Parcae

[Soto Terius]

Destiny exploded into being, a sudden shock of white and modest red highlights manifesting within the blink of an eye, obscuring the tiniest portion of the starfield above Jovan. A tiny flare of light pulsed from her triplet engine nacelles as the sublights hummed into action, propelling the dagger-shaped hull of the Arquitens Cruiser towards the looming disc of Jovan Station.

On the bridge - an unceremonious grey box that looked more like the command cabin of a commercial liner than the battle-hardened warship that the Destiny was meant to be - Captain Soto Terius sat in relative silence, his fingertips idly grooming through his beard. The more one contemplated these circumstances, the more absurd the juxtaposition became. An Alliance crew aboard a Republic cruiser, approaching an Imperial station that had been turned into a diplomatic outpost by the Cizerack. This was, to some extent at least, the kind of future that the Alliance to Restore the Republic had striven towards: one of peace and unity between the races, one where the cultural barriers and restrictions put in place by Palpatine and his Empire had finally faded away. Yet, it was an unfamiliar circumstance; an alien environment. For many of those who had joined the rebellion, the Republic was at best a distant memory recalled through the improving lens of hindsight, and at worst a fairy tale ideal spoken of in hushed tones to comfort those buckling beneath the weight of an oppressive regime.

Now that they were here, or at least in some approximation of it, everything was strange and unfamiliar. Worse, it all felt like a charade, like people playing at civilization, their childish attempt at peace and equality little more than a thin and fragile veneer over the impending war and conflict that broiled beneath. They were at peace, and yet the full force of the Alliance military was still on constant alert, trapped in a cruel and unfamiliar limbo: unable to indulge the skills and expertise that the Galactic Civil War had taught, and yet unable to relax and enjoy the benefits of true peace, forced instead into mundane drudgery while at the same time remaining constantly vigilant for the moment that everything crumbled apart. Hard-fought victories and seemingly impossible challenges had been replaced by supply runs and border patrols, Terius' crew of ambush veterans relegated to the simplistic tasks of escorting convoys and ferrying dignitaries. Their victory - or at least, their approximation thereof - over the Empire had rendered them all obsolete, and yet the precarious peace demanded that they become a contingency, gathering rust and dust until fate deigned to make them useful again.

The hiss of the bulkhead door behind him pierced into his thoughts. A quiet rumble of words escaped from his throat, about half a second before the dignitary's insistence that it was unnecessary registered in his mind. "Admiral on deck."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen unleashed a salvo of scowl towards the Captain. The Corellian wasn't facing him, but that hardly mattered: whether by reflection or some latent unrealised Force sensitivity that he was too old and weary to care about, the Admiral had learned that his glare was felt by all: around corners, through walls, and even across interstellar distances, if the recipient had managed to irk him sufficiently.

He said nothing however, instead simply drawing alongside the Captain's chair, and letting his cycloptic gaze settle on the vista ahead. It was strange to see; almost comical, in a way. Vansen had been here before a handful of times, most during the station's heyday as a seat of Imperial power. He had seen it's superstructure full to bursting with the might of the Empire, the mile-long knives of Imperator destroyers nestled beneath it's docking pylons, TIEs and shuttles and gunboats swarming through the air above. He had walked through it's corridors when they had been sleek and meticulous, polished floors and monochrome uniforms marching in neat formations as far as the eye could see.

Now, everything was changed. The berths designed for vast Star Destroyers looked oddly empty, the mismatched assortment of Alliance replacements mostly dwarfed by the superstructure. Even if he'd been able to liberate the Challenger from Bothawui orbit for this visit, he doubted the slender Venator would have looked any more at home. One by one, he peered at the docking nodes and the star traffic, challenging himself to identify the class and origin of each ship he witnessed. It was an old habit, a game that he'd created for himself in his youth, back in his days with the Judicial Fleet; now though, it had become less a game, and more a defense against the addles that his advanced age no doubt had in store.

One ship in particular caught his eye: at first he almost dismissed the sleek curves and pigmented hull as being Hapan, but an instant more of consideration and those sweeping predatory wings became unmistakable. He'd never seen her this close; not without her being surrounded by water or by the distractions of battle. Such a shame that the Alliance had gained such an awe-inspiring craft only to find itself utterly unable to put her to use: sending the Khera'Va'ss'io against pirates hardly felt worthy of her pedigree.

His mind turned to things Lupine in nature, Vansen's eyes did the same, settling on the Lupine automaton that had accompanied him onto the bridge. "ADAR, contact the dockmaster: I want a full inventory of every ship that's in-system, in my hands before I step out the airlock. There's a lot of boats up in these stars, and I don't like not knowing what's going on."

"Captain," he added, a subtle shift of his gaze and attention back to Terius. "Bring us into dock at your discretion."

[ADAR]

The was only a moment of silence before the towering hulk of Vansen Tyree's companion droid gave a slightly angled look down to its' partner before following with a look upward, out the viewscreen and at the hawkish Khera'Va'ss'io. A brief bit of silence as the sound of whispering processors went to work in carrying out the order.

Meanwhile, in a show of multitasking, the Lupine construct lowered its' gaze back down and fixated its' own single ocular upon Admiral Tyree. The mechanized iris shrunk, then grew wide once more.

"I would like to see the other one; KHER. We will have time for at least that, I trust."

[Vansen Tyree]

It was curious how expressive the Lupine construct could manage to be. The face, akin to a crudely drawn Selkath with a flashlight in it's mouth, had no features that were discernibly humanoid or familiar, and yet the slight variance of light from it's optic, a slight twitch of servos, and Vansen found himself relating to and empathising more with the mechanoid than he did with most of the organics he was confronted with on a day to day basis. Perhaps it was an unfair bias. Perhaps it was his distrust and dislike of politicians, versus the droid who had for the most part never done anything to earn his ire. Perhaps it was the fact that ADAR was a gift, from one of the few people who had earned her way past the force shields of his sour mood. Maybe it was just the fact that the droid didn't talk much, making him a rather pleasant traveling companion. Either way, Vansen had come to enjoy the droid's company, and the notion of entering the political quagmire potentially without ADAR's company and supervision, caused an unexpected twist in his gut.

Yet, had ADAR not earned a little leeway? If his aide was a sentient, organic being, would he not regard this as a personal request, a rare opportunity to visit a friend or family that deserved to be seized? In the brief moment that Vansen considered the question, the notion wrested with itself in his mind, old Republic and Imperial notions of how droids should be treated and regarded jarring with memories of Alliance pilots distraught over the loss of their astromech, saddened the way one might be over the death of a pet. What were droids now? With the Clone Wars and the Separatist droid armies long behind, where did the automatons fit within the new society that the Alliance had created? All things considered, did it even matter?

Vansen's scowl softened ever so slightly, his head bowing in a subtle nod of approval. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of a family reunion," he conceded.

A breath that wanted desperately to be a sigh, but wasn't granted the opportunity made it's way from Vansen's lungs, as his gaze returned to the looming and growing visage of the station ahead. "I survived the Confederacy, the Empire, and the political gauntlet of Bothawui," he muttered, to himself as much as anyone else. "I'm sure I can manage to muddle my way through a few hours alone on a trade station without anything managing to kill me."

[ADAR]

"That is good to know," came the almost absent-minded response.

ADAR's optical dilated as it turned back to regard the sight before them.

"Though it is not exactly a family reunion, as you say. KHER and myself have been exploring one of your games... Sabacc? It is something to pass the time. Simple enough to play. But he has not put out for the next round, and I intend to discover why."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen's eyebrows climbed, with such ferocity that it threatened the security of his eyepatch. All this time with the droid at his side, and it still found ways to surprise him.

He made a mental note of that tidbit of information, though. Vansen had been quite the sabacc player himself in his youth, and while he had no particular desire to challenge the automaton - what was the point in playing such things against someone who had no credits to gamble? - a part of his mind suspected that it might one day prove useful. Sabacc could be a powerful tool in negotiations and information gathering if wielded correctly, and the prospect of being able to throw a hard-to-read droid into the mix to keep everyone off balance was quite the appealing prospect.

Vansen sighed again. "There are days when you baffle me, ADAR," he muttered, with a slight shake of his head.

[ADAR]

"If it is any consolation Admiral, you baffle me every day."

It was a phrase spoken with the most honesty that the droid could inject into his mechanical voice. Before the man could answer, ADAR spoke once more.

"I have received the information from the dockmaster that you requested. Shall I have it put on a datapad, or a flimsi for you?"

[Vansen Tyree]

The fact that Vansen had to give that question genuine consideration cut a sour swathe through his mood, forcing him to contemplate just how damned old he was becoming. He hated those blasted datapads, hated having to fumble around with keystrokes and screen swipes to see the entirety of what he was looking for, and much preferred the tangible feel of reading reports on flimsi. Hardcopies you could shuffle through. You could make piles of them, and glean a microscopic fragment of hope and relief as the pile of unread reports slowly diminished. Sadly, his eye wasn't what it used to be, and tweaking the display scale on a datapad was far more inconspicuous than holding a sheet of flimsi a few inches from his face.

"Printing it on the bottom of a whiskey glass doesn't sound like a half-bad idea," he muttered to himself, though right now a caf cup would probably make more sense; he frowned a little, fighting against the faint tiredness headache that never really seemed to go away.

"Pad," he interjected, before ADAR had the opportunity to take his muttered comment seriously. It was a mistake he'd made too many times already. Damn that droid and it's audio sensitivity.

One last lingering look was cast out of the viewport, watching as the shadow of one of the station's docking pylons fell across the Destiny. "Request permission to come aboard as soon as we dock," he instructed, not an order per se - Admiral or not, it wouldn't do to subvert the Captain and breach the sacred chain of command - more of an insistent request. His gaze shifted, settling on Terius. "If you'll excuse us, Captain, we'll be waiting by the airlock."

[Kes Akiena]

Pylon six had been cleared late the previous night on special order. It was rather amazing how quickly people worked when word was carefully trickled out at the impending arrival of a certain visitor.

It made no real difference to Kes though, as Jovan's commander stood patiently on one side of the blast doors. His hands were folded together at the small of his back, and he stood in a loose, casual stance. Not out of any familiarity - gods knew his interactions with Admiral Vansen Tyree were threadbare at best - but when you conspired with a man, even if you only know of him by reputation, then some things sort of just were. Some things were unspoken.

And so the redhead waited.

He was a patient man, and stood alone, having dismissed the few aides that'd accompanied him.

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen waited with his hands clasped behind his back as the airlock spooled it's way through pressurization, painstakingly slow. It was a necessary measure: not just the airlock, but the clasping, otherwise his arms would have found themselves folded indignantly across his chest. Moments like this were what irritated him. His weary old skeleton made life slow enough on it's own without idiotic machines dragging their heels making it all worse.

Finally the motor servos clunked, and the blast doors began to slide apart; Vansen strode through the central diamond before they were even part-way, stepping over at least a foot or so of shifting durasteel to plant his boots on solid deck. A scowl formed itself on the Admiral's face, but it was a scowl of relief rather than frustration. He'd had the misfortune of making a tour of inspection upon a starship that wasn't familiar with his particular sensibilities: they'd pulled out all the stops, dress uniforms, crew in formation filling the landing bay, flags and banners about the place; he'd chewed the Captain out in private, something about being a frigate and not a village fate; or was it a patrol cruiser and not a pageant? One of the two, certainly. Gorram waste of time and resources. Save it for the Senators and that ilk: save it for people who hadn't been on the other side, and didn't know how much of a pain in the ass it all was.

"I'm disappointed," Vansen lied. If he was capable smiling as he regarded the blissfully empty surroundings, he might have at least considered it; Vansen knew a too-tidy docking pylon when he saw one, but at least Akiena had opted for the effort that doesn't look like effort approach to his arrival, rather than the pandering one. "I was hoping there'd be a band; cake; drinks, maybe."

He grumped out a chuckle. "Instead I get five minutes alone with the most closely scrutinized Commander in the entire Alliance."

[Kes Akiena]

"Apparently stealing a warship warrants a few more watchful eyes than I'd anticipated."

Kes gave a hapless shrug, though the wry humor in his voice was noticeable enough. He made a look of feigned pain, his hands still clasping each other at his lower back. There was a cautious degree of familiarity with the Admiral, in that both men had been a party to actively stopping General Dan over Ossus. Other than that though, there was nothing but the mutual friendship of Captain s'Ilancy and the knowledge of reputation.

Looking beyond Admiral Tyree at the monolithic droid that trailed behind the older man though, the redhead inwardly groaned.

So that's where the last one went.

It had been bad enough having to deal with KHER, and while he had not had the 'pleasure' of dealing with ADAR (who'd not been brought online yet), he had a good enough notion of what followed in the Admiral's wake.

A grimace as he watched the Lupine construct stop just behind Tyree. He could already feel a slight twitch forming in the corner of his right eyelid.

"Gods," came the suddenly exasperated sigh, "... not another one... "

[Vansen Tyree]

A brief frown of confusion tugged at one of Vansen's eyebrows, before awareness of ADAR's presence and the obvious correlation with the Commander's reaction dawned on his mind. Once again, Vansen was grateful for how unresponsive his gnarled old features were to the muscles that lay beneath them: it made the involuntary flicker of a smile that much easier to conceal.

"ADAR," Vansen introduced, as formal and officious as he could muster. "This is Kes Akiena, the commander of this station."

He turned away from the monocular droid, his expression uncharacteristically pleasant as he turned back to the Commander, though there was something - a glint of mischief perhaps - lurking behind his eye. "This facility has only been operating under our jurisdiction for a short time, and I know from the Commander's reports that there have been a few teething problems as far as resources, technology, and personnel."

He glanced back to ADAR. "Once you're done interacting with your counterpart, I'd appreciate it if you could find some time to sit down with Commander Akiena personally: review his requirements, see if there's anything we can spare from our Fourth Fleet or Joint Operations resources to make life a little easier."

An eyebrow twitched in Akiena's direction, fully - gleefully - aware of the frustration he was about to offload. "Assuming that's alright with you, Commander?"

[Kes Akiena]

There was no hiding the scowl that cut deep lines into his features, and Kes looked from the droid to Admiral Tyree. In his experience with KHER, the redhead was more than certain that the Lupine constructs were all bent to the same disgruntled nature. He'd seen ADAR before the thing had become operational, and though admiring the technical craftsmanship, he did so from afar. Again, KHER had colored his perceptions rather magnificently. That the Admiral offered the services of his droid under the auspices of trying to be as helpful as possible, there was absolutely no mistaking the look on the older man's face.

There was also no mistaking the fact that there was really no real choice to politely decline.

"Lok used to tell me that you were a conniving old bastard."

The commander huffed a short breath out from his nose as his arms came out from behind his back to cross over his chest. His scowl seemed to morph into a wry, ghostly half-smirk as he dipped his head, giving a small sideways shake.

"The Ole Gal was right."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen let out a dry chuckle, clapping Kes warmly on the shoulder. "I hope that's all she told you," he muttered, somehow managing to sound both gruff and good-natured at the same time. "Anything else is malicious lies. Unless she told you about puking her guts over the back seat of my Y-Wing during the Clone Wars. That much is true."

His expression softened and furrowed slightly; less a concerned frown, and more of a worried one, perhaps with a little guilt thrown in for good measure.

"How is she?" he asked quietly, any pretense of being the stern Admiral momentarily gone. "I've tried to keep tabs, but, well -"

He sighed.

"Don't ever go into politics, Commander. You will hate every second, and it will turn you into a terrible friend who can't manage to find even five minutes without a security subroutine or a suspiciously attentive Bothan subordinate trying to peer over his shoulder and log everything he does."

[Kes Akiena]

"Well," the good-natured lilt to his voice returned, and Kes smiled.

"I've no plans to make my way into the political arena, but I've gotten my fair share of watchful eyes as of late."

There was a softening of his eyes then, as the redhead let his eyes dip down to the deck for a few moments. A slight laugh, and his gaze once more tracked upward to meet the Admiral's single eye. He'd always found it odd, how the Admiral and Lok shared the same unfortunate luck of a lost eye, but in the long run he supposed that it made sense. From the many stories that he'd heard from her, the two were in some way destined to share something.

Stepping to the side a small bit, Kes glanced up past the Admiral's shoulder to the droid, then quickly back to Vansen.

"She's well, if not a bit stretched thin. I'm sure she'd welcome your company, even for a short time."

[Vansen Tyree]

Another chuckle escaped the Admiral. "I'm not sure my company is something anyone ever welcomes, Commander," he offered ruefully, "But I'll be sure to make some time for her. I don't get insulted as much when she's not around - need to remind myself that not everyone is afraid of the big scary Admiral from time to time."

He let out a sigh, secretly glad of the walk and talk. This wasn't something that was possible back on Bothawui or Moonus Mandel: any time he ventured beyond the confines of his offices, beyond the protective screen of his sentinel secretaries, people came and bothered him. Before, he'd scoffed at politicians and bureaucrats ostentatious enough to demand a private refresher in their offices, but now Vansen had begun to see the appeal. The number of times he had been ambushed by people trying to skirt around his irritating nerfshit filters while on the way to satisfy the kind of biological urge that had become increasingly frequent in his old age, was enough to drive just about anyone to the brink of murder.

Sadly though, there was a purpose to his visit beyond being a contrived excuse to flee from his responsibilities in the Bothan Sector, and now was as good a time to get it out of the way as any.

"How are things holding together?" Vansen asked, continuing before Kes had the opportunity to execute his usual kind of detail-sparse response. "And don't give me the clean version that goes in your report. I've held enough commands over the years to know that nothing runs as smoothly as the version you tell your superiors, but you don't need to play politics with me, I'm not looking for an excuse to replace you or rake you over the coals."

He shrugged. "Frankly, I don't give a bantha's ass how you get your job done; but my job is to ensure that you have what you need to do that. In short, Commander, I'm here to hear your honest bitching about this place. How much of a thread are things hanging on by?"

[Kes Akiena]

Well then.

He couldn't help the wry grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth as they walked.

"You've a certain way with words, Admiral."

A few more moments of thought passed before he went on. There wasn't really any need to gloss over or sugar coat anything.

"We're a bit of a far cry from those old days of scrabbling from planet to planet, scrounging up whatever we could to feed ourselves and fight. But frankly - in a way - it feels like we've cycled back to that hand-to-mouth existence. I'm not complaining, in fact it feels somewhat nice. To be on the brink again.

"Not great, but... nice."

Lifting an arm, Kes ran a hand through his hair as they rounded a bend in the corridor.

"On the other side of the credit chit though, it's a bit frustrating, yes. We're expected to conjure miracles in the form of perfect operational standards, but with what we are given, it's a wonder we can do as much as we do. We've had our hiccups to be sure, but we find ways to work through the problems. Our methods might not be to most people's liking, but we do what we can, and the outcomes are almost always favorable."

His grin remained.

"The thread we hang by here is growing strand by strand. It's thin, but strengthening all the same. Though," Kes gave a shrug as the two men and the droid slowed to a stop before the doors of the spire's lift.

"... it would be nice to have a bit more supplies for my engineers. They do the best they can, but there's only so much I can give to them until what I have is gone. Some of them are even sharing toolboxes, and basic repair jobs sometimes take twice as long as they should."

[Vansen Tyree]

If that wasn't the perfect epitome of the Alliance's supply woes, Vansen didn't know what was. The big items were hard enough - tell a Senator that you need twelve fighters for a new squadron, and they'll ask you why you can't just make do with four - but at least the Senators and the Alliance's financial gatekeepers could grasp the importance of a fighter, or a cruiser, or a new outpost. It was the smaller things, the running costs, the ordnance and materiel; that was where their minds truly boggled. Some of them genuinely believed that asking the Starfighter Corps to fire fewer missiles was a viable cost-cutting measure. They wanted to know why ships couldn't manage with smaller crews, and why SpecForce needed to make sure it had a gun for each individual soldier when there wasn't actually a war on. Mechanics without enough tools to go around, and facilities too lacking in spare parts to keep themselves running? It was a story that Vansen heard all too often. There were a galaxy of negative things to be said about the Empire, but at least they had the right idea as far as military spending was concerned.

"It's a shame we don't have a duplicate station to dismantle for spare parts," Vansen mused, half-aloud.

A thoughtful frown swept across Vansen's features. "Have you met Senator Stark?" the Admiral asked, with more than a little hesitance in his tone. It was a bad suggestion, but possibly also a necessary one. "He's the Senator who was kind enough to gift Jovan Station to the Alliance military after his little coup in the Goridan Reach. He still has a lot of Imperial assets under his control and, well -"

A hint of a rueful smile tugged at Vansen's lips. "If I were him, I would have stockpiled all the spare parts I could get my hands on, to use as negotiating collateral later on. At the very least, some of the industrial complexes in his sector might be equipped to produce some of what you need."

[Kes Akiena]

The - admittedly silly - thought of essentially handing over a 'parts station' for Chief Rabaek to cannibalize was almost enough to illicit a chuckle, but Kes settled for merely giving a shake of his head.

"I've not met the Senator, no."

The truth, as Kes' own involvement with the political arm of the Alliance was an incredibly limited thing. And truth be told, he rather liked that. There was a small worry that he'd be pulled further in, but he'd worry over that at some other time.

The lift doors opened, and the Commander gestured for the Admiral and his droid to enter first.

"But it seems that it may behoove me to contact him."

A shrug.

"But we'll see. I've got my own sources if I feel desperate enough; comes from the old life I suppose... " There was a touch of the younger Kes in his expression now, and in that face was a deviousness not often seen by those around him.

"... I've been around the proverbial galactic block, Admiral. I was playing this game back when we had to burrow under the deepest rocks lest the Empire find us. You make friends and allies, and you help everyone you can. Sometimes those friends find themselves in lofty positions, and more often than not they don't forget you."

And then the look was gone. It wasn't out of disrespect that he spoke, but the Admiral had asked for brutal honesty, and Kes would allow him that much.

"Not to mention The Pride is surprisingly very helpful. Of course there's always a catch, so we've been treading lightly."

[Vansen Tyree]

"The catch of the day," Vansen mused mostly to himself, remembering a comment that Senator Tukphen had made during one of their meetings. It wasn't the way the idiom was intended to be used, but it fit the Alliance government remarkably well. No matter what you did, no matter how simple or routine the effort might seem, there was always a catch: and each day was defined by which bureaucratic obstacle you had to work the hardest to overcome.

He considered Akiena's words as he positioned himself in the lift. He was no stranger to the way the Alliance worked, though admittedly he had been shielded from the worst parts of it. The Alliance Fleet had always had the benefit of a shrewd Commander fighting it's case with the Alliance leadership, and so while resource acquisition had never been easy, at least the people you were trying to requisition from had enough military understanding to realise why such supplies were essential. Vansen had missed out on the truly old days of the Rebellion, back in the days before and after Yavin and Alderaan, where the Alliance had existed by the skin of it's teeth and the seat of it's pants. The high likelihood of death or capture and torture aside, he regretted not having part of that kind of rebellion: he wondered how different his current role would be if he had been part of the cause back then.

"Before you venture too far into politics," Vansen offered, trying to sound as sage as he could muster, "You might want to acquaint yourself with Senator Tukphen as well. The Minister of Supply used to be an Admiral himself: he understands what's important, and he has a knack for rattling cages until the resources he needs fall out. This command is important enough that if you can set up a line of communications, you might be able to push things through by contacting him directly, rather than getting bogged down in the official channels."

[Kes Akiena]

Kes gave a funny look to the Admiral as a slow-forming cheshire grin flashed across his features before vanishing into an expression of feigned confusion.

"Who said anything about official channels?"

And before the Admiral could respond, Kes' hand reached out to keep the lift doors from closing. With the Admiral and his droid on the lift, and Kes still standing outside, it made a clean and hasty exit that much easier.

"You'll find her at the Corellian WaffleHut on Concourse E. I told her to meet me there for breakfast, but if you show up instead I think that'll be ok."

A flashed smile, a casual salute, and Kes stepped back, allowing the doors to the lift to shut.

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen watched with a mixture of disbelief and good natured scowling as the Commander executed a beautiful strategic manoeuvre, gracefully extracting himself from the burden of escorting the Admiral around the station. It was insubordination, elegantly wrapped in a concealing layer of benevolence.

No wonder the Empire was so pissed off, Vansen thought to himself with a chuckle. It explained a lot of the other reports he'd glanced over as well, talk of Akiena as enigmatic and cryptic, playing his cards a little too close to his chest for some people's liking. If Vansen were to guess, he'd imagine it was an old Rebellion habit that was having a hard time dying. No doubt he'd break it in due time; or someone would break him of it on everyone else's behalf.

Still, Vansen mused, as the turbolift whisked him off to some other area of the station, he did at least have good taste in breakfast food. That scored back a few points. What was it he had said? Concourse E?

The Admiral's gaze shifted to his droid companion. "You might as well take some time to go visit your companion, ADAR," he grunted. "I'm sure I can find my way to breakfast on my own, and I'll comm if I need you."

[ADAR]

ADAR, standing like some sentinal at Admiral Tyree's side, angled his head to look down at the Admiral.

Are you certain? I would be remiss in my duties if I left you to your own devices for too long.

It really was a bit too tempting, and the Lupine construct found a certain amount of strange operational pleasure at needling away at the Admiral.

[Vansen Tyree]

"So your duties include being a chaperone while I go for breakfast?" Vansen challenged, his eye narrowing as if he were trying to focus the intensity of his scowl for greater effect. "Are you programmed to escort me to the 'fresher and wipe my ass for me as well?"

Programmed. That was the damned problem. Sophisticated as ADAR was, and as alive as he sometimes seemed, the steel-plated bastard was ultimately a slave to his base programming, to the priorities and stipulations that had been coded into his software. True, he could run calculations and yield statistical probabilities, and for some reason his personality matrix was wired to be abrasive and insulting at times, but he didn't really choose to be that, not in a conventional way. Droids didn't have a genuine sense of free will: just the very elaborate illusion thereof.

Vansen let out a sigh. "I am about to sit, eat food, and make small talk; after which I am probably going to stroll around the station scowling at people, and seeing how flustered I can make people when they notice my rank. I have nothing formally scheduled for the next few hours - so really, all you'd be doing is utilising this dead time in my schedule in the most efficient way possible."

He paused, letting that notion process before he added the last nudge that he hoped would tip it over the edge and earn him an hour or so of peace. "I can make it an order, if it makes you feel any better."

[ADAR]

ADAR loomed over the Admiral, and utilized his height to as much a degree as he could.

There is no need for orders, Admiral. I'm no soldier.

The droid lifted his single ocular eye away from Vansen and set himself to staring straight ahead.

Just... an old droid.

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

* * *


Where was he?!

Slender fingers drummed atop the cheap, speckled top of a table that she hadn't been sure would be safe to sit at. The waitress had offered to sit her at the rather conspicuous bar, but the Lupine had passed on that particular seating arrangement, and decided on a booth. She sat, like some Suka fish that'd managed to find itself flung out of water and atop a high-scaling kingwood tree.

"You alone then, Hun? Or you got someone meetin' you?"

The waitress had a fairly thick accent, but it was a strange, lilt that seemed to give off a sweet nature. Idly, s'Il wondered if it was something done on purpose. Looking up as she lowered herself to sit, she shook her head.

"Not alone. I am meeting someone."

"Gotcha." The woman laid down two menus; one in front of s'Il, and the other at the other side of the table. "You want me to bring you a drink?"

"Water."

"Sure thing, Ma'am."

And like that, the waitress was off, moving to a spot towards the back of the open kitchen area where other waitresses and cooks bustled about. s'Il watched with a small bit of interest, but it wasn't long before her eye wandered away, toward the establishment's doorway.

Why Kes had wanted to meet here, she had no idea. The man seemed to take a particular delight in the absurd, and asking that she meet him at some... waffle? place? She vaguely remembered him once, long ago, going on about some sort of morning meal restaurant that he particularly enjoyed, and that it had something to do with flat, squared cakes. The idea of it all had only made her much younger self brush him off with a roll of her eye and a wave of her hand.

And now, here she was. Having allowing him to dictate the terms of their meal. It had landed her at a place that made waffles.

Her waitress returned with a large, plastic cup full of crushed ice and water, dropping a single paper-wrapped straw alongside before murmuring that she'd be back presently.

With an almost forlorn look, the Lupine brushed the straw to the side as she carefully slid the cup closer. Even so her eye went back up to the door and the lack of Kes Akiena coming through it.

She made a face, then looked back down to her water before turning her attention to the laminated menu.

This... this is... food??

[Vansen Tyree]

Sometimes, Vansen wondered if he'd be better off packing a change of clothes on visits like this; a casual jacket, at the very least. In the corridors of a starship, or of a proper military facility, he enjoyed the way that people reacted to him, uniformed, grizzled, and eyepatched, striding down the hallways with military precision. He was an Admiral, and if he wasn't attracting attention from the crewmen and yeomen and cadets, he was doing it wrong. But here? This concourse was more like a civilian street, and while officers no doubt strode through here all the time without too much notice, his aura of authority and that magnetic field of intrigue that drew in everyone's attention couldn't be turned off. Ordinarily he wouldn't care. Ordinarily he'd just straighten his back, square his shoulders, and march through like he was on his way to war.

Walking to a waffle store didn't really seem to fit that profile.

Still, in the end he did it anyway, hands clasping themselves behind his back as the crowd obligingly parted, people shuffling themselves out of the way of the slow moving but clearly on-course officer with all the extra shiny bits on his uniform. He offered a few nods here and there, a few startled Alliance soldiers in and out of uniform, a little caught off guard by the presence of such a high ranking member of the military in this sector of the concourse in particular. What was he doing? Where was he going?

He had half a mind to duck into the Cizerack tea place, just to give them something to talk about.

Finally, he found himself at his instructed destination, a place he identified by the somewhat questionable logo: a fairly typical depiction of the Five Brothers, the five key planets of the Corellian system; except the planets had been exchanged for waffles, butter, bacon, and eggs. Not the classiest of places by any stretch, but certainly one of the more humanocentric eateries that he'd seen on his little stroll through the station. Apparently the non-Cizerack worlds hadn't been quite so quick to swarm in and buy up shop space. They would in time, though. Jovan had already begun to prove itself tactically and diplomatically; proving itself commercially was only a matter of time.

Vansen's gaze scanned the tables; the lone woman he was looking for was hard to spot. An involuntary smile tried to form; he deepened his scowl, holding it at bay.

"Well, well, well," he spoke out, his voice loud enough to draw plenty of attention to himself. "Look what the wolf dragged in."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

There was no mistaking that voice. It had been etched into her memory many, many years ago. Partly by her own choice, but mostly because of the man himself. There really was no forgetting the timbre he spoke with, and though it'd taken on a more gravelly intonation over the years that separated them, there was still absolutely no forgetting it. Perhaps that was a good thing?

But, it also brought up another very pressing question, and the Lupine snapped her head up to look at Admiral Vansen Tyree. Like him, she too still wore her own uniform. It was something that had become comforting to her. Something that defined and gave purpose.

Of course, even despite their difference in rank, s'Il merely furrowed her brow in slight confusion as she leaned back in her cushioned seat. She'd not seen him since... well, since a few days after her trial. And well, not much had been said between them even then. Oh, she'd received messages and orders from him, as well one personal communique that was a rambling affair... on both their parts, really; as she had replied in kind. There was no real baring of any souls. No, such an action as that would have to be done face to face. Though not in some barely passable 'restaurant. It was a desperate hope on her part.

And so she remained sitting. She blinked, then leaned a small bit to the side, her eye looking past Vansen.

When it became apparent that Kes was nowhere to be seen, the Lupine finally sighed. Her gaze tracked back up to meet the Admiral's, and each of their eyes locked.

The other patrons lost interest, and presently went back to their own food and conversations.

Finally, s'Il spoke.

"That redheaded devil-man has a terrible sense of humor, sending you in his place."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen let out a half-humoured grunt of laughter.

"He has a terrible sense of something, that's for sure. Perhaps I should have him reassigned - send him some place sunny, to wreak havoc with that complexion of his."

He let the sentiment hang on the air for a moment, but he couldn't sustain it; couldn't maintain the illusion that this was a casual meeting, that this was back on the Challenger, or back further still in the Clone Wars. Things had changed. Complications. Gravitational anomalies that made navigation treacherous. Didn't help that they were both too stubborn to really open up about it, regardless of how mutually necessary it was. Worse, social convention didn't even offer any platitudes for a situation like this. How are you? How are you been? How's resurrection treating you? Still feeling secretly evil?

But then platitudes hardly suited the two of them. Neither did small talk. There was a universal language that always worked between them however, regardless of their respective moods.

"You just going to sit there staring at me, or are you going to invite me to sit down before my hips give out?"

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

Her eye remained angled up as she digested his words.

Finally, the Lupine let out a sigh of feigned annoyance as she looked back down to her glass of water and the two laminated menus laying on the table.

"Waiting for invitations was never really your strong suit, and I've a suspicion that things are still that way."

Despite it all, a fleeting smirk turned up one corner of her lips, but only for the barest fraction of a second. One hand came up to gesture at the expanse of the prefabricated tabletop.

"It's a wonder you've not fallen apart by now."

Even as he moved to occupy the cushioned booth seat across from her, she continued on.

"I received your last comm," a single eyebrow rose as she stared at him, "... it was... an interesting read. A bit rambling for my taste."

[Vansen Tyree]

A bit rambling. Of course it was. How else was a text-only conversation between people as guarded and emotionally closed off as Loklorien s'Ilancy and Vansen Tyree supposed to go? How were you supposed to remind an old friend that you were there if she needed, how were supposed to address the uxibeast in the room when your entire relationship was built on barbs, on shared pessimism, on dismissive grunts every time ordinary people would have brought their feelings out to play? And how was Vansen, as old and as broken and as stubborn as he was, supposed to wrap his head around notions as complex and nuanced as the Force? There'd been a time long ago when he'd been curious about such things. You wouldn't understand, a young Padawan s'Ilancy had dismissed, and that was the end of it. She'd been right. He still didn't.

But none of that could be said. Not to her. Not by him. His oldest friend in the galaxy, his closest approximation of family, and he was too much himself - too much the gruff and scowling persona he had crafted for himself - to show the kind of caring that Loklorien was owed.

Instead, all he did was shrug.

"Too many holomails from Senators and bureaucrats, I suppose," he dismissed casually, picking up one of the laminated menus and scanning his way across the potential options. "Must be picking up some bad habits."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

"Bad habits," she repeated in a low voice.

A myriad of retorts filled her thoughts. Precise jabs that would've been normal for the two of them. Their shared past had been adversarial yet impossibly intimate. It bred a strange relationship that seemed to transcend everything proper and conventional. She held back anything she might've wished to respond with, instead choosing to watch him in silence. Beneath the lines of age, she could see the younger man he had once been. The consistently curt and severe officer that had somehow taken her past the boundaries of a perception of the galaxy that she'd once considered fixed and impassable. The stubborn fire still burned in his eye. Briefly she wondered if he saw the same in hers.

She broke away to look at her glass of water, and the menu she held was let go to fall to the table.

He spoke of 'bad habits', and the elder Lupine had to wonder if there was an unintentionally deeper meaning.

"I wish to break a few of those bad habits," she finally got out, lifting her eye back up to his.

"Well, at least on my end."

[Vansen Tyree]

Eyes were the windows of the soul. Vansen remembered reading that once, though he couldn't quite recall where. Some story from his youth, some adage, some poem; it didn't really matter. It was easy to think that an eye patch, or a scar carving it's way through milky white would somehow obscure that; half the eyes, half the view of the soul. It should have made the two of them guarded. Mysterious. Harder to read.

It didn't.

Perhaps they were lenses of the soul, or something to that effect. Not split between two paths, everything shone brighter and clearer. The meaning, the implication of something beyond their usual exchanges, was plain for Vansen to see. Even so, he couldn't help the response that tumbled from his lips. More bad habits.

"I'm guessing we're not talking about you shedding on the sofa."

A hollow laugh, barely more than a breath, ghosted out on the back of those words. His gaze tumbled from Loklorien's, a frown in it's wake, his thoughts wrestling over how to force genuine sentiment past guards and barriers so old that they had rusted over. He fought to bring his vision back to hers, still relying on the unspoken layers beneath his words as if he were leaning on a crutch.

"I'm glad you're okay, Lorien."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

Lorien.

A name that she'd not heard uttered for nearly a lifetime's worth of years. It caught her off guard in less than a second, and she leaned back in her seat as if struck. She blinked. Her mouth opened, yet no sound came out.

A moment later she snapped her mouth shut.

Lorien.

Her eyes closed then. Shoulders slumping somewhat, she seemed to deflate in a strange sense of contentedness. it was a strange show of emotion to be sure, but it was comforting to hear that old name. It smoothed over so many jagged defenses in her outward behaviors.

And finally she looked up, locking her eye with his.

"I'm not very hungry," she admitted, gently ticking the menu with a fingertip.

And even though - according to the station's official time - it was a few hours before the noon bell, she knew exactly what she wanted. The old glimmer shone in her single eye. It was a look that she had only ever given to Vansen Tyree.

"I'd much rather like a drink."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen was hungry. Or at least, it felt as if he was. These days he wasn't sure how much was genuine hunger, how much was hyperspace lag, and how much was his body craving something more substantial and satisfying than the military rations and dietary restrictions that the Alliance Navy and Medical Corps had subjected him to for the good of his health and professional functionality.

A slight rumble in his stomach would not stand in the way of Vansen Tyree and a quest for a drink, however.

With meticulous and almost ceremonial care, Vansen began to unfasten the jacket of his uniform, letting the dark fabric fall open to expose the layered undershirts beneath. More care removed the Admiral insignia, stowing them out of view in a convenient pocket. Last came the cuffs, unfastened before being shoved up past his elbows. As close to casual, and as far from Admiral Tyree as it was possible to get, given the circumstances.

When Vansen rose back to his feet, he stood a little taller; not through deliberate effort, but due to the lack of a tiny fraction of the weight that usually pressed down upon his shoulders. He fixed Lorien with an incredulous look.

"Get your ass up off that seat then, pup," he grunted, far less scowl and far more good nature in his voice than their usually was, as if a decade or so had managed to fade away from it in the last few seconds. "There's bound to be a place on this station that will sell us booze somewhere."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

"Of that I have no doubts."

For her part, the Lupine slid out of her seat and rose to stand. The waitress returned with a concerned look that s'Il waved away.

"We've an unexpected engagement that has come up," came the effort in soothing over lost business.

"Perhaps another time, yes?"

Of course, Darlin'," came the drawled reply. The woman smiled sweetly as she gathered the unused menus.

And as the two stepped out onto the concourse proper, s'Il could not help the old habit. Her left arm snaked up and out to loop itself around Vansen's own arm.

"I have found a particular fondness for strong drink and old company," she couldn't help the teasing tone in her voice as they set off.

[Vansen Tyree]

Whereas Taataani is more a fan of old drink and strong company.

Vansen wasn't sure why Senator Meorrrei of all people chose that moment to wander into his thoughts; he pushed it aside and buried it in the corner of his mind, like a feline burying their shame in the yard.

"Well, given how much of an abundance of old you've got in that second half -" he offered with a chuckle, leading their way out into the flow of pedestrians. He wasn't entirely sure why he was the one leading the way, Lorien hooked onto his arm instead of dragging him along by it; but he supposed that was the way it was supposed to work with the two of them. He was the pilot; she was the padawan puking up her guts in the gunner's seat. So much had changed since those halcyon days; and yet so much hadn't. Besides, it was only a matter of walking. Enough strides, and they'd find alcohol eventually.

"- I suppose we'd better make sure to get plenty of the former in you to balance it out."

A quiet moment passed, but not an empty one; an enjoyable one, between two old friends perfectly content with each other's company.

"So how is she?"

It was supposed to come out casual, but there was more curiosity than he would have expected in it. It was small talk, true, but it was of an inevitable form; and if there were to be discussions of anything more serious than ships and mild grumbling, Vansen would need a glass in his hand before they got to it.

"That ship of yours, the -" For a moment, he considered trying to pronounce the name. He decided against it. "- creatively appropriated Lupine one."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

"He," she corrected with a smile.

She kept her eyes ahead as they wove through the crowds milling about.

"And he is doing just fine. A bit rough around the edges and still getting his bearings, but nothing too unexpected."

Before them loomed a faint glowing sign, almost lost between the much brighter and far more garish signage of surrounding Cizerack establishments. And the closer they drew, the easier it became for the Lupine to see that it was nothing more than a small wall-mounted spot light shining on a simple, wood-carved placard.

Rancor's Head Tavern.

Her eye went from the sign to the darkened entryway, and she finally turned her gaze to Vansen.

"Yes?"

[Vansen Tyree]

He?

Vansen was not an entirely inflexible man, but he was a naval officer from Rendili, and that brought with it a certain mindset. Many of the oddities that had infected Republic, Imperial, and Alliance navy tradition had come from Rendili originally. Referring to a ship's commander as Captain, regardless of what their rank was. Referring to a SpecForce Captain as Major, so that only the commanding officer got to be called Captain. Calling it a bo'sun rather than a boatswain. The fact that starships were she.

True, his experiences with the Cizerack and the Hapans had taught him to accept that certain cultures viewed certain things a different way; but he'd always thought of Loklorien s'Ilancy as being on his side of that line. She was part of his distant past, and Jedi or not, they walked in the same sort of direction a lot of the time. That her ship was he, that she wasn't the fellow human she outwardly appeared to be, was something that Vansen often found himself needing to be reminded of.

As Lorien gestured towards the sign, Vansen shrugged; not so much indifferent as simply lacking in information. It had been years since he'd sought out a proper bar for any reason. Once you hit Captain, your ability to socialise largely ended. Your barman was a desk drawer; your drinks were all served from bottles in doubles and singles. True, the Alliance played fast and loose with such things; had Vansen wandered down to the pilot's lounge, or if he'd snuck out of his offices on Bothawui to find something on one of the back streets, no one would have raised an eyebrow at his rank, especially not if he ordered them not to with the right kind of chuckle. But it wasn't just the flourishes on his uniform; it was the white of his hair, and the canyon-deep wrinkles that chipped away at the edges of his features. No matter what efforts he took to avoid his rank, he'd still have been an old man drinking alone.

Not today though, at least.

"After you," Vansen insisted, gesturing towards the door. More of those Rendili traditions; but this time he couldn't resist a gentle jab of humour to back it up. "The Clone Wars were a while ago, but I'm not old enough yet to have forgotten that you always let the lady with the lightsaber go first."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

A fleeting smile, and s'Il disengaged from his arm to lead the way inside.

The interior of The Rancor's Head Tavern was a dark affair, as the proprietors obviously favored a less illuminated environment. It was surprisingly enjoyable, and easier on the eyes than some garish, brightly-lit establishment. Some of the tables and booths were taken, populated by men and women nursing their drinks of choice, and...

She gave her companion a slight nudge as they navigated their way to a back booth.

"They have food."

It was her roundabout way of saying that yes, she'd heard his stomach protest earlier.

An Iridonian strolled over, tossing two thin coasters on the table.

"What'cha want."

Blinking, s'Il looked from their half-interested server to Vansen, then back up again.

"Two bourbons, to start."

"Any food? We got fries or rings. Or nuna wings if you really feel like bothering the cook."

At that she set her eye squarely on Vansen, curious as to what he'd possibly ask for from the more than limited menu.

[Vansen Tyree]

Rings? Rings of what?

Vansen wasn't entirely sure why Lorien was looking at him, as if he were somehow an expert on the cuisine in this sort of establishment. The last time he'd found himself in a bar like this sincerely looking for food, there'd still been a Supreme Chancellor, and he'd still had enough binocular depth perception to snack on the contents of a bowl without needing to concentrate on it too hard. Since the Empire onwards, most of his social drinking had happened at the nearest Officers' Mess, and as best he could remember, they didn't even have a fryer, let alone the capacity to serve up plates of fried goods on a whim.

He tried to fathom what Lorien might order in this situation. The meat in those nuna wings was probably preferable, right? It occurred to him that he'd never really paid all that much attention to his Lupine friend's dietary requirements. He was a little ashamed of that, now he thought about it, and wondered how much else about Lorien he simply didn't know, didn't remember, or hadn't paid attention to.

"Some of each," he replied with a slight shrug, tugging his transaction card out of his pocket and handing it across to the Iridonian. "And bring the rest of the bottle along with that bourbon."

His gaze turned back to Lorien, his shrug repeated with more emphasis this time. "If we don't finish it, it's just more for the drawer in my desk."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

"A pragmatist," came her low-voiced assessment.

Toying with the coaster, s'Il gave a look at him from over the tops of her eyes, a mismatched gaze that mirrored his own. Though, she supposed that she got the better end of the deal in the grand scheme of things. Without access to any adequate medical facilities, there'd been no move to completely remove her eye; instead, the medics who attached themselves to the Rebellion in those early days had left it in. Though, perhaps it was for the better. It had quasi-healed in a strange way, owing to her biology, and she could still 'see' through it in a fashion, though it was only through the Force. It gave her a strange pseudo-sense of depth perception, even if it took a fair enough amount of time to adjust to. If it had been removed, and an eyepatch fitted in its' place, she wasn't sure how her body would've reacted.

"There are some days," she started slowly, choosing her words carefully as she leaned back in her seat. A hand came up to undo the top clasp of her own uniform jacket.

"... that I wonder how so much time passed since the Clone Wars. I wonder how the years escaped me so quickly."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen let out a small, humourless breath of laughter.

"I was aware of every day that passed between then and now," he countered, a quiet roughness grating at the edge of his voice. He didn't meet Lorien's gaze; didn't feel worthy of it. "What plagues me is how it took me so long to come to my senses. I knew what the Empire was right from the start, but I was too wrapped up in victory, then duty, then obligation to see it. Not until Alderaan. Not until the end of the Senate. Not until -"

His voice trailed off. There was one name in particular that wielded the biggest hammer of guilt; that hit him the hardest in moments such as this. Anpher Inirial. His mentor. His friend. His Captain, when Lorien had first known him. Vaporised along with his family like all the rest of Alderaan, save for a handful of debris fragments like Adonis and Carré. It had taken that act, that impact, to finally drive him from Imperial service. But not to the Rebellion. Oh, no: instead it had driven him into retirement. The Force and his enemies had conspired to punish him for that: the cost of an eye for what he had failed to see.

It had not been until after Endor, not until the Alliance's losses had made them truly desperate that Vansen took up arms. "I'm not sure why I'm here," the train of thought continued aloud, his gaze finally finding the Jedi. "Am I really here to help save the galaxy, or is this all just the futile efforts of an old man trying too late to make amends for what he should have done a long time ago?"

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

She watched him, watched his facial triggers and ticks as he spoke.

"We are here... "

What exactly could she say to that? Vansen Tyree had the infuriating ability to stump her on many things, but perhaps it was for the better. It drove her to look deeper and further into things that she would've never given a second thought to. Zem challenged her as well, pushing her and drawing out the carefully guarded emotions that she so often kept under lock and key.

But Vansen had truly been the first to tear away the exterior she'd put forward. So long ago, he had been the one to show her that there was so much more to life. Even despite his particular delight in retelling the story of her disastrous Y-Wing sortie, she still saw him in a light that very few others did. And even though he put forth just the same hardened shell that she herself did, she was more than aware of what was beneath; just as he was equally knowledgeable of her own inner workings.

Finally, she went on.

"All of us - you and I - everyone; we're here because we have to be."

She offered a faint smile. It tugged rebelliously at the corners of her lips, and as the server returned with two glasses and the bottle of bourbon, she nodded in thanks.

"Who else could do what we do?"

[Vansen Tyree]

Another humourless laugh.

"Of course," he muttered, his voice laced with cynicism. "Who else could sit in a meeting room all day, listening to politicians bicker about the petty minutiae of matters that don't -"

He trailed off into a sigh, reaching for his glass and gazing doen at it idly, fingers slowly rotating it back and forth. Perhaps this was why he was still here, still enduring: enough alcohol in his blood stream to keep him pickled and preserved. If what he did was so vital, if the things only he could do were so essential to the Alliance, thenwhy was he here? Why was he wrapped inside an Admiral's uniform, trappedbehind a desk, doing everything but what Lorien suggested was his exclusive capability? Anyone could be a tedious bureaucrat - so why did he need to be?

He knew the answer that the brass had given. He'd commanded the Liberation of Bothawui, so the Bothans trusted him. He'd commanded the Wheel, and presided over Rogue Squadron, so the military trusted him. He'd served with the Republic, so the old guard and the traditionalists trusted him. He had a distinguished Imperial career, one that he hadn't defected from; so the Imperial worlds trusted him too, to a point. He was old, too; something many of the Alliance races associated with wisdom and leadership; a far better option than some of the younger leaders who'd made a name for themselves in the Galactic Civil War. He was a confluence of conveniences. The Alliance had needed an Admiral to defend the capital, and Vansen Tyree was the best option to piss off as few people as possible.

Ironic really: Vansen had made a career out of bring respected, but not necessarily liked; now his twilight years disrespected his service and skills in the interests of popularity.

He raised the glass to his lips, mumbling the completion of his sentiment before he drank.

"- matter."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

She listened quietly, lifting her own glass and taking off a small level as his words filled the air around them. He sounded... defeated? It was so unlike the man she had known in her youth, and to many degrees she was sure that her demeanor now was a sharp contrast to what she herself had once been, but still. Hope sprang eternal, as Zem had so often said to her. And the tinges of his emotions swam around him like hungry amano-sharks, circling in an ever-familiar predatory fashion.

"- matter."

She heard the word, watching him sip from his own drink. He returned the glass once more to its' coaster.

It was as he looked back up to meet her eye that she leaned forward, over the table. An arm snaked out, delivering a hard-but-not-really-hard open-palmed slap to the side of his face. He needed to wake up. To stop wallowing in his self-pity. She had been in his same circumstances as well, despondent at the things she'd done as Darth Acera. As the half-being of Loklorien s'Ilancy. She had been a creature of evil and hate. Of ambition and rage. It had been a difficult thing to come to grips with. How did one reconcile with the fact that they had killed children?

"Pull yourself together, Van-droid," came the quiet order as she once again retreated to her side of the table. Her use of the name that Captain Inirial had once introduced him as was deliberate.

[Vansen Tyree]

The expression in Vansen's eye began as startled, but quickly morphed into anger; and then to something else. He wasn't sure what he'd been looking for, or hoping for - a little Jedi reassurance or wisdom maybe - but he wasn't going to get it. Not from Loklorien s'Ilancy. For all their similarities, for all the ways that the decades had made them more and more the same, they were still two very different people. Since the very beginning, Lorien had been the one without strings, the one whose Jedi authority made her subject to no one but her Jedi masters all the way back on Coruscant. Vansen had always been the one shackled by duty, by regulations, by the uniform.

Even now, three decades on, Vansen's obligations held him back; while s'Ilancy was mostly free to act. She had been twisted, manipulated, corrupted in ways that Vansen could not even begin to imagine; but at least any guilt or regret she felt was over things she had done, and things she had suffered. Vsnden's guilt wasn't even for things he hadn't done: it was for things he couldn't have done. How much different would things have been if he'd ben able to act, to intervene sooner and in a more meaningful way? What could he have thwarted? What could he have saved and spared Lorien from?

Those same shackles even withheld him from fully indulging his grief. It was unbecoming of a man of his station. Even his oldest friend wasn't prepared to indulge him.

He drained his glass in a single motion, reaching for the bottle to recharge another. His gaze fell away from her completely, a rough defensive edge grating away at the edge of his voice. "Don't do that again," he grunted, throwing another mouthful down his throat.

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

"Or what," she stared him down, despite his unwillingness to meet her gaze, "... you'll discipline me? Motion for a court martial?"

There was a pause before she went on, consumed by the act of another drink from her bourbon.

"Vansen Tyree, We've been around the block enough times. I've seen you at your most vulnerable, and you have likewise seen me in the very same light."

No more were they Alliance officers. No more were they the Republic naval officer and Jedi. No more were they anything but what they were meant to be. They existed now, here, in a vacuum that so few times they had found themselves existing within. And in that moment, he looked exactly as he had the very first time that they'd met. That same spark she'd come to know so well in both of his eyes still radiated from the one he had left. She only hoped that he saw the same in hers.

One hand reached out then, palm up and inviting.

"I'm your friend before all else. Allow me that much, at least."

[Vansen Tyree]

"And what?" he countered, his razor-edged voice becoming a growl. "As my friend, you think you're just gonna knock some sense into me, and all will be well?"

Balanced against the edge of the table, Vansen felt the laminated faux wood begin to dig into his wrists, even as the tendons tensed, gnarled skin tightening across his knuckles as his hands clenched themselves into fists. His eye found hers, a black hole of repressed and hidden emotion swirling behind it, transcended beyond sorrow, self loathing, and self pity into simple surrendered despair. Countless wars, countless battles, so much loss and destruction witnessed across his long life, and only now did Vansen seem as if he had finally been defeated; as if his will had finally been broken.

"I am old, Lorien. There's no Force magic or Lupine DNA flowing through my veins to keep me going. My body is failing, a little more each day; there's a whole lot of years behind me, and they are finally catching up. I have dedicated my life to the military; to the service. Every choice I ever made, I chose the uniform. Everything I was, everything that defined who I am for all these years; they're memories. They're a man I can never be again."

His jaw clenched, muscles tending visibly as he fought out more words.

"What do I have to show for that? What reward do I have for all that sacrifice? Admiral stars, and a desk. Aches and scars. A wasted life. An empty legacy. An empty heart. All I am is a handful of sand, Lorien; and as soon as the galaxy loosens it's grip on me, there'll be no fading into the Force, no continuation of the family name, no cause for any but the handful who outlive me to remember who I am or what I have done."

"Dust on the wind." Those solemn words were rewarded with another drink. "That's all I'll be."

[Loklorien s'Ilancy]

She stared at him, taking in each word he spoke. Was she hoping for more? Perhaps. But, on the other side of that credit chit, perhaps not.

He'd always been no-nonsense, and brutally honest. What could possibly make him any different now?

s'Il let out a long breath, her lips closing in a tight line as she finally turned away. Now it was she who could not meet his gaze.

"That's all you will be," she finally countered, "... unless your will decides otherwise."

[Vansen Tyree]

His will.

He nodded, more in acknowledgement of her expected response than anything resembling agreement. Trust a Jedi to say something like that. It was all well and good when your will had the ultimate power in the universe at it's beck and call, pumping you full of vitality and renewed strength. He'd seen what General Yoda had done with it, back in the Clone Wars: so frail and hunched, literal centuries of life weighing down on him, except for when the Force flowed through him. Vansen would give just about anything for a little fraction of that about now; the capacity to toss his aged bones aside and start cartwheeling across enemy troop formations like a hyperactive Gungan. But it didn't work that way for mere mortals. Folks like him had to struggle around with their weary muscles and missing eyes without the Force there to help prop them up and compensate.

"My will -"

It was a mirthless chuckle that tumbled out this time, a smile and a shaking head at the absurdity of it all. Mind over matter. Force of will. Sentimental, spiritual nonsense. It didn't make a damned difference; not to someone like him. He trusted in tangibles. He trusted in what had earned that trust. He trusted in the tried and tested technology of his starships. He trusted in the dependable, battle-hardened resilience of his crew. He used to trust in his superiors, in their motives and their strategies; but lately that had begun to waver, now that he'd witnessed the way things looked once you got up close.

"- is tired, Lorien."

He downed the last of another drink, letting the glass loiter in the air in front of him, watching as the residual drips clung to the inner surface, twisting the light that shone through them. He contemplated another, but even the will for that had gone; a sudden outrushing of anger like atmosphere through a hull breach, leaving nothing but airless, empty silence in it's wake. The glass inverted, placed rim down against the table.

"Just like the rest of me."

As Vansen rose to his feet, he couldn't have looked older if he'd tried. His bones creaked with every motion, his shoulders slumped even more deeply than they usually did. His fingers fumbled his sleeves back to the way they should be, a half-hearted effort to restore himself to Admiral Tyree; but his heart wasn't really in it. "You'll have to excuse me, Captain," he muttered, already free of the table, words only offered as a feeble afterthought. "I have duties to attend to."