It was very early morning—would have been sunrise had there been a sun—and Liliana was brewing coffee. This was unusual, because she didn't often have a moment to herself before she had to get out of her apartment and work, but this was also one of those rare days which she had off, and she was going to make the best of it. The best of it, of course, meant coffee, and preferably coffee without company.
And by without company, she meant without Brendol. Most days it wasn't a problem to have him around. Some days, however, she needed to herself, and he'd want to talk business because he lived for it, and she didn't, because—well, because she didn't. Either that, or he'd want to talk about them, a bizarre and nebulous topic that she didn't understand and didn't want to consider. She couldn't reject him and she couldn't accept him and she was trying to avoid it entirely, but she knew he would insist at some point. And then she would run, and she didn't know how far.
She hummed and went about finding a can in the cupboard that still had something that resembled coffee grounds in it, reflecting that at some point, she needed to take care of the kitchen's yellow walls. Whoever had owned this apartment before the ship was taken by the First Order and renamed the Finalizer must have been cheerful. Liliana was not cheerful, or at the very least, she tried not to be. The heads of the first order weren't supposed to be cheerful. The legendary Captain Phasma was not supposed to have an apartment with star-bright yellow walls.
A knock came at her door.
"Hm?" she forgot her words for a moment, but opened the door anyway, only to see Brendol looking at her in a very perplexed manner and holding a letter.
She only knew of one person, human or otherwise, who kept such an antique custom alive and wrote paper letters.
"Have you seen Millicent?" he asked, walking in and scanning the room for that insufferable orange puffball that he called a cat. It was an insult, Liliana thought, to cats everywhere to put the General's little terror in the same category as the rest of those sweet animals. She'd had a cat for a time, and she'd never found him tearing the one dress she owned to pieces before one of the Order's galas. Nor had she found him eating her coffee beans before she'd even gotten around to grinding them. Nor had she found him…but the list of things Millicent had done that Gawain had not done was endless, and at some point, not worth repeating.
"No. See if Ren's taken her somewhere before you ask me!"
"Have done. I don't know where she could have gone off to."
"Well check with Mitaka, then, because I haven't got her and I wouldn't want her if I did. In the meantime, what's my great-grandmother sending us letters about?"
"That's what I needed to talk to you about."
She poured him a cup of coffee and took the letter. Even though she didn't want him there, she might as well be friendly. Training the troops sometimes was a gargantuan task. Sometimes she felt it was draining her, or rather, draining something from her that she didn't want drained. Being a little kinder to Brendol, even when she didn't want him there, sometimes made it a fraction better. She felt like she was still there, preserving herself.
She took the letter and sat.
Dearest Liliana,
If you are reading this, I am passed. Don't worry about that. I know you're going to, but truly, don't. I am at peace. If I have gone before you, then I am one with the Force. You know that's enough for me. And you know I love you.
I am writing because I am leaving you something of mine. A frightful vision — I cannot say of what — has led me to believe you are in need of it more than anyone else.
The place is at 4249 Lily Road, in the Glass City, on Courascant. Manage it successfully for six months, and you and whomever you work with will receive a fleet of star destroyers. That's the incentive, if my vision is accurate, and you need any. Now get going.
"Did you—did you read this, Brendol?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well, do I go?"
"Do you have any idea what we could do with a new fleet?"
"Do you have any idea how long six months is?"
"Yes, well, someone can manage your troops, I'm sure. This could prove an impossibly valuable asset to us, Liliana—"
"—And it means I'd be running a blasted coffeehouse for six months!"
"Wait."
"Yes. It's the coffeehouse on Courascant, named after my great-gran, it's called Ava Gray's Coffee. She wants me to find myself or some such, and she's promising an entire star-fleet—"
"You don't need to find yourself, but we can use those extra ships. It won't be good without you for six months, Lili, I'll not lie. We—I—will certainly miss you." He leaned forward in his chair and looked at her meaningfully.
No.
That she would not tolerate. She couldn't quite figure out why—Brendol was fine-looking, powerful yet kind to her, a decent man—but she couldn't bear the obvious advances.
"But listen, the final decision is yours. It could be an advantage. But if you don't want to go, I understand."
She nodded. The trouble, of course, was that she did want to go. She had never been to the place, and hadn't seen her great-gran in a span of years which felt like an age, but she wanted to go. It was a strange pull leading her to a home that she had never seen. She had tried reconditioning. She really had. But the spark that now pulled her toward the coming months had always been in her. Leading her troops could not extinguish it. Brendol's advances and Ren's tantrums could not extinguish it. Captain Phasma was a battle-leader and a military woman well worth her rank and she took pride in the things she did. Nevertheless, Liliana remained somewhere under the chrome armor, nothing had killed her yet, and perhaps nothing would.
"I'm going."
If some senseless part of her wanted to go, then the rational part of her might as well get a fleet of ships out of it.
She had forgotten how much she loved cities. The Finalizer was akin to a small one, but everyone there had the same purpose, the same cause. Here—here they were all a mystery. There were a million beings in the Glass City, and she didn't know the business of a single one of them. She had traded her armor for a plain long-sleeved dress and carried only a small blaster in her bag for defense.
The place was closed when she arrived. In fact, it looked as though it hadn't been opened in ages. A sign on the front door read "under repairs," but that looked rather far from the truth. Instead, it simply looked like an abandoned shop, half glass and half blue stone.
The door opened under her hand.
It smelled a little like dust and a little like coffee, and a little like something she couldn't name. She circled it once, twice, opened the cupboards and drawers, took stock of what she had and what she'd need. Of course she—but no. That wasn't true. She could bake perfectly well. If she just went and got blue milk and eggs and a few other things she could have pastries for the next week. And if she put a sign on the door, took in one or two bright-spirited girls to help her, and found paper cups and more lights—there was already coffee and flour and sugar and the espresso machines—yes, this could be perfect.
She wondered if it should worry her, how quickly she could turn from the leader of the First Order's troops to the manager of an old coffeehouse.
She wondered if she should care.
But for now, what mattered was croissants, and whether the silver brewing mechanisms worked as well and as elegantly as they appeared. She didn't want to think about the troops now, she thought as she ground a bag of beans and pulled levers and tried to make sense of the machines behind the counter. She most assuredly didn't want to think about Brendol and how he had kissed her goodbye. It still stung, nearly like real pain instead of remembered discomfort, though it shouldn't have. It shouldn't have. She knew she should want such things. She didn't.
The coffee, at least, was good.
She took her mug with her and went to the grocery two levels above for the things that were missing.
Brendol could give her power if she returned his attempts. She could rise even further in rank. She could—she could—but she could not return what he offered her. Perhaps six months away would make her like him better. Perhaps in six months he'd have another woman. Yes. Brendol was not a man of patience. If she was gone for that long, he wouldn't wait for her. She only had to remain here and let things fall where they would.
For the first time in what might have been years, when Liliana let herself through the back door with her ingredients and cups and extra lights, she caught herself singing.