Prisoners of War

[Ceto Rübezahl]

An electronic hum reverberated through the T-2c as vast mechanical servos moved and locked her stabilizer fins into position. The shuttle was an antique, and yet rather than concern for his wellbeing it inspired a sense of nostalgia for simpler times; back in the days when the galaxy still had a Republic, and there was nothing for an alliance to seek to restore. It brought a slight smile to his face to consider it; he wondered how many of the galaxy's sentients had owned replicas of a graft such as this, with a tiny representation of Ceto Rübezahl to sit inside.

He wondered how many of them had used their imagination to foreshadow a scene such as this.

Wrists bound by restraints, Ceto sat as comfortably as he could make himself in the shuttle's passenger compartment under modest guard. Under other circumstances, he might quite enjoy the prospect of being handcuffed in the back of a secluded shuttle with two young and attractive women; but he doubted either of them would respond all too favourably to such a proposition. In fact, the grim reception he had received thus far suggested they wouldn't respond favourably to him speaking at all, and that his continued breathing was only barely tolerated.

He didn't blame them; he was their enemy after all, in the basest sense. The was an Imperial; on the side of the Galactic Empire. They were the Rebel Alliance, or the Alliance of Free Planets, or whatever it was they had settled upon calling themselves this week. To them, he represented a regime of corruption, oppression, and inflictions of terror thinly disguised as the maintenance of law and order. To him, they were terrorists who viewed the galaxy in a sickening sense of black and white, who were prepared to slaughter millions simply for being entrapped within the indoctrinating regime that they had fortunately managed to escape from, and who were willing to condemn to death any and all who were incapable of achieving a similar feat of moral fortitude.

When the rebels fought the Empire, they saw the faces of Palpatine and Tarkin painted on every Stormtrooper helmet. What they didn't see were the frightened eyes of the terrified man and boys beneath, paralysed by the knowledge that between defying orders and fighting the enemy, the latter was the less fatal option. Was the Empire innocent? Far from it: but every act that the Alliance had condemned had been repeated by their own hands.

The Alliance considered the Death Stars a victory: they didn't count the lives that were lost inside. Nor did they consider the casualties caught in the crossfire by the retaliations they provoked. They did not see the hypocrisy of condemning the Empire's weapons of mass destruction, only to demand peace while staring down the barrel of their own. The Treaty they had forced was not a restoration, they had split the galaxy in two; a sadly ironic replica of the Separatist divide that had caused the fall of the Republic and the rise of the Empire in the first place.

Still, the Treaty had some redeeming qualities, and his liberty was one of them. He peered to his left through the open hatch, and out of the vast viewport that afforded a view of the Ktil Armistice Station: not it's official designation he was sure, but an apt enough description given what had transpired in this rare patch of neutral space over the weeks before. Beyond it, the stark white knife blade of an Imperial Star Destroyer loomed, silently posturing opposite the Venator they had just departed. He wondered if it was intentional, conveying him here aboard the Challenger: ferrying the former Moff of Bothawui to a prisoner exchange aboard the flagship of the world he'd once defended.

Exchange.

Not for the first time, he wondered what Alliance dignitary or leader was considered of equivalent value as he was. As he understood it, this was the first of perhaps many; the Alliance's first choice for a hero returned traded against the least valuable prisoner they could get away with. A small flicker of ego silently hoped for some notorious politician or infamous Jedi Knight; but what was far more likely, his better judgement pointed out, was that he would be as unfamiliar with his fellow prisoner of war as the designers of this shuttle were with comfortable seating.

He fought a sigh, attention returning to the cabin; to the younger of the two women. He was far too old to seriously entertain any notions of lust or lechery, and instead regarded her with the eyes of an actor, someone who had honed his craft through observation of those around him. While he knew enough about women not to risk guessing at an age, she possessed fewer years than he would have expected: too few to have enough experience to earn this assignment by veteran status. There was something about her manner too, and in the way she'd reacted to the white-eyed man sharing the cockpit with the pilot, that hinted at a more personal reason for her presence.

"Who is he?" he asked, his voice gently curious. He offered a faint smile as he clarified. "The prisoner you're here to collect. He's family, right? Someone important to you. A brother? Father? Fiancé?"

[Bryna Belargic]

The younger woman in question hadn't spoken a word since stepping aboard the Theta-class shuttle.

She sat on the opposite side of the cabin to Ceto Rübezahl, beside the equally tight-lipped Director of Alliance Intelligence, and had spent the duration of the journey so far fighting against an overwhelming impulse to punch someone. A very particular someone who was sitting in the shuttles cockpit. Every now and then, she'd feel her attention pulled towards the door at the far end of the passenger cabin and each time the knot in her gut tightened.

It was a small wonder that she'd even been allowed to join Grace on the shuttle to begin with, after the Alliance and the Jedi had parted ways. Without the excuse that she was 'on official Jedi assignment, providing protection to the Director', it was difficult to explain away her presence.

She ought to have been happy. Instead of launching a risky mission to break her father – Dasquian Belargic – out of the high-security Imperial prison he'd spent the last four years in, the Alliance had managed to negotiate an exchange of prisoners. It was straight-forward, bloodless, and yet she couldn't bring herself to feel anything but a creeping dread. The fact that the hand-over was even taking place in the first place made Bryna... uncomfortable, to say the least. The very existence of the Treaty that bound the Galaxy in uneasy peace was proof, in her mind, that the future she had come from was the future that everyone was now hurtling in ignorance towards.

Bryna squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, struggling to centre herself, but all she could think of was Coruscant in flames (http://sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?21664-Traitors-and-Transients&p=367667&viewfull=1#post367667). It was the last memory she had of the life she'd left behind, but it was not the only memory. No - she remembered all too well the white-eyes of the Emperor, Salem Ave. When she thought of him, Bryna could almost hear Master Tarkin's voice: “Is where you come from our true destination or now that you have found yourself amongst us, has that fate been diverged into a future?”

Was she right? Had it happened already? The fact that Master Tarkin had counselled Bryna to speak of what she knew to no one made it all the more frustrating. She could tell no one what she had lived through, because in doing so there was a possibility that she would create some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. The more she thought and worried, the more it terrified her to think that she would spend the rest of her life watching, but unable to stop, the rise of the Empire that had basically destroyed her life – and the Galaxy with it.

“Who is he?”

The voice of their prisoner, however gentle, snapped Bryna out of her thoughts. Her eyes darted up to meet his and for an instant she was glaring at him, before she caught herself and forced away the frown that had darkened her expression, though not entirely.

“A better man than you'll ever be.”

[Ceto Rübezahl]

Rather than be offended by the not even thinly veiled insult, Ceto allowed his subtle smile a little more purchase on his lips.

"I don't doubt that he is," he agreed; his tone wasn't disrespectfully light and yet it lacked any of the sombre weight one would expect from a prisoner speaking to his guard.

He didn't resent his circumstances; on the contrary, it was a situation that he had surrendered himself to, and he continued to believe it to be the best path. He had volunteered to enter Alliance custody as a show of faith: collateral in the Alliance's keeping to help both sides set aside their differences and unite against a mutual, secret threat. His sacrifice was minor by comparison to the loss of life; an entire Star Destroyer lost. With his way home gone, the Alliance had elected to keep him rather than allow him to return to the Greater Javin: not the crew's choice, and not a choice he blamed the Alliance for making either; roles reversed, the Empire probably would have done far worse than keep him in a comfortable cell for a few months.

Would have been nice if they'd at least allowed him to shave before the exchange, though. The prospect of appearing in public without making himself look presentable was by far the worst thing they'd made him endure.

His smile slipped, ever so slightly.

"Whoever he is, I'm glad you're getting him back." There was nothing but genuine honesty in his words. "So many people on both sides of our war were lost permanently. Each family reunited, those are the real victories. They're the ones that matter."

[Grace Van-Derveld]

"And no one asked for your opinion," said the Director crisply. "Nor are we here to get to know one another in the short time we're in each others presence. So do us all a favor? Sit back, enjoy the ride and do so in silence..."

She stared at him in warning before her attention went back towards her ... towards Bryna. It continued to boggle her that this young Jedi was her future offspring with Dasquian. Grace had accepted that Dasquian was dead and she would never be given the chance to tell him how she felt. Then this girl arrived out of no where, was a genetic match, and begging her to find her father. Grace's future husband. Now here she was playing mediator in this exchange to return this silver tongued politician back to the Empire so Dasquian could come home.

And what was Bryna expecting? She didn't need to be a Jedi to know that her daughter was just waiting for the right opportunity to punch someone or something. It was a look she often had at her age before she masked away her emotions by being an emotionless husk. Grace was known, but no one never really knew her. Except Belargic.

And the bastard's not prepared for this at all, she thought solemnly.

She focused on what his physical and mental state may be in order to anticipate his immediate needs and care for him above all else. Including being debriefed. The Republic would demand a report, making sure that Belargic had not given up any secrets while tortured, or turned against them while incarcerated. Standard protocol of course, but it would wait. She needed to know it was him. She would know it was him. Grace and Dasquian knew each other so intimately that with but a quick glance that could easily ascertain the others mood, anticipate one another in a fight, and could speak volumes without words.

Director Van-Derveld would know in an instant if Belargic was changed for the worst. And that was her fear. Not that he turned or gave up secrets - he would never do that under any circumstance. That the man she admired and love was no longer there. That the Empire had defeated his spirit. Not his loyalty.

Her head tilted slightly as the pilot confirmed that they would be arriving in 30. It was habit, checking her gun and calibrating her chronometer just before the mission's start, and was not intended as a scare tactic for the prisoner. She was methodical and precise and it gave her focus.

[Bryna Belargic]

Each family reunited... A chord shivered inside Bryna at those words. She swallowed hard, willing any physical sign of what she felt to be smooth away. That was the easy part, of course. Still waters above didn't always mean still waters below, an old Jedi had once told her. The words of the Code marched through her mind, the mantra gradually wearing away her emotions.

Still, she couldn't resist a glance at her mother. Grace looked as if she were preparing for any other assignment. Checking her equipment, using old and well-worn habits as a way to steady herself. Going through all of those motions, was that to Grace what the Code was to Bryna? Strength in familiarity? A part of her wanted to be frustrated that her mother was so calm, and she didn't even know why. The whole situation was tugging her heart in too many directions.

"How do you want to..." she started, talking low to Grace alone. "I mean, when we get him back... what should I do?"

[Grace Van-Derveld]

She paused her inspections. Bryna deserved her attention with this question and glanced over at her child.

"You do nothing. Too many eyes. Let me handle the exchange," she answered, voice low enough for only Bryna to hear. The shuttle's engines provided enough cover so that their guest would be left in the dark. And if the Moff could read lips, it would be difficult with the gun hiding her mouth. But then it dawned on her what she actually meant. What was Bryna supposed to do when Dasquian was back safely aboard the shuttle and it was just the three of them.

She reached out to pat Bryna's shoulder in a rare show of visible compassion. "First we make sure he's alright. That's the priority. Then we go from there. Alright?"

[Bryna Belargic]

For all the affection Grace had shown since she had met Bryna, the pat on the shoulder might as well have been a bear-hug.

“Thanks, m.. a'am.”

She fumbled the word, at the last moment remembering where she was and who was in earshot. Smoothing away what might have been a flash of wide-eyed worry, she frowned – at the shuttle in general.

“What's our ETA?”

[Grace Van-Derveld]

"20 standard minutes until we dock with the station and all security checks have been verified," she answered without even looking at her wrist piece, appreciative that Bryna managed to correct herself in front of the prisoner.

The pistol that she held was now safely snug in its holster and now she regarded Ceto. "Need to make sure that your friends take this exchange seriously. Why we're waiting so long on base. Now, if everything is up to standards, the rules: You are to remained cuffed the entire time and follow our orders without hesitation. You are to remain silent. Once we have visual confirmation of our ally, we will proceed further as in concordance with your government."

She didn't ask for his understanding because if he were smart, he would nod and be quiet as Grace had already asked him to do.

[Ceto Rübezahl]

Well this was all wonderfully civilized, wasn't it?

There was a saying that Ceto had heard once: only a Sith deals in absolutes. It was a fallacy. Binary thinking was a plague that had infected most of the galaxy these days. Ceto Rübezahl was an Imperial, and so that made him a vile and insidious enemy. It meant that with every breath, his continued existence condoned every reprehensible act that the Empire had ever committed. Were it not for the restraints binding his wrists, he would instantly try to murder them all. Were it not for his commanded silence, he would cackle like some pantomime villain, or try to corrupt them with Imperial propaganda in a non-stop tirade. Anyone who did not condemn the Empire at the top of their lungs, everyone who did not fight with their bare hands to overthrow the galactic government and plunge known space into anarchy could only be a villain of the highest order; and they had treated him as such.

The truth was far more complicated than that. Did Ceto think that what the Emperor had done was right? Of course he didn't. No sane human being did. The Tarkin Doctrine was a foolhardy strategy, applying vinegar to the Empire's wounds instead of honey. How much unrest, how much conflict, how many deaths on both sides could have been avoided if the Galactic Senate had continued to exist? Palpatine's path was the wrong path. But Palpatine was dead. His regime was gone. True, Empress Tarkin was as ruthless as her name suggested; but abandoning the Empire was not the answer, and really, was the Alliance much better? What had begun as idealistic revolution had escalated by leaps and bounds. Now they resorted to the exact same strategies that the Empire had: diplomacy through the barrel of a loaded gun, this new-found peace achieved only because of the Starkiller missiles aimed at the Empire's head.

There had been a moment, back in detention, where Ceto had truly considered his options. He was not a revolutionary. He didn't expect his actions to change the course of the galaxy. But, for the part that he had played in the Empire's rules, and the crimes that he was an accessory of, there was an urge to make amends; to try and make the galaxy better, in some small way. This life, this career, this path that he was on had begun from a place of patriotism, not towards the Empire but to the Republic that had preceded it. Perhaps the Alliance to Restore the Republic was where he belonged, then, fighting to try and restore the ideals that his loyalty longed for?

But no. The Alliance was not the Republic, as much as it wanted to be. Nor was the Empire, as much as it pretended to be. Neither the corrupt continuation nor the pale imitation could ever hope to capture what the Republic had once been; not without taking steps that would bring that kind of aspiration within reach. That was why Ceto needed to return, rather than stay. Among the Alliance, he was a political prisoner, a loathed and untrusted representation of the hate that had inspired the Rebellion's unity. Among the Empire however, he could be a force for change. He was the architect of a new Corporate Sector, a driving force for the Imperial economy. It was not within his power to change the galaxy, but his quiet corner of it? The poor, exploited, neglected worlds of the Greater Javin? Those he could change for the better, in some small way.

And so he remained silent. He didn't waste his breath defending himself to a women who clearly wouldn't listen. He gave up on trying to show that he was more than the prejudices that she clearly clung to. He merely nodded, smiled, and waited patiently for his next instruction.

[Bryna Belargic]

Bryna said nothing in response to Grace's whip-crack command to their prisoner. There was nothing she needed to say. Her mother was, after all, the one in change of the exchange. Bryna's presence was... an indulgence, or a placation.

The minutes became hours. When she strained to see the station ahead of them, it almost felt as if they were travelling away from it and Bryna had to fix her eyes on the viewport for a while before she was sure that they weren't.

As they neared the docking port, Grace signaled for the prisoner to rise.

“ETA one minute,” the pilot confirmed. Bryna got to her feet and felt her head swim and her stomach churn.

[Grace Van-Derveld]

Within that minute, Rübezahl was lead through the tight corridor towards the airlock where the T-2c would connect with the station. Grace wanted to keep a gun on him, but the plan were to keep weapons holstered at all times. And he was behaving as requested so there really was no reason to be rough with him except to help her feel better. It was all about Dasquian and how nervous she was in seeing him again. That he was finally safe and back home.

"Stop here," she ordered as they reached the airlock.

Grace and Bryna flanked Rübezahl as the shuttle made connection with the station and lightly shook as the docking rings secured them safely in place. The doors hissed opened after the air finished pressurizing throughout the hold. There was a small detail there to greet them made up of four Murachauns. A blue skinned one stepped forward, his scales showing signs of aging, chipped and dulled over time, and one of his head fins were missing. His soldering goggles were limp against his soot ridden overalls. All of them wore similar clothing and in various stages of disarray. They were engineers of the station, not guards, but their tools could substitute for weapons. A cutting blaster was not as powerful as a regular one but in close quarters, it could be used to creatively subdue someone, let alone laser cutters, fusions drills, and vibro-knives she spied. These were to use on them in case Grace and Bryna acted out of line. Which meant the two Imperials escorting Dasquian were getting similarly treated.

"I am Juvan. One of the lead caretakers here," he explained, lisping on the s and almost garbling at certain syllables.

"And I am Director Van-Derveld of the Alliance and speak for my second. Thank you for allowing the use of your station once again. We will endeavor to make this exchange swift and without incident," she explained.

Juvan nodded. "Things went well last time. We don't anticipate any issues now. Come." He waved the three of them to follow. "We're to meet outside docking bay 4. It's half the distance to each of your shuttles."

As Juvan led, Grace, Rübezahl and Bryna were flanked by two of the remaining Murachauns and the last brought up the rear to surround them.

[Dasquian Belargic]

"Come along now, Mr. Belargic."

The hand at the small of his back wasn't aggressive, but it was firm. He didn't need telling twice. First into the narrow docking corridor, Dasquian was followed by an Inquisitor and what he suspected might be one of the Imperial Knights. Two of the Empire's most wholesome professions! It was the Inquisitor's hand that he'd felt at his back, urging him on ward. The Inquisitor who kept... smiling. Perhaps that was why the captive agent's eyes were darting left and right, trying to pick out any detail about the corridor that he now found himself in. Why would an Inquisitor smile? They didn't have a sense of humour. They weren't born with them. Either that or the Empire beat it out of them during training. No - if he was smiling, then this corridor was more than just a little overdue exercise and a change of scenery for agent Belargic; it lead to something terrible.

"Your colleagues will be waiting," the Inquisitor had assured him, as the shuttle connected with the station. Ostensibly, he was here to be returned into the Rebel Alliance.

"The war is over," the Inquisitor had said, shrugging one shoulder as he idly blew cigarette smoke in Dasquian's direction. "We don't need you anymore."

It was the most ridiculous thing Dasquian had ever head.

[Ceto Rübezahl]

Any other man might have viewed this situation with anxiety, or anticipation. This was a prisoner exchange. If all went well, in a matter of minutes he would be setting foot on an Imperial shuttle and returning home; if it went poorly, the outcome would be considerably more grim. Other men might have surveilled their captors, worked out where the easiest to reach guns were, where the easiest to run to exits were; sharp surfaces to sever his restraints; anything.

Not Ceto Rübezahl. He regarded his surroundings with the benign interest of a tourist. This was a Ktil station. These were Murachauns escorting them down these halls. Ktilac and Tocoyans lurked in the corners and behind the consoles as they passed. This was Hallowed Space, as far as the confederacy of the Ktilac Regions were concerned: they were unholy outsiders; unclean; graciously allowed to intrude beyond their usually sealed borders in the interests of furthering peace for the galaxy. Ceto was not an idealist, per se, but he understood public perception; he understood importance. Years ago, when acting rather than civil service had been the central aspect of his life, Ceto had played at being part of history; make believe; dramatisation. Now, he found himself actively participating in it. One of the first prisoner exchanges under the Treaty. A step closer towards the end of hostilities; a step back towards a peaceful government.

His Alliance escorts had their personal investments in this exchange, and that was their prerogative; Ceto would just have to appreciate their place in history on behalf of everyone.

Of course, the inevitable dramatisation of this event would have to be made a little more spectacular. The short corridor from the airlock had led the Alliance party into a modest concourse. The Murachaun and their brethren had done their best to stack the cargo containers neatly at either side, but it was hardly the kind of iconic vista befitting a holographic epic. Twenty years from now, when some dashing young actor was portraying a fictionalised version of the Moff, Ceto liked to think that they'd set this moment on some windswept, barren world, the gruff-but-heroic Van-Derveld ushering him along with eyes of steel, a swell of violins and atmosphere as she gazed across the misty plain between between the two shuttles, her eyes falling upon the man that she desperately wanted to see returned.

In the here and now, though, all the real Ceto Rübezahl was afforded was a docking concourse with clanking deck plates and a faint whiff of oil and grease.

He glanced away from the Imperial party opposite, arrayed fifty paces away as if they were about to embark on the climactic showdown of some Outer Rim gunslinger drama, and turned his eyes towards his escort. "I take it this," he asked quietly, with a subtle gesture of his restrained hands towards his counterpart, "Is your better man?"

[Bryna Belargic]

Looking across that concourse, Bryna had thought she would feel... what? Excitement, at the prospect of her whole family being reunited. Maybe a little bit of anxiety at that too, based on the way that her mother had so far reacted to Bryna's presence in her life. Who was to say that Dasquian would behave any differently? Well, if he was anything like her dad, he would welcome her with open arms, she thought, unable to fight the smile dimpling her cheeks. More than anything, perhaps, she would feel relief. Relief that her father was finally free from Imperial imprisonment. As easy-going and level as her father was, the previous four years were a time in his life that Dasquian had never talked a lot about - aside from to complain about the quality of the food and the lack of good, plump pillows.

Relief was what she expected. What she felt... was confused.

The prisoner they had come to collect didn't look like the father she had left on Dac (http://sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?16449-Years-From-Now&p=228055&viewfull=1#post228055). He was about the same height, but his face... Her mouth was all of a sudden as dry as the Dune Sea. She tried to swallow, but it was like someone had her throat in their fist. With the unmistakable figures of an Inquisitor and an Imperial Knight on either side of the Alliance prisoner, her natural instinct to stretch out into the Force was given a second thought.

A flicker of the uncertainty made it into her expression as she turned, just a fraction, to look towards Grace for direction.

[Grace Van-Derveld]

Grace's reaction was completely opposite than the trepidation that Bryna was feeling. Her heart beat fiercely in relief to see Dasquian walking safely down the hallway towards them. Everything else about her remained fixed and focused, probably to the annoyance of her daughter. After all this time believing he was dead and then wondering if she would ever see him again, and here he was looking bewildered. Who knew what the bastards escorting him had said?

"Precisely," she replied to Ceto.

The Director moved a half step faster than her prisoner and placed a hand against his elbow to make sure he kept up. That was when she caught a glimpse of Bryna eyeing her, but it was more of a feeling that she was. She gave a reassuring nod towards the approaching group.

"It's almost over," she said curtly like she would to any other grunt. It was important to keep up appearances that Bryna was not important to her.

[Ceto Rübezahl]

It took an actor to spot an actor. Ceto didn't pretend to understand what the hidden significances that Grace Van-Derveld went to such lengths to conceal might be; but he could see that this exchange mattered for more than just the surface reasons. She needed his prisoner counterpart back. Ceto squinted across the distance; not an obvious family resemblance at this distance, but that narrowed things down almost not at all. That didn't matter. Ceto wasn't a monster: no use drawing this out any longer than necessary.

"Then lets get this done," he replied, turning a little more towards Grace, and offering his wrists towards her so that she could unfasten the restraints. It was something the movies so often got wrong: sending the prisoners marching off with their hands still locked together, away from the person with the keys or the codes to release them.

He hesitated, and for a moment his eyes deviated from his wrists, seeking out the briefest moment of eye contact with Grace. "Thank you," he offered, softly and sincerely. He wasn't sure why, or what for; as far as he knew, she was just another cog in the Alliance machine, reluctantly doing her duty and tolerating the imposition of his presence in exchange for a much more favourable outcome. Still, it felt like the right thing to say. Reluctant or not, this was the woman ending his captivity; the woman letting him go home.

A faint dawning of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he killed it before he formed, knowing the kind of reaction it would probably solicit. "Enjoy your reunion," he added, the sincerity continuing, before he turned back to face the concourse once more.

[Dasquian Belargic]

On the opposite side of the concourse, a similar ritual was taking place. Dasquian obediently held out his hands, still bound by cuffs. The Inquisitor stood in front of him, broad-shouldered body partly obscuring his view of the three figures on the opposite side of the room. Only partly, however. Over one uniformed shoulder, Dasquian could see a familiar figure. Hair drawn back into a braid, her face serious and her fingers working quickly to disengage the shackles worn by her prisoner. Grace. The Empire had told Belargic she was dead, almost as many times as they'd said she was alive, in captivity and vomiting Alliance secrets faster than Imperial Intelligence could act on them.

The Inquisitor leaned in, squeezed Dasquian's shoulder and spoke in a low voice that smelled of exotic tobacco. "Don't be a stranger."

With a pat on the back, he pushed Dasquian towards the open space between the two groups.

[Bryna Belargic]

A nod. That was all the confirmation that Grace offered. Was it even confirmation? Nothing in her mother's face said that she was surprised, but didn't count for much. As far as Bryna was concerned, Grace Van-Derveld had been born with a stone-cold poker face that had miraculously gotten even more frosty with age. Any dozen emotions could have been bubbling beneath the surface, and only the Force would have given Bryna the slightest clue.

Again, Byrna's eyes drifted back to the Imperial's, a visual reminder not to go poking at her mother's aura at this precise moment. Instead, she shifted her attention to the prisoner - or rather, the free man walking towards them. Dasquian Belargic. He had the same beard, she supposed. Sort of?

Unsure what to do with herself, she folded her arms behind her back and schooled her face into the best impression of her mother that she could muster.

[Grace Van-Derveld]

She offered no courteous response in return. Not even a faint nod of acknowledgement as the shackles were removed but not clipped back onto her belt. Grace needed something in her hand to squeeze, just so she could remain focused in the moment.

"Hrm." Ceto's well wishes were genuine and unsurprising. He had been trying to be accommodating under less than ideal circumstances. Grace just didn't give a damn. The Moff was a means to an end. And that end was staring at her in disbelief.

Dasquian...

Lips pressed together firmly, which only made the severe look upon her face more pronounced. She squashed the agitated lip from showing any signs of distress and ended up swallowing in anticipation as the damn Inquisitor shoved Dasquian forward.

She tightened her grip even further on the restraints, envisioning it as the bastard's neck.

"Go on," she ordered Ceto, acting far more professional than her counterpart.

[Dasquian Belargic]

With arms folded and a smile on his face, the Inquisitor watched Dasquian go. The Imperial Knight played her part as expected: scowling at the sight of the Rebel glancing back over his shoulder, trying to piece together how the ruse was supposed to work. It was like someone had up-ended a dozen jigsaw puzzles in front of him, only none of the pieces matched because someone had snipped and torn at the corners. Each step he took, he imagined a burning dot between his shoulders or expected to hear the hungry hum of a lightsaber - but no. He paced towards Grace, not really seeing the man she was guiding, and they met in what was roughly the middle of the concourse.

His hair and beard were longer than she might have remembered them, but he looked otherwise... unchanged. He smiled. "Hello."

Behind, the Inquisitor gave a casual wave, inviting Ceto Rübezahl to join him.

[Ceto Rübezahl]

There was a syndrome that Ceto remembered researching for a role once, though he couldn't quite remember the name of it; something that affected victims of abduction and long-term incarceration, making them feel an affinity and affection for their captors. Ceto knew categorically that he was not subject to that syndrome; but confronted with the situation that faced him, the choice between an Alliance cell and the Imperial hospitality that awaited him, hells if the net result wasn't more of the same.

The Imperial entourage loomed in the distance, an Inquisitor striking a most uninviting figure. He studied Dasquian Belargic for a moment as they passed, studying the lines, features, movement, posture; anything that would hint at the nature of his treatment. It wasn't that Ceto expected the Empire to treat a rescued Moff in the same manner as a captured high-profile Rebel; and yet that nagging possibility lingered in the back of his mind as he advanced across the distance in far better condition than his counterpart.

He watched as the Inquisitor sparked up another cigarette, standing there with almost casual disinterest towards the events that were transpiring; almost as if he felt one of the most important prisoner exchanges in recent history was somehow beneath him. We'll write you out of the story, Ceto thought to himself, exclusion from the re-enactments of this moment the only real penance he could inflict upon the man.

That didn't assuage the sinking, twisting feeling in Ceto's gut as he drew closer though, finally finding himself in the Empire's custody once more. The dull eyes that peered out at him from behind that smoking face were all too familiar; a man he half-remembered sitting silently in the corner of meetings, briefings, and conferences across the last few years of his career, but one he'd never been introduced to; never learned the name of. There was something unsettling about the Inquisitor, something that just didn't quite sit right; something that made you suspect there was far more to him than was readily apparent. Ceto supposed he should be flattered that someone so seemingly and secretly significant was here to oversee his return to the Empire; but Ceto suspected there was some ulterior motivation that would not be particularly pleasant in the long run.

"Either the Empire sent one of it's finest," he said aloud, guarding himself with a protective layer of deflective humour, "Or you are the most resourceful fan I have ever met."

[Khalid]

The Inquisitor didn't speak at first; he merely fixed Moff Rübezahl with the kind of look you cast at someone else's child causing a ruckus at a hypermart. A deep drag was taken from his cigarette, a blissful state of constant cloud nestling itself reassuringly in his lungs.

"I see the Alliance hasn't deprived you of your fondness for talking, Mr Rübezahl."

Wisps of tobacco smoke chased his words out of his lips, curling their way across the bottled Ktil atmosphere towards Rübezahl. The Inquisitor watched with passive interest as he always did, watching to see how each subject of the second-hand toxins reacted to the violation of their personal space. Some would flinch. Some would scowl. Some would react, but bury it beneath layers of stoic expression. Some would relish it, as if it somehow brought back memories of a childhood that, though perhaps traumatic, still offered some small shred of comfort in a moment such as this. But Rübezahl, he didn't react; as Khalid would have expected. An actor of his calibre was far too dedicated to break character over something so trivial.

"I would ask how you are," he continued slowly, the words teasing their way out of his throat as slowly and bleakly carefree as the smoke, "But we have a medical staff back on our ship waiting to ascertain that; so there's no reason for me to pretend to care. And besides -"

His eyes glanced over towards the Alliance group at the far end of the concourse, a mix of amusement and annoyance completely failing to display on his tired and sunken features. Sending a woman to retrieve her freed lover. Trust the Alliance to take a situation such as this and turn it into a pathetic sentimental affair. The other woman he didn't seem to recognise, though; and yet somehow, nagging at the back of his mind, she seemed the faintest bit familiar. Curious; but a mystery to be indulged later.

His eyes returned to Rübezahl.

"- we both know that the Alliance lacks the stomach to make the most of a prisoner such as yourself. I'm sure you're fine."

Another deep drag, and the cigarette eroded rapidly, paper and dried leaves burning away at a rapid pace beneath the onslaught of the glowing embers. The Inquisitor pulled it from his lips for a moment, held it so that he could gaze at the tiny glow, thinking of all the things that could be done with such a small, benign-looking spark. He thought of the motivations that similar points of heat had helped him provide; the explosive infernos begun by discarding it into exactly the right pool of primed chemicals. Not now though, amusing at it would be to see how the Ktil would respond to their precious station being consumed in flames.

A flick of his wrist, and the Inquisitor flicked the half-smoked cigarette off into the shadows behind a storage container. "Come," he instructed to his charge, not wasting any time on formality or faux respect. "We have a lot to discuss once we're back on the ship. I hear you have quite the story about your time in the Gordian Reach..."

And with that, Moff Rübezahl in tow, the Imperial entourage slowly filed away, without so much as a word wasted on their Alliance counterparts.

[Bryna Belargic]

The exchange was almost complete. The Moff had reached his handlers on the other side of the concourse and the Imperials appeared to be making ready to depart. Bryna, meanwhile, felt like her feet had been soldered to the grating beneath them. Her heart beat the inside of her chest like a prize shock-boxer. When Dasquian - her father - met her eyes, Bryna couldn't hold back her smile.

"Hello.. sir."

Her eyes darted to Grace for a second. Squaring her shoulders a little more stiffly, she added.

"Agent Belargic."

[Grace Van-Derveld]

She wanted to punch him. After all this time of wondering if he were dead or alive, fearing the worse tortures that he could have been submitted too, Dasquian's first word was 'Hello'. Then again, in the next breath she wanted to hug him and discredit her cold, dismissive, image that she cultivated like armor around her. Uncaring that she would shatter it in front of the intimidating Inquisitors of the Empire or even Moff Rübezahl who had tried so hard to be genuine with Grace while she snubbed every effort.

Both extremes wanted to win but in the end, Grace acted like they did when a difficult mission had ended and they were both safe. Perhaps the end results weren't exactly what they wanted, but they were together and there was always another day to fight the bad guys.

"You look like shit," she finally said after appraising him.

[Dasquian Belargic]

He gave the unfamiliar woman a nod. She wasn't wearing Rebellion fatigues or Jedi robes, or any other identifying scrap that could tell Dasquian who she worked for. He smiled to himself, at himself even, realising that the old habit of trying to read strangers at a glance was still with him. Chances are it would need a little honing, after months and months of seeing nothing but shapeless, characterless Imperial uniforms. "Thank you, agent," he said to Bryna, at last.

At Grace, Dasquian shrugged and his smile grew, touching the teary edges of his eyes.

"One thing they don't tell you about Imperial prisons... you just can't get a good haircut."

[Grace Van-Derveld]

A tug of a smile pulled the Director's severe expression away. Her cheeks tightened, fighting the surge of emotion, as she warred with watery eyes.

"Well then, let's get you back to the cruiser. Get you more civilized," she said with a bit of that regular teasing that they were so accustomed to.

"Yes. Please," agreed Juvan, motioning down the concourse. He wanted both parties gone as soon as possible. "We'll lead you back to your shuttle."

With a nod, she spared a glance behind her and watched their Imperial counterparts disappear from view and then fell in step beside Dasquian as she quietly struggled with her feelings. The shuttle would be best to explain possibly everything, or at the very least who Bryna was to them. That would all but assure a necessary conversation between her and Dasquian.

"Is there anything you need right away? I've supplies aboard the shuttle. Perhaps even some shears to give you a trim?" she offered casually.

[Dasquian Belargic]

He couldn't fight the impulse to look back over his shoulder. Sure enough, the shapes of the Inquisitor, the Moff and the Knight lost focus. As the distance stretched between them, something squeezed at Dasquian's heart: anxiety. Perhaps even... fear, fluttering in his pulse. It felt as if, at any moment, a hail of blasterfire would rain down the corridor after them. Grace touched a hand to his elbow, to guide Dasquian in the right direction, and his attention focus back to her face in a heartbeat.

“I wouldn't say no to a glass of a decent Zadarian brandy.”

[Bryna Belargic]

A smile wriggled its way onto Bryna's lips. Her parents, together. It was like she was watching them together again on Dac. There was no swell of emotion in them, no desperate embrace. Just that back and forth that she knew so well. Tears were creeping into the corners of her eyes. She looked away quickly and she pursed her lips, fighting back the smile and the tears by repeating the mantra of the Jedi Code in her mind. There is no emotion, there is peace...

[Grace Van-Derveld]

"Not in the shuttle I'm afraid," she sighed with regret. "I can track some down once back on ship."

Juvan's escort came at an end once they reached the airlock. "Appreciate an expedited departure Director. We're telling the Imperials the same."

She smirked in understanding. Both parties were only tolerated here and now that the exchange had finally concluded, the Murachauns wanted their system returned to normalcy.

"Of course. Will depart ASAP as soon as our shuttle's secured," she promised and hit the controls to open the airlock.

He nodded and gave her a quick grunt of approval before joining his people. They remained close by, but gave the Alliance members enough room for some privacy. With that, Grace motioned for Bryna to go in first, wanting a moment alone with Dasquian. She caught of glimpse of his fears, his panic, as they were walking away from the Imperial guards. It was subtle but worth taking a moment to regroup before taking him home.

[Dasquian Belargic]

For the first time in more years than Dasquian cared to remember, they were alone. It was a strange feeling. A short walk down either side of the corridor they stood in and they would bump into half a dozen other people. Just a matter of metres away, the second of his escorts was inside their shuttle. In truth, they were not alone, and yet the moment felt private, especially given how long Dasquian had spent under Imperial surveillance, day and night.

An expectant look in his eyes, Dasquian turned to Grace.

[Grace Van-Derveld]

When their eyes met, Grace felt her heart breaking all over again for him. All this time her mind ran rampant with possibilities of what the Empire was doing to Dasquian. She was no girl scout by any means, but there were lines that she didn't cross - unlike them. As she inspected his face, there were shadowed remains of bruising around his eyes and jaw that peaked past his beard which were almost fully mended. Probably in part due to the Empire ceasing any further physical brutality on him once the negotiations for the prisoner exchange had begun. He was in desperate need of a bath and even in jest, the man really needed the shears to his face and hair. It reminded the Director all too well of how disheveled and frumpy they were when returning from an op. But he didn't just come back from solo run or some deep cover ops that lasted years. He was captured and tortured and there was nothing that Grace could do to erase that despite how hard she tried to find him!

"Damn it," she hissed.

Overwhelmed with emotion, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight - thankful that the glasses blocked away the unshed tears.

[Dasquian Belargic]

With Grace's arms thrown around his shoulders, Dasquian leaned into the embrace. The only human contact he'd had for years were guards shoving him from one location to another, or technicians swabbing his skin moments before they administered injections. By contrast, a simple hug was almost overwhelming. He swallowed, his throat tight, words coming out strangled.

“I missed you too.”

[Grace Van-Derveld]

Lips trembled as Grace could hear and feel how affected his incarceration was that this brief moment of connection was difficult for him. Light fingers gently reached up to briefly caress his neck until they brushed through his tangled mop. She fist his hair, Dasquian feeling how tense she had become as her arms pressed into him further. It was selfish of her to need such contact after all of the atrocious things done to him while incarcerated, but she missed him terribly. He had become such an integral part of her life as a partner, a friend and only when he was gone did Grace really understand how much Dasquian Belargic meant to her.

So she wept. The emotionally impervious Director of Intelligence broke down and wept ...

[Bryna Belargic]

"We're clear for departure," a voice called from inside the shuttle.

[Grace Van-Derveld]

A switch instantly flipped inside the Director. The wracking sobs that echoed down the hall immediately stopped as Grace pulled away to wipe away the irritating proof of her breakdown from pink tinged cheeks.

"Right then. We shouldn't dally any further," she said with usual tone, though one sniff managed to sneak in. "I still owe you that drink."

With a light pat on Dasquian's cheek, she stepped back to give him enough room to pass, behaving as if nothing had ever happened.

[Bryna Belargic]

The interior of the Theta-class shuttle was quiet.

“Pre-flight checks are done,” Bryna said, stepping from the cockpit into the passenger cabin that her mother and father had just entered. Her mother and father. Bryna felt her stomach practically fall out at the sight of them: they'd both been crying. It felt like someone was pouring ice water down her back.

“Sit.. wherever you like,” she managed.

[Dasquian Belargic]

Dasquian followed the vague gesture towards a couch, so used to following directions and orders that he sat exactly where the young woman indicated he should without a second thought. From his seat, he smiled up at Grace.

“Let's go home.”