“My lord.” Pierce bowed to the Darth sitting at a corner table in a nearly empty cantina.

“Pierce, what are you doing here?” Darth Ninka looked startled to see him, her eyes shifted uneasily.

He said nothing about her uncharacteristic behavior only, “Amilla asked me to meet her here. She said it was important.”

Ninka’s brow furrowed in consternation, “She asked me here as well, she said she wanted to speak to me alone, she expressly asked me not to tell you.”

He shook his head muttering under his breath, “Meddling Mynock.” Of all her companions he was the only one still with her, the rest had moved on. Ninka smiled and indicated the seat next to her. He took it and waved for a service droid. “Apologies, my lord.” He sighed and ordered a refill for her and a beer for himself. “She’s been worried about me since her mother went on a warpath.”

“I didn’t know you were having trouble.” She left the statement open for him to elaborate but final enough for him to shrug and change the subject, it was their way.

He cracked a grin. “Amilla’s grown, married, happy. Figured it was time to give her mother what she always wanted, so I signed her divorce papers and filed them. But, it seems I’ve been doing too well for myself, with all the promotions from our master.” He wagged his brows at her, “She changed her mind, but it was too late.”

“And now she’s on a warpath?”

“Went to high command, telling them stories about me, not sure what she was trying to accomplish.” He turned and accepted his beer from the service droid.

“Do you want me to talk to them?” The Imperial military did not appreciate Sith interference but they could not argue against it, and some of them owed her favors.

“Nah, taken care of. Sides, she’s just casting about, worried she won’t find someone to take care of her, afraid of being alone.” He shrugged the way he did about everything from officers to emperors.

Ninka made rude noise before sipping her drink, “In that case I sympathize.”

He paused tilting his head, “Never seen you afraid of anything, and I know you can take care of yourself.”

“Of course,” she replied, “I am Sith.” She dropped her eyes. “Doesn’t mean that’s what I want.”

He frowned, the conversation was swiftly leaving the topics that were safe for them to discuss. “Why aren’t you with him?” Neither spoke his name, but not out of dislike, they were all nearly friends. It simply seemed that mentioning his name ruined something between them.

“I thought about it,” she smiled but it was bitter, “Too much, I thought about it. Some days it seemed like the only choices I was given was to go back to the man who betrayed me or to spend the rest of my life alone.”

Pierce snorted now, “Hardly.”

“You were married.” She teased but a hint of sadness crept in.

He shook his head, “Well, if your only choices were him being him, me unable to commit, or a lifetime alone, I can see where you get your rage from.” He said the words with a straight face but the corners of his eyes crinkled. Ninka blinked for a moment at the absurdity then a giggle slipped out, soon they were both laughing. Feeling less melancholy, she finished her drink and checked the hour.

“Amilla is never late, I’ll assume she’s not coming.” She stood and he watched her rise, his presence steady as always. She studied his face, some would say he was just a brute from his looks, but she never felt that way. From the moment she saw him, his manner, his weathered complexion, and even his scars, they all simply added up to Pierce. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, empires to build and all that.” She left a credit chip on the table, but he caught her hand before she could leave.

He stood, towering over her, he was never diffident, but now he was, he was never nervous, but now he was, and he did not release her hand. “Allow me to take you to dinner.”

She looked at his hand wrapped around hers. It was warm, strong, and offering something he never offered before. She swallowed with difficulty and met his eyes, “Pierce, we’ve been friends for so long. I’m not sure that’s something we need to do.” He let out a breath and nodded, bowing slightly to break eye contact, but she caught him before he could let go of her hand. He looked back at her face to see an impish smile and a raised brow. “I think we can skip the meal.”

Amilla Pierce was late, but she was excited to tell her father the good news. He always seemed to know everything and she had done her best to keep her news a secret. Of course, this would be the day that a speeder accident at another junction made her late, it was also the day she would forget her comm device at home. She hurried feeling a moment of anxiety at keeping a Sith waiting. Darth Ninka had always been kind to her and her father. She was almost motherly at times and far more concerned for Amilla’s welfare than her own mother, it was part of the reason she asked the Sith to be there. That and she hoped the level-headed woman would help keep her father under control if he celebrated too much. She arrived at the cantina almost an hour past the allotted time but she assumed they would both still be there keeping each other company. They were absurdly compatible, and she vowed that one day she would find a way to get them together.

She looked around surprised not to find either of them. She thought her father at least would still be waiting. Disappointed but recognizing that they were both probably very busy she walked back out to the speeders. She shrugged and grinned with what Vette called 'Pierce resilience' and headed home, she would still be pregnant tomorrow.

Amilla is Pierce's made up daughter.

This best day is me being grumpy at the choices we're given for romance options in general and SW specifically.

The outpost huddled under a high outcropping. Drifted snow concealed the entrance. Sha’ra’zaed powered down the speeder and let it coast to a stop a hundred meters from the compound. Vector halted beside her.

She ducked down behind a drift and examined the entrance with electrobinoculars. The shadows under the rocks glowed bright in reflected infrared. There were sentries, subtle ones, hidden just inside the passage. The warmth of their instruments and the body heat escaping from their cold-weather gear gave them away. Seaming showed it was standard Imperial-issue, unimproved by the Chiss forces stationed here.

“Have you considered, agent, that I might have just killed you?”

Sha’ra’zaed turned sharply to the right. There was no one. She blinked. Watcher X’s voice. An artifact, a hallucination, perhaps a latent personality matrix imbedded in the device nestled along her spine. A transitory guide; the voice of her subconscious, cataloging, collating, analyzing, then reporting to her conscious mind in Watcher X’s voice. Watcher X was dead, long dead.

On his (her own?) advice she’d replicated the serum, the serum that changed her brain chemistry, that changed her mind’s connections, that would dismantle the Castellan restraints. She imagined she could feel it working. Diffusing from the blood vessels, infiltrating her synapses, traveling through her neurons. Changing. Rearranging. Rewriting. Editing.

Activating.

Sha’ra’zaed turned back to the task at hand. She’d locked her cards; she’d either win with this gambit or fail. No point considering the what-ifs or might-have-dones at this point.

Vector touched her shoulder, “Are you…well, Sha’ra’zaed?”

“I’m…” not all right. He knows this, or he would not ask, “I have to remind myself this is Hoth, not Csilla. This planet reminds me of home.”

“You speak little of your home,” Vector continued, “It must be a pleasant change to be among so many of your own species.”

“It is,”…stressful. For once she was grateful for the anonymity of her designation as Intelligence’s ‘Cipher Nine’. Might she be recognized? How much do they know of the demise of Scheh? Will that knowledge be a problem?…“interesting. I’m glad to see others of my kind integrated into Imperial forces. No doubt they facilitate the cooperation between the Expeditionary Force. Some commanders can be very reactionary in that regard.”

“We have observed this trait,” Vector said.

Task at hand. “I think our Admiral Davos is one of them,” Sha’ra’zaed handed the electrobinoculars to Vector. “Too much heat loss. His sentries and the entrance to the staging area are plainly visible. Heat is more valuable here than water on Tatooine; cold kills faster.”

Vector scanned the area then handed the binoculars back, “You expect the Admiral to be hostile to you, then, as an alien?”

“Yes,” she replied, “Or just as an outsider. Besides that, waste heat is a beacon. I do not think he has much of interest left here, or he would have taken pains to hide better. And he chose not to supply at the station, he equipped his men before arrival. That tells me his mission is sensitive, personal, or urgent. Perhaps all three.”

“Thus, you came in uniform,” Vector observed, “Your approach, Sha’ra’zaed?” Vector asked.

Sha’ra’zaed sighed, her breath filter capturing the tell-tale puff of condensation before it gave away her position, “Kothe’s briefing gave me no clue as to the Admiral’s motives, and a trace through Intelligence would only have tipped him off. I hate not having enough information to do my job.”

“We will improvise?” Vector said.

Sha’ra’zaed allowed a small smile, “As usual. Intelligence has been known to drop in on military operations from time to time. With luck, our unannounced visit will put him on the defensive.”

She and Vector marched straight up to the entrance, making no effort to hide their presence. The sentries challenged them, of course. Reported to their superiors, of course. And let them pass. Of course. Just beyond lay a basic bunker, the walls equal parts blasted rock, glacial ice, and standard durasteel reinforcement.

Sha’ra’zaed took stock. The way water had frozen on the walls showed where crates had been stacked, but since moved. Light oil and frostmelt on the floor and walls suggested there had been several ships or small atmospheric craft here, but only one remained. A CT-031, chubby little freight-lifter. Not much for speed, but it could haul a lot of weight and take a lot of abuse. She sat light on her landing gear right now and her main hatch was open. On the far side of the bunker was an open holoterminal. A single commander stood nearby with a skeleton crew of Imperial marines.

“Ah,” the shimmering blue figure in the holoterminal addressed the intruders. An older man, bald, scarred, cybernetics replacing what time or injury had taken from him, “this explains the Captain’s flare. I am Admiral Davos. You were not expected.”

Sha’ra’zaed drew close to the image, removing her insulated headgear and allowing her rank pips to show, “Cipher Nine, Imperial Intelligence.”

“Intelligence,” the Admiral mused, “Of course. You must excuse me, Agent, but these men are the last of my expedition, and it is imperative they follow me to the starship graveyard at once.”

“Then I am in time to join them,” Sha’ra’zaed said, “Keeper’s orders were quite clear, Admiral. I am to accompany you and ensure the Empire’s interests are taken into account.”

“I see. Several months ago I could have honored that request,” his body language said otherwise, regardless of notice. He continued “But now there is no time. Commander,”

“Yes sir,” acknowledged the ranking Imperial officer in the bunker.

“Torture them and find out what they know, then bring me your report at the rendezvous point. Davos out.” The holoimage dissolved amid the sound of weapons being drawn.

Vector leaped ahead at the commander; Sha’ra’zaed tossed a flash-bang to the floor behind him and blinded the remainder while activating her stealth generator. All automatic, without thinking. She slipped around behind one of the incapacitated soldiers.

“The abdominal aorta. Or inferior vena cava. Beside the third lumbar vertebra,” Watcher X’s voice again, “The second lumbar vertebra in Chiss, owing to an extension of the thoracic cavity.”

Distraction. A distraction she didn’t need. She focused on what was necessary, pushing the voice aside. She activated her vibroknife, prepared to plunge it into the specified spot.

“No analogous structure in Rattataki.”

Sha’ra’zaed blinked the voice away. Knife poised—

“Shock almost immediate, with concurrent loss of blood pressure.”

“I know,” she hissed from between clenched teeth. A quick strike. Almost no blood outside the close-fitting armor. Just a trickle, bright red against the white camoflauge. But the pulsing flow gave away its lethal nature. The soldier slumped to the floor.

“Over ninety percent fatality rate when injuries result in free intraperitoneal bleeding.”

“Shut up!” Sha’ra’zaed insisted. She turned, taking two steps to the next soldier. The vibroknife was nearly silent; the flash still blinded him and he’d not heard his companion’s demise. Another easy kill.

A transparent image of the barefooted Watcher X appeared beside Sha’ra’zaed’s intended victim. “Target: the cervical vertebrae,” he said, indicating the spot with his spectral finger, “Common to all species with a centralized nervous system. Intersection of the cephalic junction, just here, severs the body’s connection with the prime neural processor.”

“You are an illusion. I choose to ignore you,” she muttered. She shifted her grip.

“Not recommended on Houks, as the height of this species often makes these vertebrae inaccessible. Or Wookies, where in addition to height the pelt obscures the critical area.”

Sha’ra’zaed’s knife slid under the wide flare at the base of the trooper’s helmet. Only a bit of resistance. She slipped it out again as he fell in a boneless heap.

“Injury results in instantaneous paralysis. Remediable via cybernetic augmentation if treatment begins shortly, the exact time dependent on species. In Humans and Near-Humans this period is between five and seven minutes. Beyond this window, irreversible brain damage occurs due to lack of circulatory fluids and trauma to the neural column itself. Brain death follows, and eventually physical death.” Watcher X looked at the corpse, “Brava, Cipher Nine, well executed.”

“You are not real,” Sha’ra’zaed said, facing him. The sounds of combat faded into the periphery.

“I could have killed you,” he said, “the implantation procedure. So close to your spine. So close to the vital arteries.”

“You are nothing more than a projection of my subconscious mind. Watcher X is dead,” she insisted.

“I could have given you information. This situation need not have blindsided you,” he continued, “all I wanted was what every sentient being wants. Tell me you were not looking at the cells in Shadow Town, wondering which one would be yours someday.”

Sha’ra’zaed shivered. She’d had exactly that thought on leaving the speeder. Perhaps she was going about this all wrong. She recalled instruction in lucid dreaming, briefly on Csilla and more intensely at the Academy. She knew this Watcher X was false, a construct. A dream. And, now aware that he was a dream, her dream, she could control him.

“Go away,” she said, “I do not need you right now.”

“I know. Yet here I am,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“You summoned me. You should know.”

He was not quite the same as the Watcher X from Quesh, or even the earlier episode on her ship. This version was more like crystallized doubt, her normal, calculating thought processes gone awry, “I order you to go.”

“I am a part of you,” he said, “where would I go? Where is ‘away’ when I live in your mind?”

Play by the dream’s rules, then, “Don’t make me kill you again,” Sha’ra’zaed said, “go.”

“I cannot,” he replied.

Sha’ra’zaed stood before him. Her hands reached for his throat. She did not remember sheathing her vibroknife, but it was no longer in her grasp, “Last warning. Go.”

“I cannot.”

Her fingers closed. He made no move to struggle or break free. She applied pressure. Her peripheral vision grew dim. Watcher X’s face brightened into sharp clarity, everything like a holoimage with the contrast tuned too high. Color bleached, faded to grey.

Faded to black.

Vector activated the holoterminal, “Doctor Lokin?”

Lokin answered in a moment, “A fixer’s work is never done, it seems. Yes, Vector?”

“Our Agent. There is something wrong. She collapsed. She is not breathing,” he said. He glanced over at Sha’ra’zaed’s prone body. The color was fading from her skin and wide, staring eyes. Her aura screamed in disjointed colors, swirling, eddying, flowing. Like a new joiner, one who was not yet harmonized with the hive’s song. Personal memories clashing with the shared ones. That odd scent was present again, the one he’d first noticed during her leave following the affair with Darth Jadus.

He’d asked if she had a new perfume. She laughed and said no. Asked if he liked the one she wore. He should have asked more questions.

“Oh dear. You have treated her injuries?” Lokin asked.

“She has none,” Vector said. His injuries were minor, nothing that couldn’t wait. “She has a pulse, but does not breathe.”

“Odd. Are you certain? She has a medical scanner, send me the readout.”

Vector connected the scanner to the terminal, the data it recorded going direct to Lokin.

“You’re correct,” he admitted, “No injuries. No trauma. She is completely unresponsive, Vector?”

“No response, Doctor,” Vector confirmed. He returned to Sha’ra’zaed’s side. Her skin was now a shade of light slate, her eyes barely pink. He took her hand, stripped the glove. Even her fingernails were grey.

“Interesting. Heartrate elevated, brain activity extremely high, no neural damage. Strange. Profound catatonia. Maybe some kind of fugue state. Internal Chiss physiology is not terribly different from Human. The vagus nerve should take over her breathing in any time now.” Lokin stroked his beard, “These scans are very odd, even for a Chiss. Excessive activity in the parietal lobe, neocortical granular response is as high as I’ve ever seen in a being not under obvious traumatic stress. You’re certain she has no injury? Nothing that might have triggered this episode?”

“None physical, Doctor,” Vector answered, “The Admiral’s men attacked us without warning. She dispatched two of the attackers on her own, but as you can see, she suffered no injury.”

Sha’ra’zaed inhaled a shuddering breath, then another. Her eyelids dropped. The normal blue hue began to return to her skin. “Ah, there we go, Vector.” Lokin said, “The wonders of the autonomic nervous system.”

Vector let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Her aura was still confused, but the jagged, battling shapes were smoothing over and harmonizing. The cold red-and-black smoke was still there, and the off aroma, but the rest was returning to something more normal. He stroked her face, “Sha’ra’zaed?” he asked.

Her eyes fluttered open, bright, bright Chiss red, “Vector?” she asked.

“Yes, Sha’ra’zaed,” he replied.

He helped her to a seat, “What,” she observed the room, noting the corpses and their positions, “what happened?” she asked, her gaze returning to his face.

“Glad to have you back with us, Agent,” said Lokin’s holographic image.

Vector still held her ungloved hand, as though the heat from his would keep her warm, “We thought you gravely injured, Sha’ra’zaed. You were not breathing.”

Her skin was still several shades lighter than normal, “You took care of the Admiral’s men?” she asked.

“The remainder, yes,” Vector said. Her aura was settling. The familiar tones and shades of her thoughts taking over. Still, though, strange smoke in the interstices. He would have to observe her more closely. He…he did not want to lose her.

Sha’ra’zaed struggled to her feet, “We must follow them,” she said, “I don’t know what the Admiral is up to, but he’s clearly afraid Intelligence—and the Empire—will find out about it.”

“Sha’ra’zaed, perhaps Doctor Lokin could run a few tests, make certain you are well before we continue,” Vector said.

“Yes, Agent,” Lokin agreed, “I’m sure you would not like a repeat episode—“

“I’m fine,” she insisted, “the mission comes first. He needed a defector to get the Starbreeze; it must be crucial to his plans and there was no way he could get it without me. He’s coming to the end of his scheme, whatever it is. There is no time to waste,” she stared into Vector’s eyes, “I’m fine,” she repeated.

“As you say, Agent,” Lokin said, “I’ll just study these fascinating readings then.” His image blinked out of the terminal.

Vector handed her her glove. She was not fine. But he could never convince her of that. “Do please be careful, Sha’ra’zaed,” he said.

The reference to “locking cards” is from sabaac, where cards shift values as part of the game, replacing discarding-redealing in terrestrial card games. A player can lock the value of a card so that it does not change, analogous to keeping the card as opposed to discarding it. I suppose an equivalent Earthly expression would be ‘already rolled the dice’ or ‘cast your lot’.

“You're a natural at this. I don't think you even need me anymore.” He smirked roguishly at her over the controls.

She let the corner of her mouth quirk in response. “I couldn't have asked for a better teacher. Thank you, Markus. This would have never happened without you.” She meant every word, though differently than he wanted her to. It was unfortunate.

“Well. You know. Anything for you.” His cheeks colored and she knew it wasn't real. Markus played women the way a cantina dancer played a crowd. It was just second nature. She didn't begrudge him that.

Aurai gave him a smile that had him vacating the co pilot chair. She let him pull her to her feet and take her back to the bedroom. It would be the last time. She would miss him but not in the way she missed Tsarrin. It was time to end the deal before Markus became too attached.

Afterward she lay on her side, her back cozied up to him. She curled her fist beneath her head and tried not think about how Tsarren would have spooned his body against hers, stroked her flat belly as though in anticipation for what they could create. Markus wasn't Tsarren, that comfort was gone forever. Markus instead was smoothing his palm lazily over her back and hip. She shifted her legs so they came untangled of his and decided it was time. She would plunge off this cliff because its black waters were just too cold to ease into. “When do you have your run to Ord Mantell?”

His hand stopped its stroking movements and he sighed. She didn't turn to look at him. She closed him off little by little. “The window is closing. I'm going to have to leave in the next couple of days.”

“You've done so much for me. I hope you can do one more thing.”

He reached for her again, sliding his arm around her waist and nuzzling his mouth against her shoulder. “Anything for you.”

She tried not to sigh when he said it. “I need you to set me up with a job. If you'll let me ride your reputation for just a little while so I can build my own, I'll be forever grateful to you.” And indebted but she would have to figure a way around that at a later time.

Markus propped himself up on his elbow and pushed her shoulder back so she would look at him. “Come with me,” he said, cupping her cheek. “On the Ord Mantell run. And all the runs after that. We'll split profits 50/50 and it will just be the two of us.”

Aurai gave him a sad smile. She was toeing that line. If she let this go any further she'd never shake Markus off. But if she cut off the relationship completely then breaking into the smuggling routes would be that much harder. She needed this. But she did not need him.

“I... I didn't say anything before because... I didn't want you thinking differently of Tsarren.” The mention of her dead husband's name had Markus backing off a little. Must be hard to be reminded you were bedding your dead best friend's widow. She breathed easier in the space. “He left me debt. A lot of it. I need to do my own jobs to pay them off or... They've started coming after me already. I need to be hard to find and I need to be making credits.”

Markus growled in frustration, putting a hand over his eyes and falling back on the bed. “I can't believe it. I always knew that man was living too high for his means. But he always told me... Damn it.”

Aurai rolled to her side and stretched her body along his, putting her fingers to his lips before he could offer to help her pay her debts. It was going to be the next thing out of his mouth, she could see it in his eyes. “I need to do this on my own. If I'm ever going to truly move on from Tsarren's death, I need to bury what's left of him in my life.” That wasn't completely true, and unfortunately it would give Markus hope. But it worked. He nodded up at her.

“I have a side job lined up for after the Ord Mantell run. Little shipment of ordnance to a dealer on Nar Shaddaa. Exchange the arms for the money and be done. I'll contact them and tell them you're coming early.”

She smiled and kissed him. “You're going to turn my life around, Markus. Thank you.”

She had never felt so free in her entire life. She raced the Carnivale along the hyperspace lanes, pushing for speed because there was no one around to tell her not to. Well, C2-N7 was sitting in the co pilot's chair warning her of imminent hull breech and loss of oxidation to the entire ship in the event of said hull breech but she shut out the droid's babble and stroked the controls. There was no feeling like watching the stars streak by. No lover's touch, no shared smiled could compete with the exhilaration of being completely alone in a sky filled with nothing but pin points of light. This was what her life was meant to be. Everything that came before had just been stepping stones on that path. The heartache, the lonely nights all a set up for this. She knew now why Tsarren could never truly leave this behind and she had been a fool to believe he would have for her. If she could have gone back, she would have told him to never give it up.

She had parted ways with Markus Kinbridge six days ago. He still tried to convince her to go with him but she resisted every attempt. Now, all she had was her ship, her droid, and a heavy load of something Markus warned her would explode brilliantly if allowed to shift too much. The danger was intoxicating she'd been riding the high for four days.

Her controls warned her the moon of Nar Shaddaa was coming and she eased out of hyperspace and angled her trajectory to catch the upper atmosphere. Now came the best part of the deal, according to Markus. Receiving permission to land was easy but her cargo would be searched before she was allowed to remain. She had the front cargo all set up. The kolto, rations, and medical supplies were a part of the deal and the only part of the sell that Customs would see.

This was Nar Shaddaa though. Markus assured her no one was going to take more than a cursory glance.

It was a bit of a bumpy landing. She was still working out all the kinks. She giggled as they jostled and N7 failed ineffectually. She released the loading ramp and jogged to the opening, data pad in her hand and big smile on her face.

An Evocaii foreman trudged up the ramp toward her, his eyes dead and far away. Wordlessly he held his hand out for the data pad and she handed it over. He put his thumb to the pad and gave it back, turning to leave.

“That's it?” she called after him. He waved listlessly.

“You're done. Welcome to Nar Shaddaa.”

Aurai looked after him for a moment. “Thanks!” she called then went back into her ship. She pulled out her portable holo and dialed into her contact. “I'm here. Customs signed off.”

The Twi'lek on the other end nodded. “Good. Good. Our representative will meet with you shortly.”

“As long has he has my payment.”

“Of course. Always a pleasure to do smooth business with Captain Kinbridge's people,” he hissed with a toothy smile.

She closed the connection then went to check the outer hull of the ship while she waited. She had pushed the hyperlanes rather hard.

The representative kept her waiting and she should have been angry but she was just so excited she couldn't find it in her. He found her half in and half out of the ship's shielding hatch. She heard him clear his throat and wiggled her way back out. She was a little blackened and greasy but as she shook her hair out of her eyes she saw him regarding her appreciatively.

“You're my contact?” he asked with some surprise.

She smiled up at the giant Nikto, pleased he was speaking in Basic. She was going to need to brush up on her galactic languages before long. “That's me. You got my money, I got your stuff.”

“Kinbridge usually keeps all the beautiful women to himself,” the Nikto said.

“Markus can try,” she said brightly. “Credits?”

He held up a cred stick then flourished it so it turned into three. Aurai looked at the money in his hand and felt a thrill go through her but she kept what she hoped was a good pazaak face as she turned her gaze up to meet his. “Looks like it's all there. N7?” she spoke into a communicator.

“Yes, master?” came N7's reply.

“Bring out the cargo. It's time to get paid.”

“At once, master.”

The Nikto came to stand with her at the bottom of her loading ramp. He was joined by five other Nikto who looked over the cargo as N7 unloaded it. One nodded to the Nikto who had her money and after a moment he handed her all three sticks. She put each one in her data pad to check the totals. It was all there, every credit.

“Don't suppose you're looking for another job,” he said casually as she pocketed her pay.

“I just might be.”

“You and your droid come talk with my boss. Nothing funny. Some of this has to get to a contact on Hutta. Seeing as you're already here...”

“I'll talk to your boss,” she said, checking her blaster. “But I talk to him here.” She held up her holo.

The Nikto hesitated. “Sure,” he said with a short nod.

She set up her second job and bid the Nikto a farewell. She shook off his offer of dinner with practiced ease and a flirtatious smile. Tsarren would have been proud of her. She was proud of herself. Back on her ship she inserted two of the credit sticks into the computer and transferred the money to an account. It was time to start paying off the debts.

It was time to start living again.

Broan sat, watching the cubicle expectantly. Rochester had disappeared into it some ten minutes prior and nothing had been heard since, except a faint fizzing sound. At last, his curiosity got the better of him and he called out.

"What are you doing in there?"

"I'm just finishing."

Broan sighed and rested his elbows on his knees. His robes had been stifling and now lay in a heap at his feet. They were preparing for a short trip to the surface of an Imperial colony. It was supposedly quite a hot planet, with a lot of sunshine. Broan considered it to potentially be a nice change from the usual dreary weather of Dromund Kaas and had insisted that Rochester join him, so that they could enjoy the sun together.

"All done." The door to the cubicle opened with a musical chime. Rochester stepped out, looking the same as ever, albeit with a slight glisten.

"You spent a quarter of an hour, alone, in a cubicle - naked, I might add - to do...?" Broan stood and spread his hands, trying to understand what had just happened.

"Sunscreen." Rochester stated a slight smirk on his face, but keeping his voice level. That flirtatious mixture of emotion and control was something that always stirred Broan and, as Rochester turned to gather his uniform, he grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into an embrace.

"Oh, I don't think you're quite ready to be getting dressed. I need to check the application of this 'sunscreen'." Broan kissed his lover's shoulder before running his tongue along the collarbone. It took only a second for his attraction to be replaced with mild horror and disgust.

"I knew you'd do that," Crossing his arms, Rochester tried to hold back a giggle as he watched a 'dark and dangerous' Sith Lord attempt to remove the foul tasting liquid from his tongue. "Doesn't taste very good, does it?"

"Why would put something like that on yourself?" Broan put the glass back in the cupboard and gagged again, his whole body rocking from the movement. "I think I need to lie down." He steadied himself against Rochester, allowing himself to be led to the bed.

"Are you alright?"

"No." Broan put a hand to his stomach, looking and feeling decidedly miserable.

"I suppose we'll have to get those secret Jedi artefacts a little later, when you're feeling better," He laid a hand against Broan's forehead and frowned. "You're fine. You're just over-reacting." Broan pouted and rolled over, curling into a ball.

"Maybe. Why do you have to put that stuff on anyway? It's like a poison." Rochester crawled onto the bed and put an arm around Broan.

"It protects me from the sun, so I don't get burnt or get a cancer." Broan rolled and returned the embrace, nuzzling under the other man's chin.

"Is that what the sun does to you? Burn you up?"

"Yes, if I'm not careful." He rubbed Broan's back, causing small, circular ripples in the fabric of his robes.

"Do you like being so pale?"

"I suppose I do," Rochester smiled and kissed Broan lightly. The acrid taste of the sunscreen was barely present on his lips. "A lifetime of thunderstorms and space travel does help to keep me this way, though." They stayed silent for a while, Broan idly playing with the cybernetics of Rochester's spine.

"So... if you get a lot of sun, will you go darker?"

"I'd go red and start to peel; it's very painful." Broan made a disagreeable noise and pulled Rochester closer to him, if that were possible.

"I'd go paler... if I got a lot of sun. At least, that's what my mom told me when I was younger," He shifted so that he could look into those grey eyes while he spoke. "Mom said it was something to do with getting vitamins from the sun and that because there wasn't a lot of sun where we lived, our skin became darker so that we could make more of the vitamins. At one point she said it worked like plants, which is kind of a silly thing to tell a kid who's never seen a plant before..."

Rochester frowned slightly and then poked Broan in the cheek.

"So, are you a plant then?"

"No, I'm not a plant."

"Can I call my 'flower'?"

"Stop tickling me!"

Because naturally been green means you photosynthesise your vitamin D.

Well that, and YES! THIS! PLEASE!

He's alive in my agent's story, so I hope that maybe someday if the writers get creative I'll see him again, cause he's just fascinating.

Maneera peered anxiously at the doorway, checking the half-rusted numbers on the frame against the address she had been given. Everything about this place — dingy door tucked into a shadowy corner of a skeevy alley in the sketchiest neighborhood she’d ever seen — screamed bad news, but then, she wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice. She knocked four times at the door and then pressed against the empty space in the bottom loop of the ‘8’ on the building number; the plate beneath clicked faintly, just as she had been told it would. A moment later, the door slid open to reveal a harried-looking human man. He wore grimy scrubs under a baggy labcoat that, despite its size, couldn’t quite manage to hide the snub-nosed blaster pistol tucked into a battered shoulder holster. His hair had long since passed turning grey and was now turning loose in patches. Maneera gave renewed consideration to the idea of going back to squat at the spaceport for another night.

“In or out?” the man in scrubs demanded.

It sounded too much like a dare. “I’m in,” she answered, feigning more assurance than she felt as she stepped past the man into a grungy waiting room. “You Hennigan? Fenton says you’re a decent hand with a scalpel.”

“Fenton says a lot of things.” Hennigan gave her a long, appraising look. “What is it you’re after.”

“Eyes.” Maneera shoved her goggles up onto her forehead, revealing shallow, empty sockets. “I need to—”

“No,” the doctor barked, taking her by the elbow and half-leading, half-dragging her back to the door. “No Jedi. I run a legitimate clinic, you have no reas—”

Maneera yanked her arm free and dug in her heels, prepared to stand her ground. “I’m not a damn Robe!” she protested. “Look, I’m just after a change, okay?”

Hennigan held her chin in a viselike grip, tilting her face up to the dim orange light oozing from a dust-coated overhead lamp. “You’re Miraluka though, yeah?” She gave the closest approximation of a nod she could manage. “Cosmetic job, then. Gonna have to bore out the socket. Skin graft for the lids. Bit of nerve splicing.” He let go, frowning. “Not gonna be easy, and it’s sure as hell not gonna be cheap.”

Maneera swallowed hard. Here’s where it would either fly or crash and burn. “I’m pretty much tapped out,” she admitted, “but Fenton said you’d be willing to do the job on spec.”

“Told you,” Hennigan grunted. “Fenton says a lot of things.”

“I’m good for the creds, I swear.” Desperation edged into her tone, despite her best efforts to play the whole thing tough. “Just give me a chance to work off the debt. Errands, clean-up, whatever. Give me a job and I’ll get it done.”

The frown stretched into a thin knife-slash smile as the doctor led the way toward what passed for an OR. “I believe we just may be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, Miss... ?”

“Sundrift,” she replied. “Nerama Sundrift.” She didn’t, strictly speaking, need the fake ID anymore, but something about it always calmed her, made her feel more like the captain of her own destiny than a hapless stowaway. Right now, as she struggled to convince herself that the restless churning in her gut was perfectly normal, she needed all the calm she could find.

Would be interesting to see the reasoning behind her getting (fake) eyes. I'd imagine as a Miraluka she could also have opted for fake cybernetics?

Semi-tangential ramble: The first version of Maneera I rolled up in game was Miraluka; the idea of her having had cosmetic surgery hadn't occurred to me then. One evening, I had her milling about in the Slippery Slopes, waiting for some friends of mine to pop on for RP, when another character approaches her and asks what she, a Jedi, is doing in a place like this. The question caught me mentally flat-footed. There she stood, in civvies, packing a blaster, in a Nar Shaddaa dive, but the band-aid over the eyes apparently said "Jedi" to the exclusion of anything else.

Mans gave the guy a tremendously snarky talking-to, the folks I'd been waiting on finally showed up, and things moved on. But I couldn't shake the thought of what might have happened if something like that had happened in Maneera's crazy teenage years, when she was angry at everything and wasn't even nodding acquaintances with silly things like "better judgment." From that came the inspiration for the moment in Installing Windows where, hitchhiking across the galaxy, she finally just says "bugger this" and gets cosmetic surgery from the first person she could find willing to accept indenture as opposed to cash on the barrelhead.

As for the option to go with prosthetic eyes instead of fake cybernetics, it basically came down to aesthetics. Barring any functional concerns, she'd rather pass for a normal human than a "broken" one.

Hennigan is creepy, the clinic was creepy, that little smile as he accepted her terms…very creepy. Also, Hennigan’s reaction to her as a Miraluka—that she must be a Jedi—was great. Especially in light of your explanation of the story’s inspiration.

I could imagine him thinking "Other people can lose themselves in moments like this. I wish I could, too, but I can't. I never will. I love her. But she'll never be my whole world." Because that's how such a brain might work. It could be tremendously frustrating to never for a single moment be free of the cold equations; on the other hand, that mindfulness lends its own kind of weight to what time he has.

22 BTC

Colran woke up and crept out of his dark little room to find breakfast. The temple's small cafeteria was already busy with a somewhat alarming number of aliens and a few humans. Many gave him curious looks; some smiled and greeted him. He nodded cautiously in return while he gathered food. When a slim green-skinned youth approached him with the evident intention of talking, Colran fled to find someplace quiet to eat.

He settled in a stairwell that wasn't seeing any use and ate quickly, then set about seeking Master Zauvien. He ran into the Togruta back by the cafeteria.

"Good morning," she said. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, master."

"Then we should get started." She smiled and ushered him into a small room down the hall.

He had to ask something. "Master, how will I be paying for this training?"

"You won't," said Zauvien. "When you have attained some skill, you will be able to go out into the world and serve as a Jedi. But for now the Order will provide for your needs."

That was unexpected, bordering on nonsensical. "Why?"

"It is our way. We understand that by giving a little now – food, shelter, learning – we enrich the galaxy for many years to come."

"Don't your students just go their own way once they have what they want?"

"Sometimes," said Zauvien. "It is rare. Now come. There will be time for general questions later. For now we should attend to your first lesson." She smiled encouragingly. "There are simple exercises a Jedi does to attain centering and peace. Meditation is a way of returning to tranquility, no matter one's circumstances. I'm…going to guess you never practiced that."

"We did. Sort of." Sith were encouraged to spent time turning their own grievances and hate over in their minds.

"Please, sit." She settled cross-legged on the floor, skillfully arranging her robes around her legs.

He scanned the room. One door. He faced it squarely. No windows; that was something comforting about the metal enclosures of Nar Shaddaa. Enemies without tech would have trouble observing anything. It was no excuse to let down his guard, but it was something.

Master Zauvien guessed his hesitation and smiled encouragingly. "Nothing's coming to harm you."

He glowered at her. He wasn't scared, not that he would let her see. "Of course not, master."

"Be at peace, Colran."

She kept saying that. He sighed and tried to do as she commanded. "Yes, master."

"You can call me Master Zauvien. Jedi prefer to acknowledge the individual."

"Why? A lord's a lord."

"'Master' is a title of respect, but it goes with the person, not the rank. I'm not just a thing that gives orders." She said it gently.

"Very well. Master Zauvien." He sat down facing her. Time to work.

"To meditate," she said in her flutelike voice, "is to open oneself to the Force, to move in harmony with it. To be aware with it."

He stirred up his own fear and basic anger. The Force was there, a dark stain, the power he relied on. At least he could count on that.

Zauvien's blue eyes widened. "Calm yourself, Colran. Let go of your fear. Let the Force come to you."

"But if you don't grab it you can't use it."

"Don't use. Feel. Don't act. Be."

He closed his eyes and tried not to do anything. It was difficult, but he wanted to get it right. He felt along the dark lines of his awareness; there was a comfort in it.

"Don't reach," Zauvien insisted. "Just breathe."

"How is that going to help, Master Zauvien?"

"The Light Side is harmony. It will welcome you if you open yourself to it."

Colran sat still and tried to concentrate his energies in himself. Let it all come to him. Gather it, trap it. Prepare it for whatever purpose he might need it to serve.

"Calm yourself," she insisted.

He opened his eyes again, his anger flaring. "What does that even mean? I don't understand what you want! How does calming anything serve you?" Frustration and bewilderment together overcame his caution. "All of it. How can you think no one's going to take advantage when you're this open? It doesn't make any sense! How do you people survive like this?"

"We survive by living in a civilized world."

"A civilized world looks like a weak one, master."

Zauvien's voice took on a hard edge. "It's a better one to live in. You'll note we as a people have managed to get this far."

Colran didn't want to know what happened when a Jedi got pushed too far. "I'm sorry. It's just…hard to understand how this doesn't all fall apart. The charity, the carelessness, the…the not-using the power you have. My whole point coming was to see what could work that isn't Sith, but I didn't expect this."

Her demeanor calmed. "Perhaps it's time to let go of your expectations," she said gently.

"Let go? Nobody ever got anywhere by giving up what's theirs."

"You're wrong. The Jedi have."

Colran has a gentle spirit. By Sith standards, anyway. He's got some adjusting to do according to the Jedi.

She knew now why Tsarren could never truly leave this behind and she had been a fool to believe he would have for her. If she could have gone back, she would have told him to never give it up.

I was trying to show the parallel thought processes--that she and Watcher X had similar ways of sizing up a situation and responding to that input. That was the first thought she had when she met him--we are eerily alike. Being a medic, all the anatomy-trauma-injury analysis mechanics would be running quiet in the background. With the serum messing with her brain chemistry she put his face on her thoughts. I don't know that I did it all that well, though.

"SIS is filled with morons," Jorgan muttered as he glared around the room, rolling his shoulder to adjust the dirt-encrusted vest he was wearing.

"Agreed," Sana whispered out of the corner of her mouth, looking for their contact in the midst of the teeming backstreet den. She felt uneven. The weight of her blaster in the holster under her flimsy halter top was no replacement for the comfort of a rifle slung across her shoulder.

"For stars sake, would the two of you slouch a little," Jonas Balkar said under his breath, "you're supposed to be low lifes, spiceheads. You need to look unhealthy and....stop staring everyone down, Jorgan!" He covered his face with his palm. "We're never making it out of here alive."

Jorgan glared at Balkar. Sana raised an eyebrow at the operative who looked remarkably un-handsome in his grimy leather. The man had a talent for fitting in anywhere.

"Let's make this quick," Sana said shortly, "sooner we're in, the sooner we're out." She frowned as she met the gaze of one of the bouncers. The man looked more than a little supicious.

"No eye contact!" Balkar snapped.

"I see our man," Jorgan said, his eyes narrow as he spotted the scrawny Nautolan.

"You two. Stay here," Balkar ordered, "I'll pull him over this way and maybe we'll get out of here without a mess. Try to fit in!" He started across the room in a meandering fashion, half weave, half amble.

"This vest is making me itch," Jorgan muttered, adjusting it again.

"Next time SIS asks for military backup on an op, I'm asking what the dress code is before I agree," Sana said, feeling very exposed in the midrift-baring top.

Jorgan glanced at her for a second before going back to scanning the room. "You look real good, honey, but I'd rather you were in durasteel right now."

"That makes two of us," she said, glancing back at the bouncer, who had not lost interest in them. The bouncer started over, unsheathing his blaster, his beady eyes shifted back and forth between the pair. Sana nudged Jorgan. Across the room she could see that Balkar had reached the contact and was in the process of convincing him to come with them. Bad time for a gunfight. She attempted to slouch a little, tried a giggle, and leaned against Jorgan. He slipped his arm around her, both of them leaving their blaster hands free.

"You!"

"I don't think he bought it," Jorgan muttered, slipping his blaster out of its holster.

Sana met Balkar's eyes across the room and shrugged. Balkar sighed and close-ranged a sleep dart at their contact just as the place erupted.

***

"The next time someone has the bright idea to dress Havoc Squad up as spiceheads, don't," Balkar said to his SIS counterparts with irritated exhaustion as he and Jorgan hauled the unconscious contact back through the door. Sana checked their back trail one more time before slipping inside and shutting the door. The men turned their burden over to the medical personnel. Balkar leaned back against one of the consoles and scrubbed at his face, removing most of the disguise.

He looked over at Sana and Jorgan who were rearming themselves with their rifle and autocannon, their expressions serious, their eyes sharp, their movements quick and deadly. Soldiers to the bone.

"Worst. Idea. Ever."