Returning Home / Scars

[Ceto Rübezahl]

Loronar - 10 ABY

Supposedly, it was good to be home. Such was a sentiment that Ceto had never fully been able to experience for himself. For better and worse, Ceto had enjoyed and endured the benefits of being born into the Rübezahl family, whose wealth and influence spanned and scattered across several worlds. Ceto for the most part had grown up on Coruscant, an infant accessory gripping the hand of his Galactic Senator father. Rare were Ceto's visits to his father's constituency on Byblos, and rarer still were the visits to the ancestral Rübezahl homestead on Loronar. It was a place that in his youth, Ceto recognised only as the backdrop of holostills, and in faint recollections of time spent with half-remembered grandparents. Perhaps those same grandparents were the reason that his father Ophion avoided the world so consistently; or perhaps it was merely a symptom of Ophion's political career, his time increasingly devoted to the Senate.

Regardless, it was a series of Coruscant apartments that came to mind whenever Ceto thought of his childhood home, a trend that had continued when his acting career had begun to flourish. Those years were a blur, as were his first as an officer within COMPNOR, migrating from assignment to assignment, his role and dedication increasing in significance the cooler the embers of his prior career became. It was not until Bothawui that Ceto had lingered for long, and that Moffhood had been stripped away by the Rebel Alliance. Now, home was ostensibly the Greater Javin, but that trifold territory cast a wide net: should he make his home on coreward Javin, on centrally-located Gerrenthum, on the Figg-dominated Isde Naha; or should he attempt to avoid preference to any of the prior sector capitals, putting down roots on Bespin where his work gentrifying the Greater Javin had already begun?

Whatever the correct choice, at least the dilemma was consistent. Ceto Rübezahl was a man with too many homes, and none.

Ceto resented the quiet, dimly lit interior of the Lambda shuttle for giving him time alone with such thoughts. The peace was a welcome reprieve from the thinly veiled interrogation conducted by the Intelligence Officers and Inquisitors - if such a thing even existed; things had begun to change, it seemed, during his brief time as an Alliance prisoner of war - who had debriefed him. Their questions had been as much about the shared encounter by the Warspite and Novgorod with a mysteriouus incursion of technological reptilians from beyond known space. Rather than seeking actionable intelligence however, his questioners were far more interested in Rübezahl's perceived misdeeds or disloyalty in allying with the Rebels, and in offering himself as a more valuable prisoner of war in exchange for the safe release of the other Imperial survivors. Whatever testimony those officers had provided had not been to the liking of Imperial Command; Ceto had been more than willing to set the record straight, to properly paint Captain Crichton Stark's death as the noble - albeit classified - sacrifice it was, and to remind his accusors of the harm that might be done by tarnishing the reputation of an Imperial official who had been so publicly exchanged as a gesture of cooperation with the new Alliance of Free Planets.

He felt the ground kiss the landing struts of the shuttle, and the quiet interior became quieter still as the repulsorlifts powered down. What lay beyond the ship was bound to be an inquisition of a different sort; one better intentioned, granted, but likely no less uncomfortable to discuss. Worse, somewhere beyond the durasteel, Ceto could already feel his father's disapproving eyes waiting for him, ears already hearing the veiled but unmistakable lecture that would convey his disappointment in Ceto yet again cementing the infamous slant of his reputation.

For a few moments, he gave serious thought to ordering the pilots to take off again, whisking him away before his reunion with his family could transpire. His hand scrubbed thoughtfully across the few days of growth that bristled across his chin. The Alliance had been more gracious captives than Imperial propoganda might have led one to believe, Ceto's hygene and comfort not suffering unduly during his time in incarceration; but since his release he had left his appearance unattended, not quite able to break the habit of preparing himself for the role his family would expect him to play. They would have seen the holos of the prisoner exchange, the press statement he had made soon after; it wouldn't matter. They would expect their son and brother to look the part of an ex-convict, and so he would. A deception, or subtle manipulation perhaps, but one that would make the ordeal far easier for all involved. It had been a lesson Ceto had learned slowly, and reluctantly, but with the Rübezahl family it was better to surrender and conform than to rebel.

The pressure seal hissed, and servos began to whir as the ramp slowly descended. Like a bandaid from a wound, Ceto forced himself to his feet, brushing a crease from the front of the Moff's uniform he seldom actually wore, and strode his way to the top of the egress ramp, making a show of squinting against the Loronar sun as he came into view.

[Sophia Rübezahl]

The Vantage Starbird swept across the lake with speed and grace. In the pale morning light, it blazed, like fire, and filled the valley with its powerful song. Sophia afforded the mirror a glance; the familiar white and grey-speckled walls of home were fast shrinking into the distance, until the harsh angles and groping towers merged into one tremulous blur. A weight was lifted from her shoulders, then, and, with the spectre of family exorcised from her thoughts, she sighed. It was a breath she had been holding for a long time.

Three months had passed since her unscheduled return to Loronar. It felt like the right thing to do, at the time. Reports of her brother's imprisonment had run dry, overshadowed by the buzz of the treaty, and muscled from the spotlight by propaganda pieces about the annexation of new worlds, and record employment figures in the Core. So, in the absence of information, she returned home. Like a nostalgic fool. Grandma made a fuss, of course, and followed her around the place, poised, like she was expecting her to spontaneously combust at any moment. She meant well, and was full of apologies for the state of her old bedroom, but no apology was needed. It was exactly as she remembered it, a cluttered fortress of memorabilia. Gods, how she hoarded things! Medals adorned the walls, trophies rose up like fortifications, and pictures, of old school friends, Grandma, Grandpa, Ceto, occupied every square inch of free space that wasn't taken up by running shoes, faded magazines, and holofilms.

"Your grandfather forgets you're 16 no more," she drifted between the detritus, and gave pained sigh, "Oh, what is this?"

She was holding up a navy blue hooded sweater, there were holes in the fabric, the sleeves were frayed, and there was a large emblem of a muscle-bound rancor, snarling, and flexing, above the words: Besker's Gym of the Beast. The way she regarded it, as if the rancor was about to spring to life and start dead-lifting her, tugged at the corners of Sophia's otherwise firmly-pressed lips.

"Oh, please," she said, disarming her of the sweater, "It's fine."

And it was, she decided. Granted, the step back in time was an unexpected side-effect of her return home, but not an unwelcome one. There, in the comfort of her old room, surrounded by memories of better times, she was perhaps able to start bridging the unknown expanses that separated her from her big brother. By the end of the first night, she found herself curled up, by the fire, nursing a cup of Cybele's sweet tea, in her Besker's Gym top.

In sentencing her to death, Grandma Cybele had given her a choice: execution by shared feelings, or drowning in sweet tea. In lieu of conversation, there were untouched cups, still full-to-the-brim, everywhere. Grandpa Aion, on the other hand, encouraged a more proactive approach to what he tactically referred to as 'dealing with things.' As much as she feared a protracted heart-to-heart with her overbearing grandmother, Sophia wasn't sure how she felt with having her imprisoned brother, and all of the consequent fallout, being summed up in such an anaemic way. Still, it was a small price to pay for the hiking, and the gardening, and the woodwork. Grandpa Aion was a titan of a man; tall, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, with a tremendous beard of thick chestnut hair, and a mouth like a cannon, who was so fiercely independent, that, if he could, he'd bury himself at his own funeral. Spending time with him turned the days into minutes. But it also reminded her of Ceto, and all the things they used to do together, whenever he visited.

When she wasn't roaming the hills with her grandfather, or sipping tea with her grandmother, Sophia had committed herself to a war of attrition with her father, her mother, and several prominent political figures, in a bid to determine what exactly had become of her brother. Yes, officially, he was a prisoner of war - a pawn to be moved about the board to leverage rebel schemes - and, as infuriating as that was, she couldn't help but feel there was another piece to the puzzle. As an archaeologist, it was in her nature to dig deeper. Her brother was Moff of the Greater Javin, so what in the galaxy was he doing all the way out in the Gordian Reach, when he was taken prisoner? And why has the Empire not spoken out against his capture? These were the questions she fired into the dark, to shed light upon the secrets lurking within, and, when her official enquiries resulted in nothing but silence and shadow, she stepped into the darkness, herself. And that was when her mother intervened.

"Sophia."

She appeared, fully-formed, in her crisp officer's uniform. The glare of the hologram bathed the study in cool blue, making her appear as if she had been sculpted from ice. A fitting look, all things considered. Sophia concluded the pleasantries in traditional fashion:

"Mother."

"I will keep this brief, for both our sake. The people you have been speaking to about your brother's incarceration. It has to stop. Now."

Sophia allowed for a flutter of confusion to pass over her features, before she spoke, "If you are referring to my conversations with Senators Ustin and Wakome-"

"You know I'm not. Don't play dumb. Otherwise-"

"Otherwise? Otherwise... what?" Her arms folded, mirroring her mother's image. There was a familiar chill to her voice, now, "I will find out if my own brother is dead or alive? I think I am entitled to that kind of information."

"You are entitled to what you already know. Ceto is alive, and he is a prisoner of war. If you continue to use your dubious methods to undermine Imperial security, there will be consequences. And the consequences for treason are high."

The look her mother gave her, made her shrink inside. She'd weathered it, before, but it was a difficult thing, to be openly disliked by a parent. Perhaps she had earned it. After all, being an inconvenience came to her so naturally. Still, Sophia held her ground. There was something there, between the lines, something her mother was not saying. Her expression turned to stone.

"You know where he is, don't you?"

"Sophia, I cannot protect you. This is your only warning."

"Mother, where is he?" She snapped, advancing a step.

"We're done."

"Tell me where-" The hologram flickered and died as Sophia passed through it, grasping at the air. "Naaarrgh!"

Sophia teased the steering wheel a fraction, guiding the speeder off the lake, and away from the hazy wall of stratoscrapers that spanned the horizon to the east. The swelling on her knuckles was gone, now. The cuts, too. And the tormenting spirit of her mother had manifested, cannibalising flesh and bone, and had taken up residence at the manor, like a real living person, along with her father, and his clone, Arion. They were dressed for the occasion - that is, to say, if the occasion was a board meeting, or a parade, or a funeral - looking their best for the photographers. After all, what was a family reunion, if it wasn't spun for ratings, or repackaged for public consumption?

Ceto would play his part well. Just the thought of it made her smile. She could almost hear him singing his song, hitting all the right notes: family, loyalty, patriotism, humility, sacrifice. And then he'd smile his winning smile, and crack a joke to put everyone at ease. Unless he didn't. Her smile faltered, and a fresh fear turned in her stomach. What if he had changed? Her Ceto. Anger spiked through her like lightning, driving the accelerator to the floor, under a heeled boot. The Starbird howled, and soared over hills, until it reached the private air field, where they were to meet, at last.

By the time she came to a stop, just short of a landing shuttle, her heart was racing with anxiety. The white headscarf was snapped off, and drifted onto the back seat, like a leaf on the wind. In her lemon summer dress, sunglasses, and boots, she appeared at strikings odds with the row of military men lined up beside the shuttle. Still, she'd attended, in her time, enough parades, charity balls, and fashion shows to understand that clothing was just armour for different types of battles.

As her identification was confirmed by one of the guards, she heard footsteps coming from the shuttle. She rose onto her toes and peeked over the officer's shoulder. Her heart leapt.

"Ceto!" she called out, weaving to catch a better glimpse of him. This was ridiculous. She shuffled sideways, to squeeze between the guards, but they held their ground, "May I just-? Would you mind-? Oh, move!"

With a huff, she shoved the officer aside, and barged through. The sunglasses came off, and went into the air, waving like a banner. She was going to be cool. That was the plan. She'd even prepared a snappy line, but all of that was forgotten, as she took off at a run, with two guards in tow.

"Ceto!" She beamed, "You're back!"

[Ceto Rübezahl]

The shuttle crew that had brought him to Loronar weren't members of his staff. Ceto could tell, because as he stepped from the bowels of the Lambda shuttle onto the ramp that led down the airfield, he felt the gravity shift ever so slightly beneath him. Pilots who knew him, pilots who he'd conditioned properly to his preferences, would have known to incrementally alter the artificial gravity during the flight over, giving him the opportunity to acclimate within the confines and privacy of the shuttle. Appearence was everything, as much as a Governor as it had been when his every action was propoganda and marketing for the Republic, Empire, and the Agency that treated him and his acting career as a tradeable commodity. To stumble or falter when disembarking a shuttle, particularly with so much pomp and circumstance waiting beyond, was simply unacceptable.

His frustration gave him pause however, the moment his mind recalled why his usual shuttle crew was unavailable. The Rebel Alliance - or the Alliance of Free Planets as it was now, he recalled - had been kind enough to provide him with a copy of the casualty reports from the Warspite. Of the names he'd poured over, both the living and the dead, there were so very few he actually recognised, fewer still that he could put anything more than a name to. The nature of his responsibilities as Governor, and his personal approach to executing them, had transformed the Warspite from a warship into little more than a glorified courier. His time was spent in meetings, negotiations, and functions, not micromanaging the patrol and enforcement of his Sector of space; there had not been the opportunity to become more familiar with the Warspite crewmen, and at the time there had hardly seemed to be the need. That would change in the future; or at least, he hoped it would. Those who had risked and given their lives deserved a better remembrance than his memory was capable of; but as he stood at the top of the ramp, he raised his hand to his chest, pressing through the fabric to feel the outline of the folded flimsi that listed them all, Imperial and Alliance alike.

His hand fell away the instant his eyes settled upon his sister, and he let his expression settle into an easy smile. He timed his paces down the ramp carefully, enough to reach the ground and a few strides further by the time she closed the distance between them, but not so soon that it would leave him standing and waiting. He caught the eyes of the officers attempting to chase Sophia down, a subtle gesture instructing them to abandon their efforts and return to their proper places; they did so, though reluctantly. One of the few satisfying perks of his station and status within the Empire: being surrounded by people who would do what you wanted them to, rather than being left to the devices of their own idiocy and lack of common sense.

Ceto opened his mouth to speak, but the impact of his sister colliding with him, arms flung eagerly around his neck, drove the air from his lungs. His eyes closed, cheek resting against the top of Sophia's head, and everything staged or calculated in his expression disolved into a warm and contented smile. His arms wrapped around her as well, matching the strength and tightness of her embrace exactly, not faltering even slightly until he felt her beginning to let go. His voice was soft and quiet, for her ears only but without the harshness of a whisper.

"I missed you too."

[Sophia Rübezahl]

It wasn't until after the collision, when Sophia had thrown herself at her big brother, like an overeager toddler, grasping for purchase before the fall, that she paused to consider the pain she might have caused. Just because looked every bit the respectable Moff, did not mean that, beneath that harsh and starchy fabric, he wasn't concealing a war zone of injuries sustained at the hands of the rebels. She winced at her foolishness, and, when he didn't flinch or reel from the impact, she squeezed him even tighter, in silent apology. Tears stung like fire behind closed eyes. She shut them out. Now was not the time to be a mess; it was time to be strong.

"Too right, you did," she said, with a sniff, peeling off him, at last. And, when she looked up, the pale morning light danced in her glossy eyes. That was when the punch landed, squarely on the bicep.

"Three months? Don't ever get captured again!" She was laughing, small, tinkling, tender laughter, like something fragile, about to break. No. Not here. An effort was made to compose herself, again, she cleared her throat, and brushed out the small creased she had made on his arm. "You... you really need a shave."

[Ceto Rübezahl]

"You think?"

Ceto tilted his head back, fingertips scratching through the bristled growth beneath his chin.

"I was thinking of growing it out, actually. With the Rebellion going all legitimate, the market for propaganda holomovies potentially just doubled, and someone at the prison suggested I'd make a pretty striking General Kenobi."

He let out a small chuckle to compete with Sophia's, gentle and warm, the way he almost used to. It seemed wrong to joke at a time like this, to take what was clearly an important and emotional moment and react to it with cheap lines and small talk. But this was how they always were. They focused on the superficial, on the simple and casual, trusting and hoping that the deeper significance that they both left unsaid was fully understood without needing to be addressed. Ceto didn't need Sophia to explain what her actions already conveyed: she was here, in defiance of the rest of their family, because a few extra minutes of waiting was unbearable, and because their time together was always worth more when it didn't need to be shared.

But there were other factors to be considered as well. While private relative to the rest of their family, their encounter was still taking place in a highly public venue. There were soldiers and officers. The holonews networks were no doubt lurking out there somewhere, ready to snag generic footage of Ceto's return home to pad out the hourly bulletins if the rest of the galaxy didn't provide a more interesting subject to fill the time. Sophia was allowed to make a scene, but Ceto had a certain persona to convey to the outside world, a reputation that needed to be maintained and reinforced if he was to return to his duties in the Greater Javin without losing everything he had built thus far.

He tried to adjust his features, modulating the intensity of his smile into a more practised and appropriate intensity. Beneath the mask however, his voice escaped in a warm but hushed tone. He felt the words forming on his lips almost by instinct, the realisation and familiarity threatening to compromise the restraint of his expression.

"It's good to finally be in from the cold, Agent Grimes -"

Ceto's voice shifted subtly, a few semitones deeper. His eyes gazed over Sophia's head, subtle enough that his observation wouldn't be noticed from a distance, but obvious enough for Sophia to recognise the familiar game that he was dragging her into.

"- but this location isn't secure. I have a mission for you, should you choose to accept it."

His gaze found it's way back to hers, and his smile couldn't resist growing just that little bit wider, a knowing twinkle sparkling away in his eyes.

"How would you feel about a covert exfiltration?"

[Sophia Rübezahl]

She could almost see it coming, the change in him. It was a subtle change; Ceto knew how to give a performance, but, to those who knew him best, there was a performance and a performance. This fell into the latter category. Lacking the same thespian discipline, Sophia let slip a treacherous smile of amusement, nothing more than a crease in her otherwise proper facade, before retreating into her disbelief. She shook her head, and glanced at her feet.

"You are... so unbelievably cheesy," she muttered.

Of all the things to draw on in that moment, her brother had elected to summon the ancient memory of child's play, of exploring ominous caves, and climbing trees, of torn skirts and muddy knees. Agent Grimes. It had been a fitting name. And, under some circumstances, it still was. Not that she'd ever admit to it, of course. As evidenced by his sudden turn of nostalgia, Ceto was not the sort to quickly let something go. It was a family trait.

First, a breath to expel the six year old, then she looked up, defiant in her compliance.

"Fine." The sunglasses went on, "I'm driving."

With a smart turn, she took off with a certain self-satisfied bounce in her step. Ceto's entourage of imposing military personnel were more accommodating, this time around, and made a clear path to the speeder. Her brother could silver tongue an excuse for them - he always did. She eased herself into the driver's seat, the leather was warm from the sun; her headscarf was equipped in one graceful motion, tied into a neat bow, beneath the chin. And the Starbird growled, expectantly.

[Ceto Rübezahl]

"At ease, gentlemen," Ceto commanded, as he followed his sister with more restrained strides, more befitting a man of his status. While he could no doubt have fashioned an effective excuse to negotiate their way past the security perimeter, one of the joys of being an Imperial Governor was the fact that he didn't need to. There were times when the Empire's overbearing devotion to obedience and loyalty did not sit right with him, but he would be lying if he tried to claim that there were not instances where it proved useful. "I'll be heading to the estate in that unmarked speeder," he informed, with a gesture. "If it makes you feel any better, go ahead and follow along in the convoy. We can call it a detour if you like."

The officer Ceto had addressed - a Lieutenant, based on the quartet of coloured shapes affixed to his chest - opened his mouth to speak, but Ceto was already on the move, walking past him with the confidence of a man who didn't need to answer to anyone. His pace brought him to the speeder mere moments after the Starbird's eager growl, and with effortless practised grace, and a hand deftly placed on the speeder's superstructure for balance, Ceto vaulted his way into the passenger seat.

Imperial uniforms were not known for their accommodations towards pockets and storage; fortunately, Sophia was a little more thoughtful and predictable. Ceto reached forward for the glove box, tugging out a small case, and retrieving the sun lenses within. He wondered how long they had been there, whether he had left them there at some prior hard to recall journey in this particular speeder, or if they were a trophy that Sophia had hoarded over the years, and concealed here for exactly that eventuality. In the grand scheme, it didn't much matter, he supposed.

The legs of the lenses were unfolded, and calmly slipped into position over Ceto's eyes. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, a conscious effort to fight against the boyish grin that threatened to form across his lips. Instead, theatrical training kept his features locked in the dour action holo grimace that had helped him forge his name. His voice escaped him with a little more gruff and growl than it usually carried.

"Punch it, Grimes."