Last Stop, All Change

[John Glayde]

Terminus: about as close as you could get to the galaxy's spinning edge without falling off. It was the edge of the Empire, too: the point at which Imperial attention and dogma started getting threadbare, fading off into the Unknown Regions and Wild Space. A thriving ecumenopolis wove it's way through the planet's towering trees and twisted mountains, peppered with domes and spires of styles and materials that weren't just unusual or foreign: they were outright alien. John Glayde had been to many worlds, both human and not, but he'd never experienced something quite like this; never walked down the street and found himself struggling to pick out a species that he could even recognise, let alone name.

This place was chaos; cultural anarchy; half way between a melting pot and a storm in a tea cup. This was not the kind of place you came to live a life; this was the kind of place you came to leave one behind.

John lay, hoping the mattress would swallow him alive. It wasn't the heat or the humidity, though those certainly didn't help; the lazily spinning ceiling fan was keeping the worst of the temperature at bay, and with the amount of alcohol pumping through his bloodstream his body was grateful for the extra moisture hanging in the air. The bottle of Whyren's Reserve that was responsible rested mostly empty against his leg, the fingers of a hand still wrapped around it's neck. The lid was gone, but that didn't seem to matter; the rate that swigs were being clumsily taken, the last couple of inches wouldn't make it past dawn anyway.

He sniffed, swollen sinuses protesting the notion that air was even supposed to pass through that route. The idle hand not tasked with securing the alcohol supply scratched at his shoulder, skin left exposed by the grubby and faded white tank top that clung with peppered sweat to the contours of his body. His entire ensemble was a disarray, but that should not have come as much of a surprise: take away uniform regulations from a man that couldn't even remember what it had felt like to not be a soldier, and this was what you got.

It was a metaphor, a microcosm, a simple summation of everything that was wrong with this picture. John Glayde was one of thousands who'd found their calling with Rebel Alliance. Their campaign, their crusade against the Empire had given him, and them, purpose. For some it was simple revenge, for loved ones lost, for horrors inflicted, for worlds destroyed. For John Glayde it was more subtle: he fought for forgiveness, for redemption, for the chance to make amends for the things that he had done while wearing the Empire's colours. He'd lost count of the lives he'd taken, lost track of the actions that should have kept him up at night. His morals, such as they were, had taken far too long to establish that uncrossable line; the Rebel Alliance had been his first steps on the never-ending journey to repairing the wrongs he'd wrought.

And then the war was over. The Treaty was drawn up and signed, and a few words and agreements had nullify everything that had transpired, everything the Empire was done. A document to fix Alderaan. A document to fix tens of thousands of murders. A document to fix unfair sacrifices, ruined lives, ruined homes. Apparently, the cheapest, easiest peace possible was enough to bribe the Alliance into looking the other way.

Alliance to Restore the Republic; a misnomer if there ever was one.

There was anger across the galaxy. Alderaan; unavenged. Corellia, Ithor, and a hundred other oppressed worlds; abandoned. Crimes not answered for. Vengeance unsatisfied. The Alliance military had broiled under the surface, a snarling beast muzzled by politics. Some were content to endure their frustration, bound by a duty to protect the Alliance despite their feelings. Some had left, resigning their commissions and posts in disgust. There were rumours that some had even taken more desperate steps, as mercenaries, as pirates, as terrorists, looking for any opportunity to hurt the Galactic Empire even the tiniest bit.

For John Glayde, it had been the last straw; the last nudge he'd needed to tender his resignation and leave the Novgorod behind. But it had not been the first.

The unoccupied hand fumbled across the bedsheets, fingers stumbling across a faded and worn document file. He flipped it open, rifling blindly through the contents; he'd read it a thousand times, knew it from memory, cover to cover. It wasn't the words that he needed.

Gently, he tugged the image free from the clip; brought it close enough for his eyes to focus, balanced atop his chest. Charlotte Tur'enne, Lieutenant. Dishonourably discharged: not for being the perpetrator of some heinous crime, but rather for being the victim of one. John still didn't know the specifics of what had happened, but he knew enough: some secret event on some secret Jedi fleet, some manipulation that forced her to act, unwillingly and unstoppably, according to someone else's design. Her court marshal had been a sham; rushed to such an extent that John, her former Commanding Officer, hadn't even known about it until afterwards, let alone been given the chance to testify. Charlotte's own brother had even been kept in the dark. A rushed declaration of Charlotte as a scapegoat; politicians more interested in covering their asses than doing the right thing.

It wasn't just a single injustice, either. Charlotte wasn't just some former subordinate that he felt an obligation to: she was his Alderaan. She, what she had endured at the hands of the Empire, was the Imperial crime that he could not bear to see go unanswered for. She was every victim his orders and his actions had created. She was every undeserving, innocent soul that had been twisted by people like him. She would hate him for who he'd been if she knew, with every fibre of her being; and he would deserve every ounce of that disdain. But, more than anything, she was his last lingering hope for the future: because if she, someone he respected and cared for more than he'd ever been able to find the words to express, could find it in her heart to forgive him? Perhaps then he wouldn't be beyond saving after all.

It had taken every last favour he had, every scrap of pull with Alliance Intelligence to trace her here: to the place where the galaxy stopped. But she was good; skilled; an expert at what she did. The Alliance had trained her to be able to disappear, and she had. From here she could go anywhere, scattered into the wind and lost completely. Finding her was an impossible task. Redemption was an impossible goal.

Perhaps it was better this way.

His comlink buzzed, vibrating against the faux wooden surface of the cabinet beside his bed. He ignored it at first; it took minutes for him to finally respond, but whoever was responsible was patient, or persistent. Perhaps both. He blinked bleary eyes, struggled until he found himself sat on the bed's edge, fingertips pinching at the bridge of his nose. Another half-inch of Whyren's disappeared in a single swig. He thumbed the device.

"Yeah?"

"I found her."

Patient and persistent had been correct after all. Even if the process of elimination hadn't been on his side, he would have known the voice of Charlotte's brother anywhere, though there was much less optimism and much more determination in his voice than there used to be.

"I'll keep her under surveillance. Get your ass sober, and comm me for coordinates."

Glayde eyed the bottle in his hands; brought the rim to his lips and opened his throat, the last of the Whyren's gone in a few bubbling seconds. It burned as it tore it's way through his body; he almost enjoyed the discomfort. Nice to have a feeling strong enough to tear through the numbness, one way or another.

The bottle settled noisily on the cabinet; the back of a hand wiped the residuals from his lips. He glanced back at the photograph, discarded on the bed behind him. Sober. Coordinates. He could do that. For her, at least, he could try.

"You still there, John?"

Honestly, Glayde wasn't convinced of what the answer to that question was any more. He faked it anyway.

"Yeah, I hear you."

He hesitated; could feel the dragging silence as the elder Tur'enne waited, expecting more.

"Good job, Xander. I'm on my way."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

A bar. It was always a bar nowadays. The dives of the galaxy had been more home than anywhere else it seemed lately. One might have thought that when an associate, maybe even a friend had finally caught up with her that things might have changed. But that? That was just one of those weird pipe dreams that come along that Charles just couldn't bring herself to care about anymore. Somewhere along the line there'd been a hungover battered discussion about how she felt about the Treaty, about how she felt best to just ignore the damn thing and keep to their damn jobs but that was an even bigger delusion than thinking she could somehow return to a normal life. Sad truth of it was, her run-in with Starborn had caused more bad memories to surface than any real feelings of comradeship and she'd realized her personal war against he Empire was just that - personal. A one-woman show and one-woman army. There was no way the former Intel operative could understand. So when Charlotte had heard rumors of the fact Corellia - home - was still fighting the good fight, she'd nudged Blue Sauce in the direction of those rumors under the guise of seeing if there was any truth to it - Frak all knew there wasn't any real information. Just a bunch of hearsay lack of real action. Bunch of fucking sissies.

Not that she was any better but at least she'd find out if someone there actually got the balls to finally do something.

Oh, she had ideas, loads of them. Half formed and ill advised and more often than not stashed away in a binder she'd been keeping with random cryptic plans scribbled on napkins stained with beer and blood. But those ideas were often ignored in favor of a continued downward spiral of self destruction that seemed more often than not a far better option than actually facing the day and her own failures.

Ugh. That word. It encompassed everything that she felt. Failure to save Corellia, failure as an officer in a Rebellion that had lost its cause, failure even just as a human being to keep control over her own mind and body.

That last one hadn't changed much but at least when it was alcohol and misery induced it made far more sense than what had actually happened to her.

That moment had replayed over and over and over again when she hadn't quite managed to drink enough to pass out rather than fall asleep. She could still see herself standing there, completely out of place aboard the Jedi ship. And then he had been there and suddenly she was forced back, pushed inside of herself so that all she could do was watch as she suddenly lashed out at those that should have been considered allies. The image that stuck was always the same though: her hand outstretched into vacant space as a young black furred Orryxian suddenly had been lifted from the ground, clutching at her throat as if to pry away an invisible noose.

Charles felt a shudder run through her as the image flashed into the forefront of her mind, giving just enough inspiration for her fist to connect with the jaw of the man in front of her once more.

This too was the normal.

It had been the same routine almost every night. Find a bar, drink whatever was cheapest and got you drunk the fastest, find the biggest loud mouth in the joint, start some shit, enjoy the beating she gave almost as much as the one she received. You know, when they actually manged to get the best of her. It was never really a fair fight. Years of training had turned into keen instinct that was really no match for your average burly patron. You think word would get around to avoid the short statured human female but there always seemed to be a sucker.

Or four.

Tonight's contestants were putting up a decent enough fight. One of them had managed to get a good hit on her that had drove the wind right out of her and blossomed a fountain a pain across older bruises. She'd retaliated by breaking the man's eye socket. The effort she'd taken into putting enough strength behind that had been enough of a distraction that his buddy had managed to pull out a vibroblade and had gotten a shallow slice across her side that did little more than sting and stain her shirt. That guy had paid for it with a broken wrist and his own blade shoved into his thigh. Ugly grunt number three taken an elbow to the sternum followed with a misgauged hit to the nose that didn't quite break it but had stunned him enough for her to buy enough time to sweep the legs out from under guy number four.

The rest? Well, that was a blur of blows and an earful of cursing from all five brawlers and a ton of egging on from drunken onlookers. If Charles had noticed that little factoid she might almost have thought about turning towards professional shockboxing.

The end was predictable enough. Four guys on the grimy floor of the bar, one very angry barkeep, an even angrier bouncer and one girl grinning with a split lip and a bruise forming across her cheek, blood still streaming from the gash in her side. The drinks she had pumped into her system had been paid for and just like always, she realized she had overstayed her welcome. A mock solute was given to the groaning pieces of skrag before she took her leave.

But droyk it, the night was still young and Charles didn't nearly feel like she was ready to drift off for the night, she was still too aware for one thing.

Which let her know right when shit was intending on hitting the fan. Only a block away from the bar and she could hear them coming up behind her like they were some sort of damn heard of bantha. Four sets of footsteps converging on her location. Frinking hells, didn't these guys know when to quit? Charles could only shake her head slightly before she turned around, a soft but very colorful curse leaving her lips as she noticed broken-face-guy aiming a blaster right at her. She wasn't really concerned that he'd use the damn thing but why not let him think it was threatening? Would be more fun later when she'd be cramming the thing down the guys' throat. They said some things that Charles didn't really care to pay enough attention to hear properly but the general gist was in regards to all manner of horrible things they were going to do to her whether she fought back or not. Whatever, nothing the Empire hadn't done first.

A scoff of a laugh left her as she raised her arms in the intergalactic symbol of bring it. "Wouldn't your mommies just be the proudest ever? All right then, let's get this over with. I aint got all night."

[Alexander Tur'enne]

"You'd know all about making mommy proud, wouldn't you?"

The voice came from the shadows, but it didn't stay there long. The face that had uttered it was drawn into a tentative smirk, reined back from full intensity by the trepidatious glances in Charlotte's direction. It should all have been painfully familiar, fake confidence pasted seamlessly over the top of a total lack of the real thing. But there was something different this time around, bumps and deviations behind the usual layer of smoothness. His hands were dug into his pockets, but the tendons in his wrist stretched as his fingers repeatedly flexed into fists. The muscles along his jawline quivered, teeth clamped against each other. His eyes, nervous towards his sister, burned with something completely different when he looked at them.

"That's a nice gun," he offered, mustering a tight smile.

Confusion crossed the brawler's features for a split second; a flash of red tore the blaster pistol from his hand, sending it spiralling across the alley, a smoking hole melted clean through the centre. The slightest deviation in aim and it would have been the charred stubs of the brawler's fingers where the smell of ozone was coming from, and from the way his expression shifted seamlessly to horror, he was all too aware of that.

Xander's smile fell away, arms escaping his pockets to fold defiantly across his chest. His eyes swept the alley with apparent disinterest, avoiding the faces of every one, his sister most of all.

"That guy up there," he explained, a subtle twitch of his head indicating the rooftops, but no vantage point specifically, "Is pissed, in every sense of the word. Honestly, I don't know how he managed to pull of that trick shot; I wouldn't count on his aim being non-lethal the next time."

His emotions fluttered, the tip of his tongue darting back and forth along the base of his front teeth. He could feel the adrenaline surging in his system, mixing with the anger that these four didn't entirely deserve, but were sure as hell going to bear the brunt of. Another spasm of his fingers; another urge to reach out and demonstrate just how much he'd taken onboard from SpecForce's close quarters combat lessons. The barely healed cuts across his knuckles tingled in memory of the oh-so-satisfying closed fist punch he'd delivered to the last asshole sons of bitches who'd come between him and finding Charlotte. Now that he was here, standing beside her? Anything that tried to stop the two of them from walking out of that alley wouldn't be walking out themselves.

His eyes narrowed, picking out the most vocal of the group.

"I heard what you said."

There was no need to clarify; you didn't threaten that kind of inhuman act of debauched violence and then forget about it a minute or two later. He took a step forward; the brawler didn't flinch. Wasn't threatened. That was fine. That would change.

"The last person who tried that? Did that?" He grimaced out a half-breath of pained laughter. "A squad of soldiers turned them into paste."

His eyes glanced upwards, indicating the rooftops once again.

"That man up there is her old CO. He doesn't need a squad of soldiers. He doesn't need a reason to kill you, either."

Menace curled around Xander's words.

"Please. Give me a reason to let him."

The brute contemplated his options; his eyes darted from roof to Xander; narrowed as they peered through the mask, searching for tells of a bluff. The moment dragged; Xander found himself too close for comfort, the unpleasant odour of beer, blood, and vomit escaping from the brawler with every heavy breath. A wince of disbelief finally settled in place.

"You wouldn't kill me for threatening to fuck some dumb bitch blonde -"

He didn't get a chance to finish. He didn't hear the single uttered word, the uttered name, that tumbled beneath Xander's breath. He didn't need to; John Glayde heard his name, and was all too ready to react to what it meant.

The brawler crumpled to the floor, a darkened crater where his throat had been.

Xander's eyes regarded the fresh corpse for a moment longer; the smile he mustered this time was sickeningly genuine, but of predatory dominance rather than sadistic mirth. It was an important disguise; an important smokescreen to maintain the illusion. From the back of his mind he dredged the silent, subconscious count; the calculations based on response times and how long it would take to triangulate a location based on two shots fired. They had ten minutes maybe, to make it back to their speeder and complete the get-away; five if Glayde was forced to fire again. Xander took his worries, and wrapped them around a brick of smug and swagger.

His eyes flicked to the remainder of the brawler's entourage.

"Anyone else?"

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

The mixture of shock and anger she felt was, above all else, awkward. Charles had grown so accustomed to being encased in a cocoon of numbness with the occasional stab of pain to let herself know she was still alive that emotions suddenly seemed foreign. More to the point her brother seemed foreign, like some sort of creature was wearing his face yet somehow he still knew right where to push buttons to make her temper instantly flare. The bar fights she got into were never about releasing anger or even feeling it. There had never been hatred towards anyone involved except maybe herself. It was a strange feeling to suddenly find it being kicked off by someone who wasn't trying to hurt her.

Of course all that had to be pushed aside as blaster bolts impacted with pistol and then flesh. Somewhere she was aware of the words that were being spoken, of the fact that Xander had mentioned the impossible in that Glayde was lurking about and had been the responsible party for the sudden dead body. Of course, Xander himself was an impossibility that was a little hard to ignore given his proximity.

The entire scene felt muted somehow, covered in the barely contained rage that had suddenly been sparked within her. She could feel it scraping at her, scrambling its way up from the depths she had tucked it all away into, claws digging in, shredding as it hauled itself ever upwards towards the surface. Her right hand, the same that always was the guilty party in her memories, echoed the sensation, fingers bunching and collapsing towards her palm to form a fist and then releasing again. It wanted out. Wanted to call upon the combat blade she always kept on her, wanted to drive every centimeter of that blade into the nearest guy's chest and rip upwards and leave a crimson chasm in it's path.

The men were talking again, their tones torn between nervousness and false superiority over the situation.

Charles felt her fingers flex again, her eyes having never left the fresh corpse. She could do it, just a flick of a wrist would be all it would take. Temptation whispered at her, tugged soothingly at things she knew the beast had unlocked.

And then it was over.

The remaining three individuals didn't quite run away, but they certainly knew better than to test the patience of the unseen gunman. Her head raised slowly to watch them leave, felt the shadow within writhe and rail against the opportunity that was lost, felt it reluctantly lower itself back to its resting place leaving jagged scores within her mind that would need ample alcohol to scrub clean.

The sudden silence was overwhelming.

Broken lips were tested, opened slightly as Charles let the taste of blood mingle with lingering cheap whiskey. A sudden harsh laugh left her as her gaze, still somehow disinterested, slowly turned on Xander.

"...about time you showed up."

[Alexander Tur'enne]

Xander didn't even realise his hand was moving; didn't register until the fist connected with her jaw.

Surprise was the first reaction, sprayed up in his face to forestall anything else as he half-marvelled at the fact that she hadn't even tried to block. The anger pushed through, and conspired with the adrenaline dispersing from his system to turn every twitching tensed muscle into a shudder.

"Don't -"

He could barely force the words out; barely had the strength left in his diaphragm to squeeze out the air needed to let them be heard.

"Don't you ever -"

Anger, adrenaline, everything else got the better of him; a hammer blow landed upon his voice and it cracked, the rage that had crumpled his face into a scowl slipping enough to expose a little of the emotions that he was trying to hard to hide underneath.

"- leave me behind like that again."

Those last words took all the breath he had; his chest struggled to muster more, his eyes torn between looking at her and looking at everything but her. More emotions than he could name warred over control of his expression, trying to determine what would fit best with the hundred different things he wanted to say. He wanted to scream at her, yell at her for leaving, for not saying goodbye, for being so stupid, for trying to face everything alone like she always thought she had to. He wanted to give up on holding back the tears; wanted to beg forgiveness, make amends for the fact that he was such a terrible brother for letting any of this happen. He wanted to rage, curse the names of everyone responsible; wanted to know everything he could about the son of a bitch who'd been inside her head so that he could hunt him down and strangle him with his own innards -

"I didn't know."

The words sounded so feeble when he finally settled upon which ones to say; and really, those were the only ones that mattered. They were the words that he'd chased Charlotte half way across the galaxy to say. They were the only words that were important, because they were the truth; and he wanted her, needed her to know.

"We didn't know. They didn't tell us until it was too late." The faintest whisper of a laugh crept from his lips, at the irony more than anything else. "You should have heard the earful that John gave the General when he found out. I've never seen him lose his cool before."

He hesitated.

"Never wanted him to follow through on a threat and pull the trigger before, either."

His eyes strayed to the body, left abandoned in the alley by it's so-called friends. Something shifted in Xander's expression; not quite sadness and regret, but more resignation. When it relaxed away, the same steely resolve that he'd fought to fake earlier remained behind, sticking a little more convincingly this time.

"Didn't think that was a feeling I'd get used to so quickly."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Of all the hits she'd taken it was the one delivered by Xander that seemed to linger, the only one that caused a dull throb to continue along her jawline. Charles half wanted him to just keep going, part of her fully convinced she'd deserved his ire and the other just reveling in the fact it actually connected with her on some level. Eyes glassed over from lack of any decent sleep and far too much alcohol focused, just barely, on him as he spoke and she tried her hardest to hear him through the residual haze of apathy that was settling back into place now that her anger had subsided.

She even manged to force the barest of smiles as she heard what she had suspected but rejected all along - The Alliance really had screwed her over and none of the people she really considered allies had been given a shot at defending her. Oh, the higher up Jedi had explained she hadn't been in her right mind. That there had been some outside influence at work. That the real perpetrator had escaped, if just barely. But there had been unease between the Jedi and the Rebellion that had been sparked and ignited. Someone had to take the fall to at least begin to ease tensions. Wrong place wrong time, it was the story of her life it seemed. At least they had the decency to not get into specifics regarding exactly how she had assaulted the Jedi Padawan. Someone had been kind enough to omit those lovely details.

A laugh even managed to leave her again, halfhearted and cut short as she could just picture Glayde going off on General Oruo'rel. That was almost as hard to believe as the fact that what was occurring wasn't just some punch-drunk dream.

Emotions that were being displayed and covered on Xander's face were hard to process and she kept finding her eyes lowering to the body on the ground. As attention was actually purposely rounded on the downed man she nudged the corpse with her foot before letting a sigh finally pass. A hand was brought up into her hair, tugging through dirty strands of blonde unkindly as adrenaline finally hit the kill switch and she became aware at how the movement pulled on the fresh cut in her side. She bit back the gasp that tried to leave, addled or not there was no way she was going to let on about any sort of hurts she was experiencing.

That was the thing of it really. Ever since her run in with the boy from Intel she'd redoubled her efforts on becoming invisible. Oh, she knew eventually she'd get sloppy enough that someone would come for her and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it would eventually be Alexander.

It didn't stop her from hating it though. She didn't want him there. She didn't want anyone to still care.

How could they?

"I never wanted this for you, Xan." Charles felt her shoulders slump as the words left her. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

One last glance was cast to the dead body before her head suddenly snapped up and her eyes locked towards the rooftops across from where they stood. She couldn't see John, but Charles knew damn well she was staring right at his location. It was unnerving how she just knew.

"We all should probably continue this elsewhere. The jails on this planet are shit."

[Alexander Tur'enne]

Of course. This was how things worked for them. These were the criteria that Charlotte's nature insisted upon. They had their sibling moments, fleeting instances where genuine emotions than anger were actually allowed to exist; but they could only be moments, and those emotions could only be hinted at, teased by laboured looks, and by vague words that still left unspoken what really needed to be said. Far be it from anyone to expect Charlotte Tur'enne to ever actually be open about anything without you needing to beat the honesty out of her.

Xander wrestled his frustration and anger into a cage, burying it deep behind the wall that held back everything he didn't want to remember. In the past he hadn't needed it; in the past it had been the back of a sofa where stray thoughts and loose change slipped to be forgotten. Now the wall was bulging, cracking beneath the weight of everything piled up behind. His eyes settled on the body once again; his mind grabbed it by the ankles, and curled it over the crenelations and razor wire that fortified his mental defenses.

"We have a speeder, two streets over."

Everything had faded from Xander's voice, cold and calculated like the soldier that he was never supposed to be. His eyes settled on the chrono wrapped around his wrist. When his eyes returned to Charlotte, they looked at her as if she was barely even there; like she was some stranger, rather than the loved one he had traversed half a galaxy to try and save.

"Six minutes until local authorities respond to the gunshots. We'd better move."

[John Glayde]

* * *

Glayde struggled to feel the thin metal rungs as he descended fire escape ladder, bolted precariously to the duracrete wall. He wasn't sure if it was the moist body temperature steel, the alcohol in his bloodstream, the conflicted thoughts and feelings rattling around in his head, or some combination of the whole set. All he could do was stare dead ahead, counting the rungs as they passed by; the ground still caught him by surprise, striking the soles of his boots a few feet before he'd expected.

He hesitated, a set of fingers still hooked onto the ladder, eyes aimed at the wall but closed as he heard the footsteps emerge from the alley behind. The lack of voices didn't stop him from identifying who was there: Charlotte's on the left, short strides from her stature but light steps from her training and instincts; Xander on the right, slumped and slow footfalls so his sister could keep pace.

A breath slowly escaped him; he carefully unslung the sniper rifle from across his shoulders to give him something to occupy his mind. His mind had been a hurricane of determination, flurries of storm force determination towards every action that would bring them closer to finding her; the eerie stillness as the eye of that frantic storm swept over and left him powerless to do anything but wait and wallow. He'd never thought about what he'd say; never spared a single thought for how he'd excuse breaking the promise of protection that he'd made to her and himself. He'd never thought about how he'd feel when the face his eyes settled upon was flesh and not photograph.

He turned; braced himself; and the instant his vision focused, he knew.

The distance between them was gone in a few short strides, the sniper rifle pressed into Xander's arms with enough force to shove him backwards. At the moment, John didn't care: he needed his arms. Charlotte looked as if she was about to speak, some quip caught on the tip of her tongue as she wrestled with her own action quandary. John didn't give her the chance for her hesitation to end. He didn't allow himself to look at her eyes, nor be distracted by the conflicted expression tugging at her features.

He stopped, barely, but his momentum carried on, arms flung around Charlotte in a vice grip that he had no plans to release.

"Shut up," he muttered into her shoulder, pre-empting anything she may have had plans to say. "Don't you dare say a thing."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Charles knew she was supposed to feel something. Some sort of upwelling up emotion caused by seeing Glayde express any sort of emotion, of the change from his usual always professional self, something conflicting of her own by being hugged by her former commanding officer.

But there was nothing. Blank expression matched blank reaction. She couldn't even bother to wince as he pressed on and agitated numerous bruises. Even her arms couldn't process enough to move from her sides to complete the gesture that was supposed to be something other than just pressure. She just felt... disconnected. Numb. Soulless.

Whatever beginnings of feeling Charles had managed to capture when it had just been Xander and her had slipped away some time between when she had last spoken and Xander had replied. Something resembling herself, who she used to be, had come up for a gasp of air but had lost its will to remain afloat in the clouded sea that was her thoughts. It wasn't a tangled mess up there, just a never ending barely moving world that only rippled on occasion when it was hit hard enough. That was who she has become. That was who she was now.

Strange thing was It didn't even bother her. Like the hug she knew that there should have been some type of reaction to the situation but it was too hard to grasp, set adrift on the thick soup along with everything else.

Empathy included.

"You're drunk." The words left without thought, sounding hollow and lacking in consideration as to how they could effect the person they were targeted at, or how very hypocritical the accusation was.

[John Glayde]

There it was then: the sledgehammer words caving in his rib cage.

He wasn't sure what he had expected. He wasn't even sure what he was doing. The number of times John had witnessed Charlotte's complete opposite of sentiment and affection with her brother, he should have known not to expect some outpouring of emotion or gratitude. Yet, the absence of anything - not surprise, not anger, not even a token reciprocation for her former CO - felt like he'd fallen on his sword and turned his chest into an open wound. Deep down, he'd hoped that Charlotte would at least be pleased to see them; at the very least, relieved to know that she hadn't been abandoned by everyone in the Alliance after all. Charlotte couldn't even muster the desire or willpower to pretend that she was. Hell, John would have settled for shouting, for sarcasm, for cutting remarks; anything but this black, indifferent surrender that wasn't Charlotte Tur'enne.

Charlotte was anger and fire. That they'd burned it away and left behind such cold and frozen remains made John despise the people responsible even more.

His arms fell away, slower and less expediently than he would have liked or was appropriate; the step backwards he forced himself to take was like tearing off a limb. "That I am," he replied with a tight smile. He hesitated, searching his mind for any desperate last ditch words he could muster; he found nothing, his hand instead digging into the pocket of his jacket.

The ignition fob for the speeder dangled from his fingers as he held it out to Xander. "Get your sister out of here; I'm in no state to drive anyway."

His gaze flitted to the rooftops. "I'll keep an eye on law enforcement. RV back at the hotel."

That was all there was to say; all that he could say, at least. His gaze lingered as his first few steps were taken backwards and then, with another force of will that he didn't even realise he possessed, he turned on his heel, shoved his hands back in his pockets, and let reality slump his shoulders as he disappeared back into the network of alleys.

[Alexander Tur'enne]

If Xander's jaw had clenched any tighter, he would have shattered every single one of his teeth.

"I should punch you again," he grunted, dismantling Glayde's rifle into smaller modules and stashing them in the speeder's rear storage compartment. It took all his self control to stop every action being performed with wrenching, smashing force; to stop his fist from pounding into the underside of the trunk lid to vent at least a little of his anger.

Except, it wasn't quite anger; it wasn't the hot impulsive flash of rage that sprang up every time Charlotte tap danced on his nerves. It wasn't the same righteous fury, the same passionate hate that had been pumping through him ever since John had revealed what the Alliance had done. It was a kind of frustration, more intense than he'd ever felt, that made his every muscle want to shudder, made his lungs want to scream out plumes of surplus pressure that his body was struggling to keep contained.

He gestured with his eyes towards the alley where John had disappeared. "That guy threw away his entire career for you," he explained, sharpening the edge of his words into a razor as he closed the storage compartment with enough force to make the speeder bounce on it's repulsorlifts. "The instant he heard, he called in every favour, worked every angle; and when he found out you'd gone, he closed every door, burned every bridge, and left behind every single other person in his life just to come and find you." A laugh at the stupid irony of it all. "Force sakes, the man busted into Oruo'rel's house, and had him at gunpoint to get the intel and SpyNet contacts that led us here. He threw away everything, just to save his wayward Lieutenant who went and got herself in trouble way over her head again."

His voice gave up, mind well beyond the limit of what it was prepared to say and process. "I'm done," he muttered, shaking his head as he climbed into the driver's seat. Every other motivation melted away, leaving only a brother's sense of obligation to rescue his ungrateful bitch of a sister. He jammed the ignition fob into the appropriate socket, and the speeder's engine rumbled into life. His eyes turned to Charlotte, filled with something they'd never contained when he'd looked at her before: not anger or frustration, but disappointment. His voice fell quiet.

"Just... get the fuck in, okay?"

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

The single word reply lingered on her tongue and with it came a mountain of accusations. She hadn't asked anyone to come get her, never the less give up their entire life to do so. She hadn't wanted them to. Why the hell did they all think she should be grateful for them coming in and making her stumble on her solo path to the nine hells? Her biggest goal was to find some conference of former Imperial Generals and walk in with a thermal detonator and send them all there in tiny chunks. Charles doubted she'd ever get that far and to be honest, really honest with herself, she just didn't care. There really was only one thing on her mind. Make it stop. Even that was a pointless plea - she wasn't that lucky. There's just be trading one type of existence for another and with all that she had done, maybe it was best if she waited a bit longer before diving headlong into the pit.

Peace is a lie; something only idiots ever hoped for and Charles had long since given up for finding any kind.

The only thing waiting for her if she went with Xander would be a pointless attempt at a guilt trip that she knew would only make him angry and be a further waste of time. He could be done with her all he wanted. Maybe, just maybe if she stood her ground this time he'd actually mean it and let her rot.

"No."

It escaped as lifeless as she felt. No punch, no force, just blank refusal that spoke of an utter disregard for whatever the consequences may be. She wanted to run, wanted to suddenly sprint down the alleyway and climb up a fire escape and be done with the both of them before Xander even had a chance to react. Some part of her knew she could do it. It was the same part that was nagging at her from within its confines that she could also just reach out, a simple nudge, and the speeder would be enveloped in an explosion so big it'd rip out half the building it was parked next to.

Charlotte had hated how very loud it could be at times. Now though? She'd just learned to casually ignore that internal voice that had taken root. Accept it with the same blind indifference as everything else.

[Alexander Tur'enne]

He almost did it. He almost goosed the throttle and tore off down the dank, potholed street. He almost abandoned his sister to the authorities who were just minutes away; almost signed the death warrants and injury claims on a good half dozen police officers before they actually managed to take her down, more than likely. He knew that look, that stubborn surrender: he knew that Charlotte would rather go down in a blaze of pointless glory than let them drag her back to some grubby cell. A split second was all it would take to leave the one last thing he had behind.

The stun blast caught Charlotte square in the chest. Xander would be lying if he said he didn't find the idea of shooting her satisfying; though the agonising weight on his chest as he watched her crumple to the floor made him regret that sentiment.

"I'm sorry sis," he muttered. "You don't get to be stubborn this time."

* * *

Xander was no medical expert, but the fact that the stun blast had fried enough neurons to help Charlotte slip into unconsciousness - rather than the waking paralysis that most stun victims endured - probably meant she'd been drinking too much. That was more of a blessing than you might have expected; far easier to carry an unconscious woman reeking of booze into a seedy motel than it was to carry one in with open, horror-filled eyes. That said, from the skeevy look of the Rattataki behind the front desk, he doubted the latter would have earned more than a second glance.

It was a sad truth of his existence now that he had secure zip bindings close at hand; not for fun purposes either, though he was sure he could improvise of the situation ever presented. He was glad, because he knew damn well that if his words didn't sink in and Charlotte decided to come after him, the head start he'd gain while she liberated herself would probably mean the difference between life and death; or at least, the difference between death here, and death in Glayde's room when he found the guy too drunk to be of any use defending him.

Satisfied that she was secure, he braced himself, and pressed the stim injector to the side of her neck. The dose was small; not enough to resuscitate her nervous system back into action, but at least enough to get her brain awake and her senses perceiving; a little sluggish movement and some struggled words sure, but none of the thrilling heroics her service record professed that she was capable of.

Her service record. That was a sombre read; one of the many pieces of intel that Glayde had managed to threaten out of the General before they'd cut and run. From the way he reacted, even Glayde hadn't been privy to the full extent of it before. Xander still wasn't sure which emotion to choose: sympathy that would drive Charlotte mad, or anger at her insistence that she carry all of this alone. There was more than a little anger towards himself as well, and his shortcomings as a brother. How had he been so inept in his responsibilities to have let her run off with that kriffing asshole from Intelligence? How had he been such a failure at protecting her that he'd let her run off to the Alliance in the first place? More than mom, more than dad, she would have listened to him; if only he'd been paying enough attention to try.

Mom and dad. That was a dark chasm of sorrow all of it's own.

He turned away, walked a few paces as Charlotte made the expected sounds of a groggy awakening. Instinct urged him to offer some assurance, but he had no idea if it was sincere, or just reflex. He held his tongue; calmed himself as best he could; waited until the best words he could muster came to mind.

"For once in your life, Charlotte Tur'enne, you are going to listen."

It was even harder than he'd expected, talking past the way that anger clenched his diaphragm and threatened to cut off the end of every word. He forced past, wrestling control of it and his trembling jaw; flexed his hands in a vain attempt to burn off enough rage to keep his voice at least vaguely steady.

"But I know you won't listen to me. You go through the motions, but you gave up on thinking of me as your brother a long time ago. And you won't listen to him -" he gestured towards the ceiling, an arbitrary guess as to where Glayde's room was. "- the one actual friend you had left in the Alliance; hell, in the whole galaxy. You won't listen to us, because doing that would force you to admit that you're actually worth something; that you'd have to be, for there to be anyone out there who cares about you. You've invested too much effort in trying to push the both of us away to give up on that now. You're a soldier, Charlotte, through and through: you're not going to abandon this mission of self destruction you've assigned yourself."

He stopped his pacing; still couldn't bring himself to look at her for more than a moment at a time. He shook his head, gaze falling away; paced to the holoprojector on the low cabinet he'd aimed Charlotte towards.

"You won't listen to me," he echoed, voice tired, shoulders slumped. "Maybe you'll listen to this."

The second the projector began to play, Xander fled for the nearest wall. He didn't need to watch again; he'd seen the visuals time and time again, watched over and over in soul-shattering horror. He stared at the ceiling; closed his eyes; could still see the sickening slow-motion descent of that Star Destroyer, carving it's way through Coronet; through home. He'd watched it so many times, his lips fluttered involuntarily with the words of the newsreader's commentary.

He felt himself brace; knew the words that were coming; felt the overpowering urge to dive across the room, smash the device, and spare Charlotte from it.

"- among the dead are Coronet district attorney Jacob Tur'enne and his wife, who moved from their family home to the suburb less than a year ago, after their two missing children were both legally declared dead by CorSec investigators."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Xander had been right. She didn't listen to him. Not really, anyway. Oh, the words were heard but far from processed. The stun blast had created one giant headache that she could only begin feeling the ragged edges of through a haze of red that was forming as she struggled against the makeshift restraints. It was only curiosity that brought a halt to her movements and silenced the incessant whispers that were pushing her to wretch herself free no matter the cost.

At first came questioning, confusion over what she was watching happen. There was no reconciling the image of a city she knew so well being completely devastated by something of Imperial design. She could feel her pulse quickening as her eyes refused to find a place to settle. She could tell, somehow, that Xander was becoming increasingly agitated, that it wasn't anger that he was feeling, that something else was taking hold. Tension in the room was being wound tighter and tighter...

And then then her father's name was spoken and she felt everything snap.

The zip ties bit eagerly into her wrists as she suddenly pulled her hands forward. One set of bindings gave way but not before tasting blood and an unseen wave followed the motion, sending the holoprojector smashing against the opposite wall.

It wasn't enough. She'd fought so hard to keep herself numbed, done everything she could to keep that which she feared from breaking lose. But there was no taming it.

Freed, her right arm shot forward, flinging blood from the new wounds, fingers outstretching towards the broken pieces of the device and the same red that always lurked at the corners of her vision took over. The blue arc that suddenly appeared wound it's way down her arm and shot from her hand, tearing through the air with a crackle that ended in an impact where the broken shards of holoprojector remained. It was a pointless endeavor as the bits of singed electronics barely responded.

The outburst ended as quickly as it had started as Charlotte looked to her brother, her normal blue eyes for an instant marred with irises the color of flame before returning to their usual hue as her shoulders slumped and her knees were drawn close as her freed arm rested atop them, proving a perfect place for her to bury her head and stare mutely at the floor.

She couldn't cry no matter how much she wanted to, lack of tears however didn't stop the sudden uncontrolled trembling that took hold of her as grief and horror overtook rage.

[Alexander Tur'enne]

Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't that. Maybe a tear. Maybe just blankness. Maybe the grief would have slammed her deeper into herself. But not this. Not that.

He'd read it in the report; the one Glayde had managed to grab along with everything else. It had been the death knell at her tribunal, apparently: dangerous undisclosed Force potential. It played right into the Alliance's paranoia: some ranking officer had turned out to be some evil Dark Jedi, and the merest hint of Charlotte being along similar lines had got the High Command soiling themselves. Burn the witch. Get rid of her before she can hurt us. Because alienating and angering something powered by rage was an absolutely genius plan.

Still, there was reading it, and there was believing it. Charlotte had always been angry, always been fierce; but a rage that could defy the laws of physics, hurl things across the room, summon lightning from her fingers and fire in her eyes? If he hadn't seen, he would have called bullshit. But he had seen, every second of it.

Especially the last.

Whatever grim blackness had been enshrouding his soul, it cracked: not enough to fall away completely, but enough for a few stray strands of inner Xander to creep out. He crossed the room silently, easing Charlotte's chair around to face him instead of what she'd just destroyed. He produced a knife from his belt, sliced through the ties, and dropped to his knees, carefully easing her damaged wrists free and into her lap. A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, the same effort that fought back tears holding it at bay. His hand brushed a strand of her hair aside, tucking it behind her ear.

"There she is," he said softly, staring into the eyes that finally looked like they belonged to his sister again.

Gently he eased her forward, resting her head against his shoulder and letting his body bear the fractional extra weight of hers. "I'm sorry," he whispered, arms wrapping around her, a hand cradling the back of her head. "I just -"

He sighed; gave up on his efforts to maintain his composure; gave up on blinking the tears away. "You're all I've got left, Lottie. I don't want to lose you too."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Her head nodded just a fraction, just barely against where it rested against his shoulder in silent acceptance despite the you are already lost that came from the back of her mind. She could fight a war against herself and the Empire, that was simple. Coming to face the fact her parents were gone, that was something else entirely. Charles had always relied on the concept of "Home" lingering in the back of her thoughts. That no matter what had happened, no matter what she went through, somewhere on Corellia was Mom and Dad. Even if they thought she was dead, they were still there. It was like a mental safety net that she had never expected to rely on but somehow found comforting to know that it existed. Now it was gone.

Xander was still there though. Still here.

Even after what he'd seen she could do. Seen what she was.

She may not have cared much for herself, but Charles couldn't deny that the thought of taking away the last thing that Xander had was unbearable. There had always been an expectation that he could return home when the inevitable happened to her... but now?

Charlotte tried to say something but all that came out was a half choked dry sob that sent a shudder running through her. Already lost, the words repeated and she could feel herself put more weight against her brother as she leaned on him in some pitiful attempt to defy them, to shake them off.

[Alexander Tur'enne]

He grabbed another stimpak from his pocket; another dose of chemicals to lessen the hazy disconnect between Charlotte's brain and her body. Minute or two more, and she'd have enough functionality to shove him off, push him away with some scathing remark, probably beat the crap out of him if she set her mind to it. Normal person wouldn't have been able to, but then Charlotte had always been so much more than normal. Most big brothers got to look out for their baby sister; Xander got to unleash her like some caged attack animal on everyone who crossed him. Every crisis, every insecurity, she'd been there guarding his back; and not because of some obligation, not because she was his sibling and it was her job. He'd seen it every time that fiery little blonde kid had looked at him, the way she reacted every time her brother was there, even when she got old enough to try and hide it. He'd found it annoying at times back then, the way she'd find excuses to follow him around; he wished he could go back and hit himself upside the head for being so ungrateful. It didn't matter to little Lottie that he was adopted: he was her brother, and she loved him more than anything.

He knew exactly when it had changed, too. Knew exactly what he'd done to transform his most loyal admirer into this: he'd left. It wasn't on purpose. It wasn't even leaving, really. Just college. Just a girl. He'd been the one who'd pulled away, though. He'd been the one who'd started building a life for himself that didn't necessarily factor her in. He'd been the one who'd gambled the only person he'd ever been able to rely on, all for some girl who wasn't even worth the ice cream he'd cried over when she'd left.

It was too late by then, though; Charlotte had already changed by then. She was already the soldier, just waiting for her war to show up; and so now their roles were reversed. Xander was the one who followed her to the Rebellion, to Terminus, to anywhere. If he needed to be, Xander would be the attack dog who went after the people who hurt her; the people who even tried. He'd go after that Dark Jedi son of a bitch solo if necessary. Not because he had to; not because it was what brothers were supposed to do; but because she was Charlotte, he was Xander, and that was the way it was supposed to be. He may have forgotten it for a little while; but never again.

"Seriously though," he said quietly, his arms gripped her a little tighter, extracting as much comfort from their embrace before she chose to break it. "I was pretty cool in that alley, right? Tell me you're not even a tiny bit impressed."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

A quick breath of air was let out in place of a laugh, "I'm not even a tiny bit impressed."

Though muffled against a shirt and more deadpan than she could have ever faked, the exchange helped in returning to at least something resembling normal. This is how it was supposed to be after something bad happened, Xander making jokes that she would reply to with some level of snide reply. More feeling was slowly returning to the rest of her body as the stimulant he had injected her with worked its way through. This too helped things feel more like they should. If nothing else it was nice to know that she was in control over her body again.

There was no small amount of reluctance as she slowly eased herself back into the chair, gently pulling herself away from Xander as she looked down at her wrists. Like the cut in her side, it wasn't bad, but probably would need some sort of actual amateur medical attention eventually. The dull throbbing ache seemed to spread over the entirety of her - no doubt the morning would be even worse, it always was. Physical pain was easy to push aside, though. It was the discomfort caused by the avalanche of questions that wracked her brain that needed treatment first and foremost.

"Wh-when did that happen? Do they know who was responsible?" The first two were fired off in rapid succession though still lacked the passion she knew would have been typical. For the first time she found the emptiness in her voice frustrating.

[Alexander Tur'enne]

Xander followed her gaze to her injuries; pounced on the opportunity to do something productive with himself. Anything, to avoid being still and stationary long enough for the blackness to reform it's duracrete grip around his mind. He made for the bathroom, and the first aid kit mounted on the wall; you couldn't rely on a dive like this for much, but fresh sheets and some approximation of bandages were usually a safe bet. Xander wondered how many people had tried to make do with the resources of this room, rather than risk the equally dubious facilities of the clinic down the street.

He grabbed his wash bag on the way out of the door; rifled through for a tube of kolto gel before discarding the rest on the bed. He wasn't avoiding her questions, not really; he just knew that the clenched fists that would result when he spoke would be a hindrance. One challenge at a time.

"They're calling them 'terrorists'," he said slowly, gel applied to gauze; gauze to wounds; and the ensemble encased in a liberal winding of some kind of fibrous antiseptic tape with a name in a language Xander couldn't even read, let alone pronounce. "They have to, I suppose. If they said it was the Corellian Resistance responsible -"

He winced, tearing through the tape and checking his handywork before swapping wrists.

"- they'd risk making it an open accusation towards the Alliance. Who," he grunted, with a roll of his eyes, "Have of course publicly condemned the attack and distanced themselves from it. Which means there's a bunch of sithspit amateurs and half-wits running around on Corellia, getting all kriffing tangled and forgetting who the gods-damned enemy actually is -"

A swell of emotion crawled up the back of Xander's throat and strangled his voice, threatening tears again.

"John's worried." It took effort to force the words out, but somehow speaking helped; relying on momentum to keep on going. "Says there are a lot of people in the Alliance who are gonna see this as a rallying cry. A lot of people who are pissed that the Alliance gave up, and are gonna jump on any opportunity to have another crack at the Empire, morality be damned. Seemed to think you might even be one of them."

He stopped, eyes flicking to meet the gaze of his sister.

"I told him that if you didn't kill every single person responsible for Mom and Dad on sight, I damn well will."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Nausea took hold as Xander explained and for several moments she could only feel complete confusion. The Corellian Resistance... not a new name. Not a new enemy. Old allies. It was where Charlotte had began.

When Alderaan had been destroyed, Charlotte had wanted to do something. That something had eventually resulted in her signing up with the local resistance movement. Guerrilla warfare dedicated only to Corellian soil, it had been with them that she had learned how to begin taking her talents and putting them to use against an enemy she had only begun to find reasons for loathing. It didn't bother her to hear them being called terrorists - it was a term she had gotten used to hearing over Imperial propaganda, hells it was almost a badge of honor to know that the Empire considered you capable of actually promoting terror among it's populace. But to hear that they were the ones responsible for her parents' deaths?

The Resistance had given her a chance to become a weapon, the Empire had smashed that weapon into jagged shards, the Rebel Alliance had taken those shards had turned it into something more, something far more lethal that perhaps intended. Charles had only ever considered one of those entities the enemy and she would have done anything to hurt them with no regard for innocent bystanders. Someone had beat her to the punch though, someone had struck out and while hurting the Empire had taken out what she held dear.

A cringe flashed across her features as she struggled to comprehend the sudden flare in anger. It wasn't the same wraith as before, it was something else. Hatred that had been only reserved for an Empire she had seen as monstrous was warring with this new information. Empire. Resistance. Both were guilty of harming innocents in an attempt to shock their enemy and both had caused great personal loss.

"I only wanted to hit military targets..." She whispered the admission of guilt, that yes, John had been right in a way. Morality had little to do with her personal vendetta against the Empire.

"How could they..." It was another betrayal, stacked atop the one delivered by the Alliance. People, causes that she would have given her life for. And how had she been repayed?

Her mind ticked back to something that had barely registered in the report when she had first heard it. Training had learned to pick up on any information heard, storing it away until it was determined that it was truly useless. No amount of alcohol ever really seemed to stop what had been drilled into her. Children were both legally declared dead...

"We don't belong anywhere anymore. Do we, Xan?"