Date: 04/30/08
Title: Retail Reflection
Author: Melissa Russell, VirusQ (AT) hotmail (DOT) com
Characters: Syal Antilles, Wes Janson
Time Period: Legacy of the Force: Fury, 40 ABY.
Rating: PG
Notes: Hooray for baby rogues! Alright, this isn't exactly what Otahyoni requested, but I hope it at least meets some of the qualifications. The prompts were "Gift," "Holo," and "Flame." She wanted to see Wedge Antilles and Wynessa Starflare.

A huge thank you to Diamond9697 and Anguisel for being betas. :D

-MINOR FURY SPOILERS-

(And by minor, I mean no one cares, except Syal fans.)

It had been a rough couple of months.

Syal Antilles tucked her hands into her warm coat pockets as she slipped through the aimless crowd of shoppers and holographic solicitors. The dull thrum of the random conversations she passed seemed therapeutic. They served as a comforting reminder that families and individuals continued to exist and thrive, despite the constant threat of war.

She kept her head low as she ducked through doorways and across traffic. The general pace of the retail district seemed strategically slow. Bright holograms cracked and buzzed overhead, advertising anything from new foods to new fashions. She continued past them, entering a carefully selected outlet specializing in multimedia entertainment and recreational furniture.

Growing up, she usually celebrated such cold and blustery evenings by staying in, lying on the couch, buried under a mountain of blankets. Her family and friends had always been available to watch a holo, but she was an adult now. Her military career had revoked many of those opportunities from her, ceremoniously labeling them as treason.

Indoors and away from the weather, she quickly removed her battered hat and homemade scarf, dragging her fingers through her short blonde hair as she smiled reassuringly at the array of sales associates that she passed. She eyed a particular display of luxury furniture, strategically facing a literal wall of activated hologram projectors. A long, blood red sofa caught her attention: far enough from foot traffic to be quiet but close enough to prevent sales clerks from becoming nervous.

Confidently, she slipped onto the sofa; hopping slightly in response to the over stuffed cushions. The materials settled and she relaxed, setting her head back and staring distantly at the nearest hologram. They were all playing the same drama: some suspenseful thriller she remembered from her childhood.

The production featured a young actress playing the role of a scientist, trapped on Mustafar, fighting effigies of powerful Sith Lords mistakenly reincarnated by meddling rebels. Syal had begun watching it somewhere in the middle of the storyline. The digital woman screamed; eyes flashing as she searched for a functional weapon to defend herself from the horde of inhuman figures clawing at the windows. "…Damned, meddling Rebels! Wars should be settled by armies and treaties, not Sith Lords!"

Syal laughed at the film, reflectively noncommittal, then sighed. History was fickle and unimaginative.

Syal's train of thoughts shifted from the projection, to memories of her childhood, to more recent events. Her first official flight as a lieutenant of the Galactic Alliance had pitched her against her father, the rebel hero, Wedge Antilles. She'd kept her cool during the mission, staying sharp and analytical: values her mother had arguably instilled upon her at a young age, despite her father's insistence on distancing her from the military and raising her like a normal little girl.

It wasn't long after she'd returned to the hanger that the realization of the situation had hit her: fear of the potential outcome roiled nervously within her. If she had succeeded in executing her training, she would have never been able to speak to her mother again. What would she say?

'Dear mom, today I killed dad. Love, Syal.'

She had escaped debriefing just quick enough to prematurely expel her previous meal into the first refresher she could find. Word got around the ship quick, though, and soon everyone was talking about Dunter's inability to keep down her lunch.

'Some pilot.' Syal mocked herself, fidgeted with the seam on the seat, distractedly.

Days later, she had been forced to choose between killing her family or herself. The choice was easy, but the consequences were devastating. 'Lysa Dunter' was an important part of her adolescence, or so her mother had rationalized when she refused her father's name; she so loved being someone other than 'Mini-Wedge.' In order to grow up and become an independent individual, she needed to create a separate identity for herself.

Lysa was a work of art. Lysa had encouraged her through her first dance, her first kiss, and her first star-fighter license. Lysa had been sacrificed to a greater good: a concept that Syal was beginning to question.

At the time, Syal was strong enough to hold back the tears but the ghost of the event still haunted the back of her mind. She wished there was someone she could cry out to, someone who could make everything make sense again.

Idly, she brushed a tear away before it could form, dimly aware of a sales associate approaching her.

The young man cleared his throat, edging his way into her focal point. "Is there anything I can help you with, miss?"

She hesitated in blank confusion for a moment, then blushed, embarrassed. "I'm just shopping, really. I like to 'test-drive' the furniture before I take it home, you know?"

He smiled, unconvinced, and then gestured toward the ring on her left hand. "We're having a newly-weds promotion featuring complete living room sets. If you buy the sofa, lounge chair, end tables and caf set through our gift registry, you'll be entered to win a really nice projector. See anything you like?"

Anger and depression quickly squeezed her heart. She faltered slightly, but maintained a passable smile: "I just need a few more minutes. This is a big decision, you know. I have to visualize it; make sure it matches my other décor."

A small family of Rodians rounded the aisle and summoned him noisily. "Well," he commented, back-pedaling toward the potential sale, "If you have any questions, let me know."

She nodded, slightly relieved that retail clerks were so easily distracted. Feigning boredom, she surveyed her surroundings, hoping no one recognized her behavioral slip. Feeling self-conscious, she cursed to herself and sighed. Quietly, she reminded herself that this was supposed to be a distracting excursion. She kicked her feet out haphazardly in front of her and consumed herself with the holodrama.

The blonde woman was now running across bridges and platforms, exposed to the harsh elements of the planet due to her ridiculously skimpy excuse for an environmental suit. She raced and swore, chased by suspiciously alien shadows.

Air hissed out of the cushion next to Syal, displaced by an older man with unnaturally dark hair and mischievous eyes. He motioned toward the production. "I hear it's so much better in Dosh."

As she turned to acknowledge his presence, he flashed a massive grin: hard lines creased his eyes and cheeks. Her eyes lit up and she struggled to sit up, attentively. "Sir!"

"Please!" Wes Janson playfully protested as the young woman threw her arms around his broad frame for a hug. "Have I ever been a sir? We're in a retail store, sitting in a fake living room: 'Uncle Wes' is fine."

Excited, her voice squeaked. "What are you doing here?"

"I," he started, deciding to reconstruct his thoughts before admitting them to his best friend's daughter. "I'm not entirely sure, but I can assure you it has something to do with bright lights and absolutely nothing to do with flame retardant bedspreads. Old habits die hard, I guess." He relaxed a little, wiggling in his seat for a better position. "What are you doing here, Lysa?"

"It's Syal, now." She hesitated, unwilling to submit to the darkness that she was running from. Despite her face, reddening with humiliation, she mustered up the strength to imitate his smile. "I made captain," she stated girlishly, hiding from the whole truth.

"Congratulations!" Wes's excitement fused into a frown. His eyebrows knit together as he examined their surroundings suspiciously. "Shouldn't you be out celebrating?"

Syal bit her lip. "No… I… It wouldn't be right."

"What, celebrating? It's perfectly acceptable! Haven't you learned anything? I'd think there'd be young men lining up around the block to take you out!" He paused, unsure of what to make of her increasingly upset reaction. "I bet they're intimidated. Want me to leave so that they can come back?"

"No," She assured him, attempting to hide her emotions with her sleeve. "It's not that. There's no one. They're all…" She stopped short, tears welling.

"What happened, Syal?" He pulled her closer, massaging her shoulders in a comforting manner: a well-practiced maneuver employed to prevent inevitable outbursts.

Silently, she withdrew a crisp flimsi note from her breast pocket and handed it to the older man. He knew what it was before unfolding it: a letter sent to family and loved ones in time of tragedy, a condolence from the Galactic Alliance. The name 'Tiom Rordan' was featured prominently. "They're gone. They're all gone, my entire squadron. My," she choked, "My fiancé."

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry." Despite being renown as an opportunistic suitor, fiendishly seeking out brokenhearted women to console, this was something entirely foreign to him. Admittedly at a loss for words, he considered the individual most practiced in the mystical arts of fatherhood that he knew. "Have you spoken with Wedge?"

"No." She shook her head fiercely. "Uncle Tycho gave me leave to contact him, but I can't. He wouldn't understand."

The latter statement struck Janson as rather odd, almost as if someone had just informed him that X-Wings do not fly and that Wedge really didn't, in fact, enjoy Ewok jokes. He mulled over the concept as he folded the letter and examined the seal. "You know," he started, returning the memento to her, "Your father has lost quite a lot in his life."

"Yeah," she snorted, "I bet."

"Now, wait a minute." He argued dutifully, "You have a lot more than your father did at your age. I believe both of your parents are still alive, right?"

Syal wiped her face with her sleeve. "Yeah."

"You still have a place to call home and a reliably legit career?"

"Sometimes."

"And none of your friends have been reprogrammed to kill each other?"

"…No."

"You haven't started your own rebellion yet, have you?"

"What?"

"Just checking."

Wes set his hands on his lap and twiddled his thumbs in rhythm with the holodrama's ending theme. A store clerk wandered by, circled their couch, and walked away as he realized he'd rather not intervene.

"I'm not saying dad's had it easy," Syal justified, her mood shifting from heartache to reasonable jealousy, "But he wouldn't understand this; what I'm feeling now. He still has mom."

"There's proof of the existence of the Force for you. Your father has the worst luck with women: his last two girlfriends were either imprisoned or brain washed." He gestured toward the credits rolling along a multitude of displays before them, a name striking a cord in the back of his mind. "Even his sister left him; 'married his mortal enemy."

Syal's mouth formed the appropriate shapes, but the right words wouldn't emerge. The encounter did nothing to dull the pain, but suddenly the universe wasn't quite as empty as she'd perceived it. She'd never considered her father in any other relationship prior to her mother, let alone what may have ended them, and the concept made her feel childish. Wedge Antilles had experienced more heartache than she could fathom.

The general mood had evolved into something perceivably more inviting, a talent that Wes Janson had a knack for. Suddenly, another fine representative of the retail business waded in for a mark. The woman's dark hair swished across her uniformed shoulders as she approached. "Is there anything I can help you with, today?"

"No," Syal answered calmly. "I have everything I need."

The nameless woman moved on. Janson resisted the urge to watch her leave.

"I should really talk to my father," Syal resolved, standing.

"Whatever you do," Wes commented, relieved of his uncharacteristically serious nature and following suit with the Syal's actions, "Don't tell him I sent you. Wouldn't want him to think I've actually been paying attention all these years."

"I won't," She promised, grinning. "I'll blame Tycho."

Wes wiped a tear from his own eye: a tear of pride and joy. "That's my girl."