Disclaimer: Star Wars does not belong to me. I make no profit from this. Star Wars created by George Lucas.

The dusty town hadn't changed much since his last visit. Young men still crowded around each other, discussing how no other woman could compare to Wynssa Starflare. The older men stood off to the side, pretending not to listen. Ronin kept walking.

At twenty-two, he was the oldest first-time Socorran enlistee in the Imperial Army. In his youth, he'd heard stories, from both schoolteachers and hermits, of the Jedi indoctrinating children on Socorro. It was a well-known fact that often propelled his peers to assist the Empire in some capacity. Some became soldiers, or secretaries, or official employees of some sort. Others did things as simple as writing sweet little essays or poems about the kind-hearted emperor. While Ronin wasn't one to disagree with these sentiments or belittle Officers of the Empire, he had never quite felt that pull towards service. He'd spent too much time policing his father, who caused enough trouble for an entire galaxy. It wasn't until he became fed up with his father's antics that he decided to enlist in the Imperial Army. To Ronin, the uniform represented a chance to leave home, rather than a patriotic duty.

Finally, he came upon his childhood home. It was a sorry little hut. The windows, holes really, were barely covered by thin, ripped cloths blowing in the wind. The roof looked like a craft made by a very young child: haphazard and tilting to one side. Dusty orange and pathetic, it was one of many houses set aside for the poorer elements this side of Socorro. Most of them were non-human, the exceptions being a few ne'er-do-well drunkards.

Like Taron.

Ronin ignored the sudden surge of anger that often rose when he thought of his father. As he entered the house, he found a young woman sitting on the floor. Her legs were crossed and she seemed to be playing some sort of game. He knew the door made a fairly loud sound as it closed, but she didn't look up. She continued moving her game-pieces, cocking her head to the side every now and then as she pondered her next move. He cleared his throat. She said nothing.

"Yosene." He said.

"Is that the voice you use when you're intimidating innocent citizens? I feel special."

Ronin sighed.

"Yosene, it wouldn't hurt you to be civil."

"Civil? The pawn of the dictator Palpatine the Great is trying to tell me about civility?"

"He's not a dictator."

"Yes, and our father's not a hapless drunkard."

"Speaking of him-"

"Changing the subject already? I assume it's because you realize that I speak the truth about Palpatine the Perfect."

"Speaking of our father, where is he? I didn't see him anywhere in town."

"Really, now? Would you like me to help you with that...Officer?"

"Yosene, I've told you to stop with this 'officer' nonsense."

"Well, you are an officer, are you not?"

"Yosene-"

"You agree? Good. Now, Officer Desblid, do you know the location of the nearest cantina?"

"Yes. Yos-"

"And, Officer Desblid, do you understand that that location is not considered within city limits?"

"Yes, Yos-"

"So, Officer Desblid, in order to answer the questions of both where he is and why he is not in town, I believe you need to look no further than your own geographic memory and personal understanding of the kind of man Taron Desblid is."

"Yosene-"

"I'm sorry, Officer Desblid, but that's all the time I have today. Wynssa Starflare has a new holodrama out and I'd like to see it. The Emperor, I hear, is quite fond of her."

She rose from the floor, then, swift as an Imperial jet, she pushed past him and left. He wondered what he had done to deserve such an existence, rife with family discord. How one day, he had been a babbling child, innocent of the world and all of its evils, and then the next forced to confront them head-on.

How exactly his life had become so miserable.

Despite being called the Din Merna Watering Hole, the establishment where Ronin found his father was not actually located within Din Merna itself. It was just on the outskirts of Din Merna, and was the only bar for the next few towns. It did good business, if only because of geography. Many of its patrons were both stragglers and residents who traveled for days just to get a good drink. On the rare times that Ronin did find himself back home, he could also occasionally be seen there.

Today was not one of those days.

Ronin found Taron quite easily, taking note of the only figure hunched over the counter.

He looked dreadfully drunk. His hair was greasy and limp. In the center of his head, there was a red patch, a spot that was constantly being scratched. Ronin wondered how, considering the places Taron frequented, it had not yet been infected. His clothes were no strange sight in Din Merna, dirty, ripped rags that, were he able to buy new ones, would have been thrown away and forgotten already.

The barkeep looked up at the sound of Empire-issued boots on his floors. He sighed when he recognized Ronin.

"He's been in here for a coupla hours. Why don't you just leave 'im be, huh? He ain't botherin' no one." He said.

"Sorry, Carslo, I gotta take him home. There's no one in the house right now, and I don't want squatters to take over." Ronin said.

"Look, howzabout I just keep 'im 'ere fer a lil' bit longer. I'll bring him back m'self."

"Carslo, you don't know where I live." Ronin sighed. Carslo did this everytime.

"Nah, that ain't true. Tarry 'ere 's told me about it plenny'a times. He lives in th' real ugly one that looks like Bantha fodder." Carslo said, faking a proud smile.

Ronin was tempted to leave his father there. To leave him and never return, to throw himself into his work and serve and salute the emperor like all the other good little Imperial Officers.

But, as always, he ignored his own thoughts and proceeded to drag his inebriated father from the bar. He nodded to Carslo, partly out of habit, and partly because he felt like he had forced his father on Carslo, had forced himself and his family and all of their problems on the rest of the world. But he had this thought for only a brief moment, after which he remembered that no one else cared about his family and all of their problems. Not his father, or his sister. Probably not his mother, wherever her long-departed soul rested.

And, in some strange form of detachment, not even himself.