>>5537822>>5537823>>5537827>>5537828>>5537836>>5537837>>5537842>>5537921>>5537938>>5537941>>5537943The dry hiss of the communicator doesn’t nearly erase the sheer disappointment in Suzel’s voice. “…not even an hour into my tan, guys.”
“We wouldn’t have interrupted if it wasn’t life or death,” the Miraluka says heatedly, just short of snapping.
“Yeah, I know. But yeesh, talk about bad timing.”
He’s preaching to the choir. “Just…find out what you can, okay?”
“Right…what kind of starship am I supposed to be looking for?”
“Gunship-freighter hybrid,” you interject, “Just a little larger than a heavy bomber. Goes by the name of <span class="mu-i">Tracinya</span>. Translates to ‘flame’ in Mando’a.”
“Gotcha. And, uh…what do I tell the peanut gallery?”
The pair of you share a nervous look before you make a snap decision. “…nothing for now. Just keep things as discrete as possible.”
“And Potkin?” adds Ceyla, “How’s she doing?”
Suzel laughs dryly. “Out like a light. Trykov’s got her strung out all the way to the Rishi Maze with how much drugs are running through her bloodstream.”
“Good. Call us if you find anything, but don’t get too close if you do. At the bare minimum, she's got two other traveling companions.”
“Will do, boss. Suzel out.”
Nomiana Whrul.
A Mandalorian bounty hunter who you shared an evening’s worth of drinks and swing dancing before the slave revolution on Mylar-3. She’d given you a pistol in exchange for a knife in the hopes that’d it keep you alive until the next time you’d met, unaware that you’d already had other weapons at your disposal. And while you hadn’t shared your identity as a Jedi with her…you had shared a bed and a night of passion in a moment of emotional turmoil.
<span class="mu-i">“…you’re too civilized to be on this planet, Ren. What are you doing here?”</span>
<span class="mu-i">…there’s too much for that question for you to even begin. How would you even answer?</span>
<span class="mu-i">But before you can even say a word, she fills in the blanks with her own conclusion, pulling herself closer against you. “Yeah…me, too. Neither of us can go home anymore, can we?”</span>
<span class="mu-i">“No…” you exhale wearily, “…no, we can’t.”</span>
…she had left an impression. Even if you didn’t know what she was running from, that night had been a union between one wounded, kindred soul to another. That much was obvious, even without using the Force to read her emotions. The cavalier façade of a free-spirited professional masked someone carrying their own heavy burdens and troubles.
The weight of her pistol on your hip suddenly feels heavier as you replace the comm into a pouch. It is only slightly less heavy than Ceyla’s expectant gaze.
“…so what happens now?” she tentatively asks.
You exhale warily, rubbing the side of your temples. “Force knows that not knowing why she’s here is gonna drive me up the flipping wall.”
(cont.)
