Ignores secondary canon; original characters/species are just my invention. Referenced canonical character death, but nobody is killed onscreen.

Thanks to sholio for betaing!

Now

There's still a city, or the body of one, anyway. He can't blame his fellows who've taken their chances and fled, trusting sparser moons for brief, temporary, safety. He's done the same thing, found a magnificent star and an adequate ship to steer towards it, too many times over to count.

Almost. Every other time he's left, it's because it's been about him. He's been feeling wanderlust, he heard about a great trade opportunity outside a gas giant, he had a bounty hunter or two on his tail and needed to head them off. The others who're leaving—the First Order doesn't know their names and, as long as they're packed closely enough together, doesn't care. Spread out thinly enough, and they'll have a chance.

This, more than anything, convinces him to stay put. Spite. If they want to kill him, he hopes they at least give him a reason, don't lump him in with the other evacuees. He's done enough to earn that. He had once—

But the ship that catches up with him doesn't look like a First Order ship. At least, it's not incinerating its way across the planet, and the pilot doesn't seem to want to cut a deal. When he approaches, all Lando has to defend himself is a blaster in his hand, which feels wrong. He wants to run, wants to find a ship and fight another day, but he got a really great price for his last ship from a smuggler looking even more desperate than Cloud City's rapidly-deteriorating standards.

"You're Calrissian?" he asks.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Listen," he stammers, "I'm Poe Dameron, I'm with the Resistance—" and then he's talking in a rapid-fire rush, every word exploding in different directions. Lando is only half-conscious of raising his hand and cutting the young man off.

"The Resistance? Really?"

"I'm not—presupposing anything, although of course you'd be..."

"No," says Lando. "That wasn't the question."

Then

Cities at any altitude were subject to the same laws. The law of gravity, which inevitably meant that objects descending from great heights would plummet into the depths until they were acted upon by the opposing force of the solid infrastructure, and then probably set upon by bounty hunters untold years later. The law of levity, on the other hand, ensured that not only would his return to civic authority be suitably ironic, he'd be interrupted by avaricious bounty hunters desperate for him to settle their dispute at the worst possible time.

"Dushao, I can't begin to apologize," Lando stammered, as the off-worlder musician looked around for the nearest exit to the beanery.

"Don't bother," he muttered, "it's unconvincing when you do it. I'll be in the second moon of Taffin system at perigee, if you're free from your—ahem—duties."

"Never mind him," Lando swallowed hard, rounding on the bounty hunters. "What's this, and why am I involved?"

"Word's been getting around," said the more humanoid of the two, "that the powers that be prefer a more...genteel approach to questions of precedence. Going soft in your old age?"

"In whatever state of mind possessed me to assume temporary power," he said. Maybe he could petition the fledgling republic to recall the incompetent mayor. How did you petition republics to do things? It had been too long. "What happened?"

"I ffffound this object while sssssecuring Sealmiu's new base of operations," explained the second bounty hunter, a green quadruped that waved a prehensile tail behind its body while holding a small metal tube in two of its four paws. "I had ffffull authority to dispose of any rrrrubbish I came across. Any unwanted debris, I could confiscate. This weapon is of no usssse to Sealmiu and I have ffffulfilled my contract, and rrrremoved it from her property. It's mine."

Lando nodded, turning to Sealmiu. "Anything else?"

Sealmiu's exterior seemed to be more android than human. She'd forged several generations of artificial limbs over the years, each rumored to be more flexible and powerful than the last. But her voice was as natural as it was nasal. "This is theft; the kapling is stealing from property I legally acquired. Our contract gave no provision for stealing my belongings, and it's not entitled to any such thing."

"She rrrrefuses to pay me."

"I see. What do you want with it?"

"What?" asked Sealmiu.

"The...weapon." He didn't believe in overly contrived destinies, not for him—there was enough time to pick and choose his way. But their encounter felt laden with significance, all the same. "Are you—needing augmentations to that bionic shell of yours?"

"I don't need the help. But this is—part of the cultural patrimony of Cloud City, and should be properly enshrined as such."

Gag him. Or gag her, one of the two. "By that standard, everything in your junkyard is part of the cultural—whatever you said."

"Well ssssaid," hissed the kapling.

Lando shot it a glance. "What do you want with it?"

"Protection."

"From who?"

"I'm a bounty hunter. Do you rrrreally have to assssk?"

It was a fair point, though he mostly wanted to be reassured the creature wasn't envisioning galactic-scale threats. Cloud City had enough quotidian enemies. Still, the idea of that kapling walking around town, wielding its prize, made him remember why he'd gone back into peacekeeping in the first place. Pesky ideals. "Can you use it?"

"Anyone can sssswing a ssssword."

Was this true? Luke Skywalker, from what he remembered, had had more important things on his mind than explaining the principles. Lando glanced over at Sealmiu, but she made no reply, so he looked back at the kapling. "And you'll hold to my decision?"

"Aye."

"You," he turned to Sealmiu, "reckon I'm as good a—steward of cultural watsits—as any?"

"As any in this town."

"Right," he nodded. "Seems to me we have too much of a good thing—one hunter seeing value in the smallest of things, another wanting it looked after. These are keen traits. I want you, Sealmiu, to fulfill this kapling's contract to the decicred. And the next time you need an assistant, you go to it first, and set terms as precisely as you need to so there aren't any questions. Get the contract read over by someone who ain't me. I think you can keep helping each other, and at a fair price."

Sealmiu opened her mouth, then shut it.

"I," said Lando, "will be taking this myself, compensate you accordingly and ensure it winds up in a—fitting location."

He stared at the kapling, who pawed at the ground before reluctantly passing the weapon over. Wiping a stray piece of green fur from the exterior, Lando glared at them.

"Will there be anything else?"

"Don't we all want to know," sighed one of the beanery employees.

"Then goodnight," he snapped.

It took longer than he wanted to agree on terms with Sealmiu, but at least he was able to arrange for a deputy to take over his responsibilities in Cloud City. Turvdis was long-winded, and Lando had no idea what kind of supposed legal codes he was quoting half the time—ancient civilizations? mythical groups? It was impossible to say. But at least he seemed confident and happy citing some authority.

At last, a little less well-off but with one invaluable piece of history in tow, he was ready to depart Cloud City once again. "Will you be off to Taffin system, then?" asked the booker with a smile.

Lando hesitated. There were futures to chase, or even pasts to reconnect with, friends to revisit...But what he had was something discarded, unwanted, severed from history. "I need to go somewhere that deals in fast ships. And old weapons, too, but flying scrap first." Whatever he was going to get for it, he wanted to be himself. He wanted to be able to fly again.

"Is that all?"

"All things being equal, I'd prefer being able to get drunk."

The Resistance, Poe explains—once Lando's able to get him to calm down and start talking sense—is General Organa's paramilitary group. The title comes easily to his lips; he's never known her by any other name.

"Typical," Lando shakes his head, "always easier to come up with a plan when you've got nothing else going for you."

"Eh?"

"Nothing. Nothing funny these days, anyway." The Republic's forces have been decimated—setting up inspiring names for would-be underdogs is all well and good for leaders with real authority on their side, but it's too late for those dreams to rouse anyone to the cause.

"So that's..." Poe shrugs. "Who we are. Who I am."

"I'm afraid I don't have any ships to offer," says Lando. "No one really wants to stay in a large city like this. But if you let me know how to reach Leia—anything I come across is yours for the taking."

There it is, a flash of cocksurety in Poe's expression. "I don't need a new ship."

"Oh? Yours the best the galaxy has to offer?"

"It'll be good enough for the task at hand."

"What task? Not coming out all this way, I hope?"

"I mean, whatever it takes, I just have to trust..."

"That you're the best pilot in a hundred light-years so any piece of metal will do?"

Poe blushes. "I didn't say that."

"All right, whatever. You've flown through this city, how would you defend it?"

"Are you recruiting me now?"

"Just curious what those sensors of yours pick up."

"I need a droid's-eye view," bemoans Poe, glancing around the turrets and spires. "The alien districts' landing docks aren't standardized at all, are they? There's no way of knowing what could be getting in or out of there."

Lando nods. "And what would you do about it?"

"In a hypothetical world where the population is thriving and high, or this one, where people are taking off every day?"

"Either."

"In the first case—we're fighting a war, man. I don't really care."

Maz Kanata's was exactly the place Lando wanted to go. He took on odd jobs, sampled dozens of concoctions from across the galaxy, and fought off dozens of earworms (mostly the figurative kind). He was in the middle of breaking up a fight between two droids whose algorithms disagreed on the exact number of moves to win four-dimensional wampahouse with optimal play when he remembered, no, there were more important things to accomplish there. Like earning a spot on the Harbinger when it left port. Its new modular "accordion" technology was supposed to revolutionize the transition to hyperspace, but he had to see for himself.

He found Maz herself outside, poking at a plant that he thought might fuel one of the more dizzying drinks she was responsible for. "This was Luke Skywalker's. He fought Darth Vader with it."

Maz had to crane her neck to look up at him, and he had to check himself from going on. Not to the death. Just, a little bit, early on, it's not that important in the grand scheme of things, I guess.

"And I think it was Vader's before that?"

She continued staring at him, wordlessly, and he continued feeling vaguely embarrassed; he did not want to compete with the trees for her attention.

"So I was wondering, if you'd be interested in—" he almost suggested haggling, but he had the impression that Maz Kanata had haggled ageless, emotionless droids out of their circuits long before the foundations of Cloud City were built "—bartering for it."

"Bartering?" She gave what seemed to be one of her smiles. "Do these relics hold any appeal to you?"

"Well...I'm looking for something newer. Faster-moving, you could say. If you can give me credit with the Harbinger's captain, maybe..."

"I think suggestions can be made. But tell me, why me?"

"I hope no one's going to need lightsabers for duelling. Not for a long time, at least. If the rest of us are all dead and some poor kid comes and needs something to defend themselves, I figure this place will still be serving cheap liquor."

"I see. And is there no other purpose it could serve, between now and then? If not a weapon, what else?"

"A cheap light show? I think there are more reliable ways of shining a beam."

"Perhaps you are right."

"And as far as memories go? I'm not going to put this in a box for sightseers to gawk over. If anyone has the right to decide what to do with it, it's Luke, but he doesn't want this."

"How do you know?"

Not because they'd talked recently, not because the Force was guiding him, but just from what he understood of his friend, Lando trusted. "One weapon is as good as the next. He already has the power to kill with a blade. And he doesn't—need any particular weapon to connect him to his father, as far as I know."

"Hmm," said Maz. "May I have it?"

"Please," said Lando, passing it to her. He had hoped for more relief, more of a sense that his duty was being passed off, but he felt just as little as he had when the bounty hunter had passed it over to him. All told, it was a lightweight weapon.

"There will be other young ones, no?" she mused. "Apprentices who seek weapons, so that they might master themselves as well as their rivals. The hue of this blade, the hands that have claimed it before, matter not; any tool can be put to worthy uses in new hands, and define itself once more by what it casts off as much as what it brings to birth."

He wasn't going to take it back, light as it felt. "There will be new lightsabers, too. The Force can create, as well as destroy. Luke will make new ones—maybe even Leia, too, she has strength of her own. And Han will take any excuse to scout out bargains on rare crystals in bulk—never mind." He was rambling, talking to himself rather than Maz, but she looked amused. As much as he could understand her, anyway.

"A balance has been struck, yes. Then I do believe we have a deal."

When they finally settled scores with the Harbinger's weapons technician (the captain was settling the literal kind of scores with a horn player across the bar), Lando at last felt some kind of giddiness in his stomach, although he was pretty sure that was the effect of the drink. It wasn't until a malfunction in the artificial gravity systems, several weeks later, that he felt yet another: the surge of being thrust into danger once again. The crew scrambled to work together, drifting alongside each other until a temporary stabilization could be found. There was more than one way to be confronted with imbalance: even without enemies to wish them harm, the depths of space provided chances for camaraderie.

He can't sleep, even to the sound of vehicles humming their way across the night. When he was younger he had gone to all-day podracing events and watched the crowd as much as the races themselves. Was there a tipping point, he wondered, when one could predict that the majority of those leaving their seats early would not come back? That they weren't going to get a drink, but just beat their fellow spectators home? Perhaps unseen armies have algorithms just as hidden for the decay of cities.

Emotion seems out of grasp, subject to some luxury tax he can ill afford. They've all faced death so many times that they have more to be grateful for than regret, on balance. All of a sudden it feels unimportant whether he's swept up with the nameless multitudes or not. One death is as final as another.

What would Han have done, brought the news of Lando's death on a distant, barren planet? Turned and fought, he figures. Even with him and Leia doing their weird orbit thing, it sounded like he had enough allies grounding him where he was to make a stand. He still had Chewbacca with him. He still—

Perhaps he's done more mourning than he realized after all—silently, trying to take it in—because the full depths of Poe's explanation finally sink in. Jumping out of bed, glad to have an excuse not to sleep, he hurries to put on something presentable, then immediately starts radioing the transit ship. "Dameron? Dameron?"

"What's wrong?" Minutes later, the younger pilot has blinked awake. "Is everything okay? Where's BB?"

"Beebee?"

"My droid, I left it charging..."

"Your droid is fine." Lando stifles a laugh. "You said something about the Millennium Falcon?"

"Oh. Yeah?"

"What about it?"

"What about it?"

"Were you on it? Did Han find it? Where under the stars has it been?"

"Oh. I don't—I haven't been there, sorry. Apparently Rey and Finn, these—friends—of mine, found it on Jakku, were flying it around there, and that's where—Han and Chewbacca found them."

"But they did get to fly it again, yeah?"

"I guess? I'm sorry, I don't really know all the details."

"That's okay." Lando shakes his head. "It's—all right."

"Sorry I can't be more help. I can contact some of the others tomorrow, maybe, actually with the time differences now it might be just as good if you need to talk to them. But I'm not sure how—much you can get out of Chewbacca."

"No, that's fine. It just—I think it meant a lot to him, to get to see that old ship again. And what are the odds?"

"Don't look at me."

"Well," says Lando. "About that."

"Oh-ho?"

"I was wondering if you're heading back to the mighty Resistance with an R, narratively-situated underdogs, destroyers of imposing First Order bases. If there's room, well, there's not much left to do in Cloud City."

"You want in?"

"The First Order took something I care about, so yes. A man wants revenge."

"Your friend."

"Yes and no. I mean—he had a great run. But he was going to die someday, one way or another, the kind of life he led. I hate that it had to be at the hands of—" Quickly, Lando checks himself, because what else doesn't this kid know? "Kylo Ren, the little wannabe, but he'll learn. I miss Han and that's not going away, but the man's got family and more in line to avenge him, and I'll wait my turn if that's what's called for."

"I don't think the First Order really cares about taking turns and playing fair."

"There is that. But I'm also worried they took the right for me to grieve my friend. That all this rationalization and denial is just me trying to say that after all we've been through, there's a line out in space where we've had this many adventures, this fill of happiness, and I don't get any more. Humans make quotas and space doesn't care. I won't give up that, not to any empire that gets in my way."

"Then I think there will be plenty of room for you. Well, I should warn you, it's kind of close quarters."

"I'll manage."

"That's good. BB-8 really needs three-dimensional range of motion."

"Now this, see, is a reactor failsafe. So if something compromises the oxygen supply in one part of the ship, the power can be rerouted without manual control. Much more reliable than last year's model."

"So help me, Lando, you even advertise like a mayor."

"Oh yeah?" Lando pried apart the hug. "Well, you smell like a Wookiee."

"Occupational hazard," grinned Han, pacing the gleaming chambers of the Glintras. The new line of scout ships were being rolled out above Cloud City, and being pressed into the indignities of a safety committee—of all things!—had finally reaped some rewards for Lando. Han, for his part, had shown up the night before with Chewbacca, off on another one of their long euphemistically-put "detours."

"Can I buy you a drink? Chewie?"

"Hold on, let's check this out." Han knocked on one of the ship's bulkheads. "This gap is too thin to slow anyone down who wants to break through, and shaped too funny to store anything worth keeping out of sight between."

"Again, I think that's just for airlock. Or some hyperspace measure, never really caught on—"

"Skip it. Use the paneling underneath. Over here, see, below the monitors, is where you could store something."

"I don't actually own one of these, I'm mostly just seeing how long I can test it for the city."

"Oh, for the city. That makes it fine."

"Come on, Han—"

"At least show me where you can put the weapons—"

"It's a scout ship," Lando trailed off, but Chewbacca had already discovered the controls to the rudimentary shields.

"So it wouldn't be too hard to install basic lasers off to the sides. Lateral is better than forward, with this setup, though probably useless in pursuit," mulled Han.

"Chewbacca, my friend," said Lando, "you can tell a born soldier from a smuggler with a change of heart by what order he suggests 'improving' your ship in."

"Ngrfmp," said Chewie.

"He asks what that makes you," said Han, "and if you're really ambitious I think there are some low-gravity beam-weapons that could be fused on. Maybe not something to test this far into the atmosphere."

"It makes me several weeks overdue on reporting back to the rest of the commission on whether this will suit," said Lando, "but I have other priorities."

"There's hope for you yet."

Lando was surprised that Han's idea of sampling the local Cloud City delicacies turned out to be the slowest, most nutritious meal that Lando himself had had in several weeks, but then he didn't know how long it had been since Han had made landfall either. "Been up to some business chasing irregular comets," he explained. "Slow, but good enough yield, I guess."

"Drtks," Chewie added.

"How's the weather?"

"Do you think they're tolerably close to the sun? They're comets."

"Touche."

"But politics always gets me down—gets most people down, these days. Nobody's shooting at me, out there. Enough to make me feel alive."

Lando nodded. "But can you go home?"

"Vbllng," said Chewie.

"You can go anywhere, yes, I know, no ship is unsalvageable for the legendary Han Solo."

"Pfshglz!"

"Hey, it's all right." Han took Chewie's arm. "He means well."

"You assume a lot."

"The First Order goes for delusions of grandeur types, this ain't it. Sell out to save a city, sure, but come on." Han spread his other arm wide, looking at the same faded towers, the quiet skyways, the easygoing bystanders. "Next time pick a better city."

"Next time what. I'm monitoring the little minutiae that it's very obvious no one else cares about. Hopefully the reactors function the first time around and the stuff I do doesn't matter, but if I sell out, I'm selling out to cheaper weapons installations, not—imperial no-hopes."

He knew he was walking on shaky ground with Han, there, and not just in the cloudy sense, but Han gave a quiet smile. "Then skip that whole temptation risk. Come with me on my next run."

Lando chuckled. "What kind of proposition is this? The only kind of homewrecking I like is the kind with lasers."

"Nplkdvts."

"Chewbacca says you've never been my type, that way, and neither have mayors."

"Let's get one thing clear, I'm not a mayor."

"Bwmpwl."

"And that if you take offense to the smell of his person we can probably acquire a ship that fits your exacting spacious needs."

"Well, Chewbacca, you make a very fair point. Wookiees are underrepresented on this committee to begin with, and I'm not sure we've paid enough attention to the accessibility of the controls for non-human pilots. Talking with you brings back the old days, and I know as soon as I get out of here, I want to do something where I can bicker with all kinds of different species."

"Jzhblnk!"

"That's the spirit!"

"Han. I shouldn't have to—" He broke off. "Chewbacca, this upstanding gentleman shouldn't have to translate for you that I'll always be his friend, and I'll always be there when he needs a stopover, any time, any planet's time zone. That goes without saying. But I can't come with you this time."

"What?" And immediately, Han's eyes went to the world outside. "The pay can't be this good, to live here."

"It's not about me, it's about you. If I run away with you—I don't know when you'll touch down. And I don't want that for you."

"Tffpthnm!"

"Yes, okay, you have all you need in Chewbacca, I get it—but all the same. You can't defeat the First Order on your own, nobody expects you to, you're not going to be a perfect family man for Leia either. But someday you're going to need to be there."

"Ndvwg."

"No, Chewbacca, I'm not going to attempt to manually hijack whatever ship you try and commandeer next, I don't rate myself that well."

Han was shaking his head, a half-smile in his eyes. "That's not even close to what he said."

"Oh, well, forgive me for not being fluent in Wookiee."

"There's nothing to forgive. But Lando, you're not going to waste away here?"

"Of course not. I really do need a change of pace, hopefully talking to people who aren't all human all the time but maybe something simple if my translation skills aren't cutting it."

"Then let us drop you off somewhere."

"It's an excuse. One thing will lead to another."

"Just because Chewie and I leave on our own doesn't mean we're heading straight back towards the Republic or—Leia. Nobody's the same as they've been back home, those who are still around and talking."

"I get it, I don't expect it to be immediate. But don't use me as a stall tactic."

"You're not a stall tactic, Lando, you're my friend."

"That's right I am. And I will be, wherever we meet next. So don't make this complicated."

"Rrntlfn."

"Don't take his side," Han protested, before Chewie growled again. "Okay, okay, it's not about 'sides', is it. Promise me one thing, though, Lando?"

"If I ever get word of the Millennium Falcon, of course I will do anything in my power to let you know and/or secure it in some order, I haven't forgotten."

Han laughed. "Just checking."

"I wouldn't blame you for being afraid I'd run away with it if I saw it again—I'd worry about me if I were you. But forget about that ship? Never."

"Slngtrd."

"Hear hear," said Han.

"So tell me about these friends of yours," asks Lando. Since finalizing his plans to leave Cloud City, the town looks distant; not small, but novel, as it might to a tourist or an off-worlder. Maybe someday he'll see it again, with fresher eyes.

Poe shuffles as he picks at his breakfast. "That's stretching it a little. I mean—I'd love to get to know them better, they both sound like wonderful people. But I haven't spent all that long with them yet."

"You said the girl's name was Rey?"

"Woman. But from what I've heard, she—uses the Force, I guess. And she and Finn got together on Jakku, that's where they found the Millennium Falcon. As far as I can tell."

Oh. "You're not jealous?"

"We're in the middle of a war!" Poe spurts.

"Yeah," says Lando. "And I still just unilaterally decided we're allowed to have human feelings anyway. I can mourn my buddy. You're allowed to be jealous of Finn. Hypothetically."

Poe blushes. "I barely know Rey, okay? But it sounds like she's been through a lot of bad times, came out of it an amazing person anyway, and deserves to be happy. I'd say I'd blow up anybody who breaks her heart, but I think she can probably defend herself better than anything I can do. Let's just say, she's really not my type."

Lando nods. "And—hypothetically, you're allowed to be jealous of Rey, also."

"Well same thing for him, anyone who breaks Finn's heart I'd have two lasers for, probably, if he needed me. But I don't think I'm, uh, his type either."

"I thought you hadn't known him very long?"`

"He's got a bunch of stuff to—deal with right now, I don't want to rush him, but. Call it a hunch."

Lando considers pushing aside his breakfast, then figures it's better than space rations, and keeps going. "I know it probably doesn't mean much coming from someone who's spent most of the last couple decades stuck here, but the galaxy is a big place. Give yourself time."

"Forgive me, but I feel like I shouldn't be taking advice from a bargain-hunting smuggler in this department."

"That's not—what I mean is—if nothing else, keep an eye on your friends. Watch their backs when they're too busy for it, and you'll come away with a story to tell either way."

"I'm aiming higher than stories," says Poe, "we've got a war to win."

Lando doesn't bother to argue with him; it'll mean more if Poe figures out what priorities can coexist, on his own. "Then let's go."

"Oh," Poe breathes, "BB-8 likes your power grid!"

The droid is beeping away, an up-tempo pattern against the underlying rhythms of the city, and Lando can't help but smile. As they climb towards the little transport ship, Cloud City's skyline taking yet another place in his memory, he feels like promising Han yet again, not for you, but for myself. Sentiment is superfluous, has always been.

But he's grateful that he lived long enough to see someone bring out another side of Han, lead him towards priceless choices. As he steps towards Poe, he thinks he can hear the echo of laughter.