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* * *

Suddenly the drunken sweetheart appeared out of my door.
She drank a cup of ruby wine and sat by my side.
Seeing and holding the lockets of her hair
My face became all eyes, and my eyes all hands.
- Rumi (from Thief of Sleep)

The smooth, curved neck of the bottle slid back and forth between Carth's fingers. His bleary eyes followed the bottle's path, lulling him, half-hypnotizing him until the nausea rose again sharply in his stomach. He swallowed, unsettled by the familiar sour thickness coating his tongue. He was almost drunk enough. Blinking didn't clear his vision, nor did it ease the undulating pains in his gut. Through the spinning fog of drunkenness, he watched the patrons drifting around the cantina, hovering between the bar and the haphazard cluster of chairs and tables near the panoramic window. On another planet it might have been a breathtaking view, but the only sights to be seen here were the whir of taxi speeders and buzzing neon signs advertising drink specials and exotic dancers in dozens of alien languages.

As he shifted in his seat his boots squelched, glued to the sticky floor. A hum ran below his sluggish thoughts, beating out a low, languid drum beat. The clink of bottles and shot glasses created an incoherent clamor like the noisy warm up of a sleazy Bith band.

Gone. She was gone.

"Want another?"

Another? His eyes refused to focus, wandering upward until he saw the pockmarked Twi'lek waitress that glared down at him impatiently. She snapped her bright blue bubblegum and a puff of stale, strawberry-scented air hit his face. Carth shrugged, sinking further down into his chair.

"Sure."

The waitress turned on her heels and pushed into the throng of drifting, lost drunks mingling between her and the bar. By then, Carth's tab had to be about a mile long; he didn't care. He took in the impressive number of bottles and glasses amassed on the little circular table in front of him and idly pinched a bottle cap between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it for the fifth time. A little smiling gizka was on the bottle cap, rakishly winking and tipping a cap. He couldn't remember what brand the beer was, only that it had the most ridiculous mascot he had ever seen. A throaty laugh tumbled out of his mouth but it was half-hearted; he smiled grimly at the little dancing gizka and flicked the bottle cap away.

"If you're not careful you'll start seeing signs everywhere."

Carth started, reeling back in his chair to squint at the tall, broad fighter pilot standing at the table. The dim old neon lights of the bar formed a blinking halo around the stranger's head.

"And I'll tell you this much," the stranger said. "Those signs? They're never true."

Carth's memory stirred slowly, bogged down by the powerful haze of intoxication. The man stared down at him but there was no threat there. Gradually, Carth detected an undercurrent of humor in the little upturned corner of the pilot's mouth. Two other people were there suddenly, flanking the pilot; a slim, shapely woman and someone else, a man perhaps, but cloaked heavily in the uneven lighting of the bar.

"Mind if I join you?" the pilot asked. He didn't wait for an answer as he pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He rested one ankle on his other knee, placing an enormous hand on the table.

"When was the last time you were sober?" he asked, flagging down the waitress. She appeared in a little silhouette of stale perfume and spilled beer. Her eyes raked over the space pilot and something like a grin spread across her toothless mouth.

"Water, please," the pilot muttered, "and some coffeine for my friend here." The waitress slinked away, leaving the pilot to sigh and snap his fingers impatiently. "Answer the question, Onasi."

"I don't remember."

"That's what I thought," the pilot replied, pulling a gloved hand through his head of close-cropped sandy curls. "It's ironic, don't you think? You end up a pathetic drunk, taking up permanent residence in a pit like this and I end up being the sober one - kind of poetic in a way. But I think it's time you stopped, Carth, you don't wear defeat very well."

Carth Onasi's half-lidded eyes widened a little as the pilot spoke his name. He took a long, hard look at the man and a spark of sobriety lit up his brain; he might have been staring at a fun house mirror that reflected a distorted, alternate reflection: the same thick curling hair and full mouth, the same tawny skin and strong, patrician nose. But the reflection wasn't quite a mirror image – a synthetic silver patch was strapped across the pilot's right eye and his hair was just a few shades lighter with a widow's peak.

"Fitz?" Carth breathed, leaning back in his chair a little as if his past had suddenly returned in a cold, unexpected blast, chilling his skin.

"Please, it's Gatlin now – Captain Gatlin."

"I thought you were dead," Carth said, planting his elbows on the rickety table. He did not miss the thick wad of credits Gatlin took out of his pocket to give to the waitress. It was more than enough to cover the water, coffeine and Carth's own heavy night of drinking. The pilot gave her a wink before downing half the glass of water in one gulp.

"Don't I get a hug?" Gatlin asked, smiling crookedly again.

"You bastard."

"Now, come on, that's no way to greet your little brother, Carth."

"Get out of here," Carth muttered darkly, waving him away. His hand upset one of the bottles, which shattered at Gatlin's feet. Before Carth would even react to the sound, Gatlin had reached across the table and snatched Carth's wrist. Gatlin's eyes were just like his, the same sad, tapered shape but lighter, much lighter, a pale, steely gray. The pilot's smirk was gone, replaced by a determined, mean sneer. He hadn't seen that expression in years, not since they had been boys, not since…

"Get up, Admiral," Gatlin growled, yanking Carth upward and out of his seat. Carth tried to resist, clumsy and uncoordinated, cut off from his usual quick reflexes by the alcohol chugging through his veins. He clutched his stomach, the nausea coming on like a punch to the gut. His vision was going, spinning out of control and that sick feeling was getting stronger, pounding through his entire upper body. A pair of sturdy arms caught him before he could land in the pile of spilled beer and broken glass covering the floor.

* * *

Carth woke with a headache pounding resolutely from ear to ear. He winced as he sat up, cursing the invention of alcohol, cursing his tender head. For a moment, he couldn't remember anything, not the bar, not the conversation with his brother or his moment of overwhelming nausea. Then it returned to him and he groaned aloud, squeezing his head with both hands.

"What a nightmare."

He looked around and recognized his surroundings as some kind of medbay. It was almost exactly the same as the one on his old bird, a light freighter like the Ebon Hawk. Same make, same cramped interior and too-small bed. Carth had no recollection of the trip between the cantina and the ship, and even after a long, reflective moment his brain refused to dredge up even the fuzziest memory.

His orange coat had been taken off and folded neatly on the medical tray table next to the cot. Carth tried to imagine his brother doing this, but the gesture was so tender and distinctly feminine that he was certain it was someone else. Gatlin hadn't folded a single piece of clothing in his life; no, his brother hadn't come alone. Next to his jacket, someone had left a square glass beaker filled with a bubbly, fizzing liquid. Carth was more than a little familiar with this drink, which was the quickest way to clear a very bad hang over. He knocked back the glass beaker, tasting the cold citrus fizz of the remedy; a heady rush of relief flooding his bruised brain and sick stomach.

The lights flickered over head, buzzing with the familiar rickety stop-and-go of the Ebon Hawk's unpredictable wiring. He knew it wasn't the Hawk, couldn't be, but the memories came anyway. Frowning, he pushed those thoughts down, deep down, hoping against hope that his denial would be strong enough to ward off those unwelcome feelings. Revan. Just the thought of her name made his skin tighten and his heart pound. And the smell of the medical bay… Even that tiny detail reminded him of the many hours he had spent administering First Aid to Mission and Jolee and Juhani, the times he had spent at Revan's side binding a wound, handing her gauze and med packs. His elbow tingled, as if it too remembered bumping into Revan's side as they tried to maneuver the tiny room together.

Carth's pulse raced, and for a moment he thought his hangover was returning but it was only momentary, just the stirring of long-buried memories, the remembrance of the lovely Jedi with her violet eyes and wide, reassuring smile.

"Damnit," he said, shaking his head.

"Feeling better?"

When Carth looked up, his brother Gatlin stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking out the light from the hold. He was bigger than Carth, built wide through the shoulders and narrow through the waist. Their father had joked that if Carth was a Destroyer, Gatlin was a Dreadnaught. His one good eye twinkled in the flickering light.

"I guess," Carth answered cautiously, "But that depends."

"On?"

"Why are you here, Fitz? What do you want?"

Gatlin shrugged into the room. He wore a heavy charcoal gray coat with a tall, stiff collar and square, silver buttons. The coat brushed the tops of his steel-toed, ankle-high boots. Beneath the coat, Carth could see a Republic issue flak vest, tooled to define the musculature of a human body. It was an old issue, fraying, and probably—he thought with a grimace—stolen.

"The temperature regulator is all screwy on this thing," Gatlin said, nodding to Carth's coat. "We can get you something else to wear or you'll freeze to death. That coat of yours has seen better days."

"Stop avoiding the question," Carth said. "What do you want with me?"

"You're on leave, right?" Gatlin asked.

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Weeks and weeks with nothing to do but drink yourself into a stupor… Sounds like a dream come true for you, Carth," he said, chuckling, his mischievous gray eye flashing again. "But I thought you could use a break, you know, a break from your break."

"Thanks for thinking of me," Carth said, rolling his eyes. "But I don't need your help."

"Oh? It looks to me like you could use some." Gatlin reached forward with his gloved hand and poked Carth hard in the side. Carth recoiled defensively, his older brother instincts bubbling with cold anger to the surface. "You're wasting away, Carth, getting old, going to fat. It's not like you. It's not like us. You're my brother and you're better than this."

"That's really heartwarming, Fitz, considering you never gave a damn about our family before," Carth said, dropping his arms to his sides to ward off another jab. "Where were you when my wife died and my world collapsed? Where were you when Telos was being ripped to shreds? Why start caring now? Tell me: What do I have that you need? Oh, besides a respectable career."

Gatlin's mouth tightened into a firm, stubborn line as he looked at his brother. The humor, so sparkling and ever-present in his eye, evaporated. He took one big, slow step away from Carth. "Fine. If that's how you want to play it, then fine. Here's the truth: I need your help."

"Forget it," Carth said at once, "I don't help criminals."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem. I'm legit now, have been for two years. Your Republic friends are so desperate for recruits that they asked me to help out… For a fee of course. They were happy to pay – after all, I've got my own ship, my own crew, a hard reputation and that's well worth a few thousand credits," Gatlin said, leaning against the doorframe. "Smuggling routes have all but dried up around here, the Exchange is hemorrhaging credits and people, and—as you know—I'm always up for a challenge."

"They really must be desperate if they asked you to do anything but rot in a cell."

"I was ready to play nice with you, Carth, but I see that was a mistake," Gatlin said, snorting. "So here it is, the bare bones truth, just the way you want it: I need your skills, Carth. I'm not happy about it, but I do. I'm hunting Jedi and who better to help me sniff them out than the famous Admiral Onasi? You're my prisoner now, get it? You can either help me out and we can be friends, or I can turn you over to your debtors and they can sort you out. Violently. See this through to the end and I'll clear your tabs, no questions asked. The brass will never need to know that their favorite shining star has a drinking problem and a pit of debt so deep you could bury a rancor in it."

Carth opened his mouth to object, to point out that what Gatlin was doing was ludicrous and illegal, but his brother had already turned and left, shutting the door on the way out. He shouted, thundered inarticulately, slamming his fist down on the medical tray. The glass beaker shattered, peppering his skin with stinging shards. He swore under his breath, cradling his hurt hand to his chest, scrambling for a kolto pack to stop the bleeding.

What a mess, what a damned stupid mess. Gatlin was the last man in the galaxy Carth wanted to see again. His only memories of his younger brother were bitter, poisonous. Gatlin had always been selfish and reckless, dropping out of academy to gamble and flirt his way from planet to planet, never putting down roots and never contacting his worried family. Carth ripped open a packet of kolto gel with his teeth, spitting out the plastic end with a grunt.

That man had driven Carth's parents to gray-haired despair and all because Gatlin didn't want to follow in Carth's reasonable, responsible footsteps. And what was so bad about being responsible? Carth wondered, dabbing his wounds with the cooling kolto gel. It stung and he grit his teeth, snarling at his brother's invisible form. He threw the empty packet at the door. It was locked, no doubt, since it was clear now that Gatlin had no intention of letting Carth do as he pleased. What a heinous turn of events, he thought, shuddering at the idea of Gatlin being put in charge of anything at all. Sure, he had gotten himself a ship and a crew, but any bantha with two credits to rub together could to that. And the Republic? Relying on someone like Gatlin? Carth had to physically restrain his hand from the temptation of slamming it onto the table again. He had worked all his life in service to peace and justice and now an ingrate like Gatlin was allowed to join the ranks of some of the galaxy's noblest and fiercest protectors.

It didn't make sense. It didn't make a lick of sense.

Carth sincerely hoped that his superiors had nothing to do with this. It was true that he hadn't been himself lately, but surely anyone could see that he had his reasons. He had been scarred, deeply scarred by Revan's disappearance and a man should be allowed to recover and grieve. Mentally he nimbly sidestepped the fact that his grief had taken the form of unhealthy, prolonged days of binge drinking, and instead reaffirmed in his mind that this was in fact nonsense, that his brother was a hooligan and that nothing could possibly induce him to help a ruthless, stealing schutta!

I'm hunting Jedi.

"No," Carth whispered, squeezing his wounded hand. "Don't even consider it. He doesn't mean her. He can't."