentions and professional promise, and it was that thought that upheld Wynston’s friendly demeanor when her voice pattered against his bloodied nerves.

Open manner, relaxed body language. “So long as we’re not under active fire I never mind you asking,” he said. “Go ahead.”

She settled in a formal pose, her standard haircut short, her uniform neat, her little smile the only nonregulation thing about her. “When you lie to a woman over the course of a mission, make her think you’re interested…does it bother you?”

How was this on her list of…? He hadn’t even…not since before Temple had come on board, anyway…had she read something into his automatic banter with that girl from Dorn Base? Or was the reputation of Ciphers in general and Cipher Nine in particular just coming around to bite him?

In any case the woman was still staring at him. He raised his eyebrows, let his smile turn conspiratorial. “Getting close to our targets is one of the perks of the job.”

“Sir,” she said archly, “you are a cad.”

“If you think that’s a bad thing you’ve never seen it done right.” Reflex, this, glib words; something that allowed an easy end to the conversation. “Stick around, watch me at work, you might learn something.” But not just yet. Right now he had bigger things to worry about.

“Hm,” she said. She didn’t budge. “Don’t mistake me, I’ve been involved with plenty of the wrong men, but going in, there was always the chance they’d work out. I don’t know how I’d handle living one life in the field and another back at home. It must be exhausting.”

“You learn to adapt,” he said. Or you burned out. As he was close to doing, but Temple didn’t know that; no one could know the full extent of it. In spite of all previous criticisms what was doing it to him wasn’t a woman after all. Not the point just now. “The trick is to set your plans in place and then free up a little enthusiasm, wholly independent of larger concerns, for just living in the moment. With luck, practice, or both you’ll spark the same from your partner. It doesn’t have to have long-term potential to be worth the time.”

“Spoken like a true hedonist. So, I should abandon my dreams of romance?”

The undercurrent of that question could be unfortunate. Better discourage it. “Adjust the standards, maybe. This crew doesn’t contain a great deal of romantic potential.”

Damnably, she perked up. “I haven’t gotten the impression that, um, Kaliyo–“

“Ensign.” His statement was not to say that Kaliyo wasn't competition. Kaliyo was the very antithesis of romance and was still a more desirable partner than this girl whom he had only taken because her other fate would have been death. That the Ensign’s life had been worth saving, something good to salvage from the rest of this mess, Wynston was fairly certain; that she didn’t hold a candle to Kaliyo in any nonprofessional aspect he was entirely certain. Kaliyo was the only enjoyment independent of larger concerns that he still had the energy for. “I can teach you the business. I can tell you where to go for pleasure. If there’s anything else, I’m not the man to ask.”

That finally dampened her enthusiasm. “Right. Well, I’ll leave you be then, sir.” Her disappointment, he noted with an unwelcome twinge, was nonregulation too. “Thank you for your help.”

He let her go in silence. As damage-control efforts went, Wynston had a whole lot that were higher priority than this.

I never liked Ensign Temple. It’s the puppy thing. It simultaneously kills respect and attraction. Her conversations (including her lines here) did her no favors after that. (The full in-game conversation is here.)

It turns out that the combative chaos machine who doesn’t actually care about who you are or what’s troubling you can be really good company when you can’t talk about what’s troubling you.

Wynston’s a hypersensitive mess by the end of Act 2.

The ensign had trapped Wynston on the bridge, and she was deploying her little aura of coyness.

“Sir, I wondered whether you could teach me some…hand to hand combat. I received only the most basic training for my previous assignments, I’m sure there’s a great deal that–”

“Wynston!” yelled Kaliyo from the hallway. “Engine room. Kind of an emergency. Not my fault this time.”

Wynston snapped to alert mode. “Stay here, Ensign, mind the navigation.” He hurried to join Kaliyo.

“What did you do?” he asked while they walked.

“Nothing. Just thought you’d appreciate being bailed out, like you kind of obviously want any time she tries to be your pet padawan.”

“Tonight,” he muttered gratefully, “I’m yours.”

She laughed. “But aren’t you ever gonna show poor Temple the ropes? She’d be ever so eager to learn, sir.”

“Kaliyo, do not ever call me that again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wynston shoved Kaliyo into the wall and stalked on ahead. She could keep up. She always did.

Harrion Vular liked to think of himself as the epitome of a Sith; a bold warrior that would relentlessly and viciously track down and destroy both his own enemies and those of the Empire, a proud symbol of the power of the Dark Side and a name to be feared by Republic and Imperials alike. An assignment like the one he was on today, investigating reports of a Force-sensitive slave who had apparently killed a Sith overseer and his squad of bodyguards, should have been below him.

Darth Lachris might command me now, but I will find a way to make her regret wasting my time like this. I will forge a crown from her bones when I strike her down.

He sighed and motioned at the middle-aged aide in the Imperial uniform, who was holding a datapad that had apparently served as the girl’s diary. He pressed the play button. Vular was mildly surprised to hear that, despite being a slave, the girl had a perfectly proper Imperial accent, or at least near enough that he couldn't tell the difference.

I don’t know how long I have; they’ll be here at any moment, but it isn’t as if I have anywhere to run, anyway. The best I can do is record my final thoughts, in the hope that they will reach and touch those who have suffered as I did, and fear that the beatings, humiliations, and worse are all they will ever know in life.

Urlos deserved to die, and I cannot deny the pleasure I derived from seeing the look of utter fear and disbelief in his eyes as I unleashed the power I have spent my entire life hiding; first at my parents’ insistence and later on my own initiative to avoid attracting undue attention to myself. I only regret that it took me so long to take this course of action, the creature had abused more people than I cared to count. Even those too weak to attempt to deny him did not deserve such treatment. No one does.

It was with pride, then, that I ambushed him and his bodyguards as they made their daily patrol through the camp to find appropriate victims for their atrocities. A sharpened blade and the power of the Force were more than sufficient to cut down his minions, who were unprepared for any kind of violent response.

Urlos himself proved more challenging, unsurprising since he was a pureblood Sith. Still, any real talent he had was wasted on him and his debauchery. I removed his lightsaber from his grip with ease and maneuvered him with his back to a precipice. Given the force with which I sent him flying, I imagine his body is still in the process of landing.

Know this; I am not proud of what I have become. I had a family once, a loving one that was stolen from me in a violent orgy of hatred and destruction. But even if it is too late for me to live for my family, it was never too late for me to strike back for those that still can. Remain strong, and do not lose yourself out of fear or despir. Even in death, you may yet break your chains.

Vular stroked his goatee absentmindedly, considering everything he’d heard from the recovered datapad with the after-action report filed by the local garrison. The girl was clearly talented, and while she seemed to retain some compassion for those around her…the anger was palpable. Delicious, even. He wondered if she was as attractive as she sounded.

“She certainly has a...good deal of potential for growth as a Sith, if we can train her. We'll need to break her rebelliousness, obviously, and focus it on more appropriate targets. How much do we know about her? Any psychological vulnerabilities we can target, family we can threaten?”

The aide, apparently attempting to exemplify the stupidity of the average Imperial officer, muttered to himself as he viewed some records.

“Just a name, milord.”

Vular could not help but shake his head in dismay. “My lord. Not milord. Not m’lord. At least pretend to capable of using the limited intelligence with which you have been gifted.”

He thought he saw a flash of anger in the man’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and the man’s presence in the force remained dull and entirely without anything worthy of notice or attention. The perils of being forced to work with one’s inferiors. Fortunately, the man was intelligent enough to know not to keep him waiting.

“Just a name mi…my lord. Veresia, my lord. Veresia Martell.”

9 ATC: Wynston and Kaliyo meet during class line

11 ATC: Wynston and Kaliyo fight; Wynston realizes his attachment; Kaliyo leaves

18 ATC: Wynston hears of Kaliyo's death from eyewitnesses; spends quite a lot of time drinking himself into a stupor; finally more or less gets over it

28 ATC: Quinn comes on board Wynston's galactic intelligence/meddling organization

29 ATC: Wynston runs facefirst into Kaliyo on a job; they have a one (three?)-night stand; Wynston leaves again

29 ATC: Wynston sets staff on keeping tabs on Kaliyo

30 ATC: The following story

Coordinates calculated, and the Phantom Dart streaked to hyperspace. Wynston leaned back in his chair and smiled. “My spies tell me Kaliyo’s in the target sector,” he said. “I may call her when the job’s done.”

Quinn, frowning, looked over from the navicomputer. “You have spies following Kaliyo?”

“If she considered you an ex you’d keep a close eye on her, too. This is self-preservation.”

“And yet despite her ongoing threat to your life, your desperation for sexual contact overcame your differences with her enough to reestablish…relations…the moment you saw her.”

“That wasn’t desperation. Maybe I was just glad to see her again.”

Skepticism rolled down Quinn's nose toward Wynston.

“I’m not pretending I care or anything. In fact kicking Kaliyo out of my life when I did did us both a lot of good.” Wynston cheered up. “I’ll get it right this time. She doesn’t know where I live, what I do, who I work with, what make of personal protective equipment I carry, how to contact me, or when I’ll bother to contact her. I think that’s the safest way to conduct a relationship with her.”

“It’s a relationship, now, is it?” Quinn said nastily.

“Loose association when convenient,” backpedaled Wynston.

“You really are desperate.”

“Hardly.” Wynston leaned on the arm of his chair, his red gaze taking on a malicious cast. “You know, I gave Ruth a great deal of grief about taking you back. I couldn’t grasp at the time how someone could look the worst imaginable idea in the eye and say, with unfaked conviction, ‘Take me now.’ Seeing Kaliyo again really set that in perspective.”

“Do not presume to compare that tramp to Ruth.”

“I’m not. I’m comparing that tramp to you.”

Quinn directed his scowl at the navicomputer. “Are we there yet?”

The setup was perfect. The slavers didn’t know the merchandise they were to pick up was a Force user, but that was half the hilarity. And if they survived, well, then Niselle would be out of Nalenne’s no-longer-extant hair: perfection.

Steps sounded behind her vantage point. She turned to see two burly men and her twin standing between them, looking monumentally smug. A little serving droid wheeled around and sprayed something directly at Nalenne’s face.

The last thing she heard before darkness closed was “There seems to have been a mixup in the paperwork, Lenny. You’ve just been sold.”

And this is how Niselle and Nalenne swap classes. Mayhem will likely ensue.

Dankin shuffled down the hallway, half-awake. He more fell than sat in his chair at the bar in the ship's lounge, and reached desperately for the caf pot. He smacked the switch, turning the maker on before the pot was even under it. Groaning, he stood and shoved the pot under the spilling caf.

Corso stumbled in a moment later, tripping over the doorjamb somehow and slamming face-first into the floor. Dankin wouldn't have laughed; he was too tired.

But Corso was wearing very fluffy womp-rat slippers.

"Corso–"

"Not a word, Captain!" snapped Corso. "Sergeant Boom-Boom is getting itchy."

"Sorry."

For those that don't remember, Sgt. Boom-Boom is Corso's rifle. He only mentions this if you have the original item equipped during the conversation where he mentions it; otherwise, the line is removed.

White silk, intricate gold beading, soft lace. I’d never wear this in a million years, Kinka thought. Formal clothes weren’t the agent’s style. A beat-up pair of boots, the gear she’d picked up on Athiss that fit like a glove — that was what felt like home.

But still, Kinka had eyed the elegant gown every time she passed the upscale boutique on Dromund Kaas. And eyeing it led to fingering the silk, which led to just trying it on, which eventually led to carting a garment bag back to the ship.

Kinka had all but forgotten about the dress, stashed in the back of her wardrobe, until Kaliyo came trolling for a spare belt one afternoon.

“What the hell is that?” She pulled out the bag and shot Kinka a surprised look. “Did you and Bugboy run off and get married without telling anybody? And here I had dibs on being maid of whatever it is.”

“Very funny. It was just an impulse buy from a couple years ago. What can I say? I do get distracted by pretty things every now and then.”

“Yeah, me too. But my pretty things are usually shiny and deadly. Anyway,” Kaliyo said, grabbing a red leather belt and heading for the door, “this will work fine.”

Kinka waited a few minutes to make sure the Ratattaki was out of sight and unzipped the garment bag. The silk was just as soft as ever, the delicate details intact. A smile grew on her lips the more she thought about the dress.

Kaliyo’s joke about marriage had given rise to a new idea. There was only one thing left to do.

“You wanted to see us?” Vector had come in quietly and gently rubbed Kinka’s shoulders. She turned around to greet him with a quick kiss and a grin.

“Yes, I wanted to run something by you. You see, I’ve got this dress...”

7 BTC

Six Chiss children sat around the small den facing their mother, a little middle-aged woman in a chair. The woman was telling a story.

"Listen! Once long ago the Tall Man lived in the snows of Csilla, outside a little village.

"One day he found that he was out of neff'la oil for his stove and his lamps. And so he bundled up his coat and he bundled up his scarves and he bundled up his hat and he stepped out into the snowy night.

"He thought he would visit the village and ask a neighbor for some neff'la oil to burn. So he set out in the direction of the village, pushing through deep snow. And as he went he saw a light ahead of him, a little to the side."

The younger of the two little girls rocked side to side. "It's the leth'danaan," she said.

"He thought it was a light from the village," the mother resumed. "He followed the light through the trees and the snow and the dark, but then when he got close, puff! It disappeared.

"But then he saw another light, ahead of him and a little to the side. It was moving around some. And the Tall Man thought, perhaps this is a villager who can lead me back to the village. And he struggled through the snow, closer and closer, until suddenly – puff! The light disappeared.

"Now the Tall Man was very lost, but he saw a distant light ahead and a little to the side. And he thought, surely this isn't leading me to the village; perhaps there is something else it's leading me toward, something fine and magical that I shall have all to myself."

The youngest children shook their heads; the mother went on.

"So he followed this light, out and on through the snow, further and further. And then when he got close, puff! It disappeared. But there was another beyond that. And so he pushed on.

"Listen! They found him the next day, out on the ice of the bay, frozen up solid, with not a light in sight. For that's how the leth'danaan lead wanderers astray, and that's how they take their spirits, and that is how the Tall Man was lost."

There was a moment of silence for the Tall Man and the leth'danaan.

"The Tall Man should've been more careful," intoned one of the middle children, a boy.

"That's right," said their mother. "If he'd stayed home he wouldn't have frozen up."

"Didn't say he had to stay home. I said he should've been more careful. If you know what the leth'danaan are you can 'ccount for them before you go." The youngster tilted his head. "Or he could've tried to catch some neff'la of his own for oil nearby. Or kept a guiderope strung up in the trees to lead to the village. Or bundled up and waited 'til morning when it's safer to move. He just didn't prepare right for running out there."

His mother laughed the indulgent laugh of someone who was used to these torrents of suggestions. "Maybe if you were there you could’ve talked some sense into him."

"Well, yeah," grumbled the boy. "He didn't have to die."

This legend was referenced in a Myths and Legends entry with Vector.

Poor perfectionist Wynston. If there's a threat you take concrete steps to mitigate it and then utilize your best judgment to...what do you mean, it's just a story?

I feel like the Chiss would have an authoritative "Listen!" formula vs. our intro-only "Once upon a time" or some traditions' "Do you hear me?"/"Yes, we hear" callback responses. The detail is made up, but I thought it fit.

January, 26 ATC - 15.5 years after the confirmation of the Wrath

Corellia

The Sith Lord Ruth pulled her speeder up at a great transparisteel storefront in Coronet City's shopping district. She walked through the resplendent skirts of a holographic trio of dresses to reach the door.

The showroom within was broken up by a number of small podiums, each with a triprojected hologram that could place a natural-looking image of a given dress onto anyone standing in the center. A couple of physical dresses stood on mannequins in the window, their trim glittering in the bright showroom light. Screens at opposite corners of the ceiling paged through the selection, showing the merchandise on models of various species. It was a bridal shop of human heritage primarily, but it seemed to accommodate a wide range of formal wear.

Ruth, plain in her black cortosis armor, made for the center of the showroom. Very soon an elderly woman, elegant but not showy in grey, appeared from nowhere to assist. "My lord," she said, her voice only a little tense. "What can my shop do for you today?"

"You moved this?" said Ruth. "You used to be on Government Plaza."

The shopkeeper blinked. "That was many years ago. We moved to this location after the war broke out."

"After one Sith crashed through your shop in particular. She saw the dresses in the window and wanted to destroy them...so she did. She left the place in flames."

The shopkeeper's eyes were round. She remembered now. "M–my lord, please. What is it you want?"

Ruth produced a credstick. "I want to offer restitution. That, and I threw out my last dress a long time ago." The scar on her lip stretched with a smile as her thoughts leaped elsewhere. "I'd like something new, something to impress. What can I get in red?"

Yay, getting along with Quinn when they’re not fighting! In the larger perspective of Ruth’s life it’s easy to lose the nice parts, but nice parts do happen. Like reclaiming Corellia as a positive thing and getting a mega hot dress out of the deal.

The alien district where we stayed in Voss-Ka had a few sidewalk cafes, the kind of place I could take Elara as a halfway decent date instead of another camp meal. So it was there after dinner that I took out a little box and said "I got you something."

She took the box and opened it to reveal the necklace inside. She deftly unwrapped its chain from its little round stand and examined it.

The necklace was a pendant, a four-cornered knot of twisting aurodium ribbons, with little light-catching gems nestled in some of the turns. "It's an old Keglian symbol," I explained. "It's...the start of courting, what you give when you're first interested in someone and you hope they're interested back."

In fact the unbroken knot was for the person you loved, but it seemed too soon to say that out loud. Too soon to admit what I knew from the moment we first kissed. I knew we would get there, in time.

"Vierce, this is lovely. Thank you." She put it on, settled the symbol against her skin, and smiled sweetly. "And what am I to give in return?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "The rulebook's a little fuzzy on that anyw–"

In one motion she scooted from her seat around to my knee and grabbed my shirt. Then and there she pulled me down to where she could kiss me, and did.

Elara likes luxury gifts. I suspect she's been denied a lot of the frivolities of life since her defection.

Kirya danced into Sirocco’s common room, “It’s here! It’s here!” she sang. She bounded to the dejarik table and set a wide, flat box down on its scratched surface.

Risha peered over her datareader, “Landing permits don’t come in boxes.”

Kirya pressed her thumbs to the security seals and they unlocked, “Nothing so dull as landing permits, Risha. Something much more important.”

“Chocolate?”

Kirya straightened, “Guess again.”

Risha set her datapad down, “I haven’t the faintest idea. We only just landed and I can’t imagine what you might have picked up from Carrick general post.”

“Remember Ace of Staves?” Kirya asked.

“Remember?” Risha asked, “How could I forget? I used to watch that show all the time as a kid.”

“Me too!” Kirya gushed.

“...Of course, I used to laugh at how all his schemes and adventures would never work out that way for real...” Risha mused.

Kirya bent over the box, “Me and my sisters used to watch for hours until one of the moms chased us away from the holoreceiver and made us play outside,” she continued, oblivious to Risha’s comment. “So we’d play Ace of Staves. Nasha always got to be Ace,” she looked up, “How’s that for ironic?”

“Very,” Risha agreed. “Didn’t they just make an Ace of Staves holofeature?”

“Yes they did,” Kirya agreed. She lifted the top off the box and started pulling out fluffy packing material.

“With that dreamy Jiss Fairen as Ace?” Risha asked, scooting to the edge of her seat.

Kirya met Risha’s gaze, “Absolutely. And this...” she pulled the item from the box with a flourish, “is his hat.”

Risha finally closed in, “You’re joking,” she said, examining Kirya’s prize.

Kirya turned the broad-brimmed, low-crowned leather hat over in her hands, “I am not. And it’s not some overpriced, officially licensed, holofeature tie-in piece of junk either.”

Risha ran her fingers over the leather crown, “You bought the actual prop?” she asked.

“No,” Kirya replied, “I went one better. This is an real, wearable hat made by the same people that made the original ones that the original show bought to use as props. They’re still making them.”

“It is just like Ace’s. Even has the red braided band around the crown,” Risha said.

“Check it out,” Kirya flipped it over, “an ace of staves sabacc card tucked in under the brim.”

Risha reached for it, “Wouldn’t a regular cheater work better?”

“No, it would not because then it wouldn’t be Ace,” Kirya said, exasperated, “honestly, you take all the fun out of it.”

“I’m giving you a hard time,” Risha said. “Don’t keep me in suspense, put it on, silly.”

“Okay, okay!” Kirya said. She found the front, flipped it over, and placed it on her head. It sat low, the brim skimming her eyes. She turned to Risha and it swiveled past center, ending up off a quarter turn or so. She straightened it. Tweaked it. Pushed it back a bit then pulled it forward. Lifted it and replaced it. She looked at Risha in despair, “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Risha tried to smile, “It’s...well...I’m not used to seeing you in a hat. Er, Ace’s hat.”

“Oh stars, that bad?” Kirya ran off for the ‘fresher and returned in a moment, the hat in her hands.

Risha took it from her, “I don’t think they had Twi’leks in mind when they made it, Kirya.”

“I wanted to be Ace this time,” Kirya said quietly.

“Hey, you told me about a time on Ord Mantell,” Risha began, “When you blasted your way into one of the separatists’ bases. They caught you slicing their computer, and you sent them off looking for the other people who broke into their base,” she said with a grin.

Kirya snickered despite herself, “They were pretty gullible.”

“Better than Ace,” Risha flipped the hat over again a few times, “Besides, I met a lot of shady characters. No one ever wore a hat like this.”

Kirya sighed, “I guess.”

Risha set it down, “You realize this is a traditional Bestine herder hat.”

“Well...yeah their site said as much. The catalog called it a ‘Rogue’s Hat,’ based on the classic designs of the Bestine people,” Kirya admitted, “They just didn’t want to have to pay royalties to the holofeature makers. It’s still Ace’s hat. If you check the old show it says who provided the hats.”

Risha shrugged, “Okay, so there is an article of clothing you don’t make look good,” she said. Kirya laughed and Risha joined in, “come on, you’re a female Twi’lek, Kirya,” Risha continued, “you look good in rumpled loungewear and those hideous blankets-with-arms.”

“Hey, those blankets-with-arms are really comfortable,” Kirya said.

“And really ugly.” Risha replied.

“All right, all right, point taken,” Kirya said, “Look, don’t tell Corso. He won’t understand my obsession with Ace. I’ll sell it quick on the GTN, no harm done.” She put the hat back in its box and began repacking it.

At that moment the ship’s main entry cycled and Corso pranced into the common room with a large box. He set it down on the floor and gave Kirya a big kiss, “Love, you’ll never guess what I got,” he said.

Kirya and Risha exchanged glances, “I can’t guess, Corso,” Kirya said.

Corso thumbed open the security seals and flipped up the lid, “Remember the old Ace of Staves holoshow?”

Kirya’s eyes grew wide, “Yes,” she said warily.

“Remember Thunder?” Corso said, tossing packing material onto the floor.

“Ace’s big rifle?” Kirya asked, “the one he brought when he knew he was getting into a fight?”

“That’s the one,” Corso said. He reached deep into the box and pulled out an outsized scattergun, dark gunmetal grey with an ace of staves engraved on the side of the barrel, “it’s time to bring the Thunder,” Corso recited, imitating Ace’s Corellian accent. Kirya and Risha dissolved into laughter. “What?” Corso asked, “Did I miss something?”

“Ace” is supposed to be the official name of the canon smuggler. “Staves” is a sabacc suit, corresponding to tarot’s wands. In divination, wands corresponds to wealth, action and excitement. What better suit to associate with the smuggler?

I have yet to find a piece of headgear that doesn’t look silly on Twi’leks.

Broan tucked his heels under his bottom, using them as a rest. The floor was hard under his knees and shins, but he assumed the meditation position anyway. He closed his eyes and started to concentrate on his breathing: one big breath in and then one big breath out. Cracking one eye open, he saw that all the other children, no, padawans were also meditating. He waited. The Force was supposed to come to him - he was supposed to listen and it would just flow out of the universe and into his body. Instead, he just felt the stifling heat of the midday sun. He frowned and took another deep breath.

He began to feel lightheaded, almost as if he were floating. He raised a hand to his forehead and the world went black.

Someone was poking him in the back. Master Daranni's hard and calloused hands were keeping him upright, away from the floor. The back of Broan's head throbbed. He tried to move, but the floating sensation was still there and his limbs seemed distant, somehow.

"Padawan, you should rest inside."

Broan closed his eyes against the searing sun, but instead of the comforting darkness, he saw a murky redness. He was lifted and taken away from the meditating padawans, all of them silent and still. He awoke sometime later, on a simple bed in a simple room, a wet cloth on his forehead.

Master Istier offered him some water. It was cold and, even though it tasted a bit like rocks, Broan was glad for it.

"You fainted, just a mild case of heatstroke," He took the glass back and refilled it. "Master Daranni was concerned, he has never seen anyone faint under the sun here."

"It's too hot." Broan greedily gulped down the water, spluttering as he took too much.

"I am sorry, but there are hotter months to come, and you will have to get used to it." Master Istier patted Broan on the shoulder and left the room.

Bewildered, Broan looked into his glass. It was too hot.

Amilia poked around in her wardrobe. Black, black and more black. She sighed and slammed the door shut. She was so sick of black and so tired of being expected to wear it. She slept in black, she ate in black; she meditated in black. She was even wearing black as she lamented her black wardrobe!

She slumped onto her bed - black sheets - and wondered. Stion'n never wore black. Even with her puce skin, she got away with wearing reds and silvers and gold. Was it her status? A Pureblood against a Twi'lek? Or was it simply because Stion'n did not care what others thought of her?

In fact, the only true colour in her room came from a headdress given her by an admirer. It was an intricate work of beauty. All too bad, then, that it reminded her too much of the muzzles her old master had kept. She had worn it, once, in the privacy of her rooms. She was not restricted in her movements, but the memories were still there.

She desperately needed to go shopping.

Ugh, drab brown with lighter brown. And the fabric, nubby texture with the pulls and small tears she got while going about on missions. Magdalane sighed, it really was time to find some new robes. It wasn’t as if she spent much of her meager credits, but she hated that she was restricted to so few choices when getting new clothing. She’d always hated the feel of the Jedi robes on her skin, but that was mild discomfort compared to the undergarments padawans and young Jedi were required to wear. Those horrible devices were better left in a pile to burn, which is exactly what Mags had done years ago.

She stepped out of her quarters and over to the holo, pulling up the frequency of the tailoring shop she usually ordered from. It was very early, and no one heard her gasp of surprise when she realized she’d pulled up the frequency of her other favorite shop. She nervously looked around, and seeing none of her crew awake, she cautiously shopped, her face alight with pleasure. After a good hour, she went to the correct frequency and ordered a couple of the nondescript robes she was expected to wear.

No one had to know that underneath the drab, boring, and rough hooded outer garment, she wore only the finest shimmersilk and lace, ordered in her sister’s name and delivered for her signature only.

He never considered himself a vain person. No, growing up in the slave pits as a pit fighter tended to make one rather fashion unconscious. If he wasn’t covered in dirt, sweat, tears, blood, vomit, or any other variety of bodily fluid, he was in rags. When he made it to Korriban on some sort of scholarship, the damn clothes had been included. Nice clothes. Soft clothes. Blood free clothes! Well, until he started training, anyway. And it wasn’t always his blood. The drycleaners were rather good at removing blood and staying silent. He liked them.

He looked at himself in the mirror and smirked. He looked a lot like his father dressed like this. He straightened the collar on his uniform tunic. Yes, he was dressed as an Imperial Officer despite his Darth rank, but he wondered if things had been different if he would have been an officer just like his father. Perhaps better than his father. Despite his numerous short comings, all of which he admitted to him as a boy, his father was loyal until the day he was murdered. He remembered that day with frightening clarity despite the many years it had been.

He brushed his hands down his sides and tugged at the bottom of the tunic. He turned to his side and checked his bum in the mirror. If being a Sith in uniform didn’t get him a bit of tail, his tail would get him a bit of tail.

The door to his room slid open.

“You look good, my Lord,” Rylee said as she entered the room.

“I always look good,” he replied, grinning at his reflection.

She chuckled softly. “That is rather true.”

He turned to her and tilted his head to the side. “Do you need something?”

“I just wanted to see you off.”

He grinned wider, cupped his chin in his hand, and cocked his hip to one side. “That’s all?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. Her cheeks blossomed into a cherry red blush.

“If you want a quick one, just ask,” he said as he flashed his teeth.

“I – I – y-yes. If you have time I…”

“On the bed, then.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not an order, dammit.”

“I know.”

“Stars, Rylee,” Gelt said quietly.

“It’s a perfectly valid question,” she replied.

“No, I have never been in love. There was someone when I was a kid, but that can’t be defined as love. I was a child, I had no idea what love was.”

“What was she like?”

“Does it really matter?”

She shrugged. “I suppose not.”

He rolled over top of her and grinned as he balanced on his palms. “Round two?”

“Do you even like me?” Rylee spluttered.

He rolled his eyes and rolled back to his side of the bed. “Stars, Rylee.”

“It’s a perfectly valid question.”

“I’ll put it this way: you’re the only woman I purposely seek out.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

She laughed then rolled over him as he had her, bracing her palms on his shoulders. “So… round two?”

His grin was all teeth. “I thought you’d never ask.”