Nate Panaka strode through the dark streets of his hometown of Keren, vaguely observant of the activity around him. People came and went, the occasional catcall or whistle could be heard in the distance, in what was once his favorite quarter to relax off duty. Not exactly representative of pacifist Theed, or even Naboo for that matter, but somewhere he felt comfortable.
He felt competent to care for himself in any situation, not just because of his training but because he of ingrained behavior he'd held fast to all of his life. He could handle himself in situations like these; he wasn't afraid.
Nate rounded the corner, stepping out of the way of an impending brawl without a second thought before entering the corner Pub. The volume of the activity met his ears all at once when he opened the door, and he made his way to one of two empty barstools ahead. Beings leaned over the edge, laughing, talking, leaning over as they reveled in their excitement. He'd caught the eye of one female twi'lek; not exactly his type, but not bad either.
He felt a pang of remorse tear at him and motioned towards the bartender. A double shot as always. At least until they cut him off. He smiled, taking his first drink before feeling the pungent, burning fluid make its way down his throat and warm him pleasantly.
Time to feel nothing.
Slowly, he cocked his head and looked over to one of the game tables where a crowd had gathered. They were starting another round of Sarlaac, one of his favorite vices. Minutes later he played with them, ignoring the exasperated glances of those around him. He'd won credits, he'd been on quite a roll at first, but the more confidence he gained the more he drank. The more he drank, the more impaired his judgment became. His money dwindled, and his attitude took an even sharper nosedive.
It was a familiar dance, particularly to those who frequented the tables with him. Finally the order came from the bartender to cease his supply. They knew that as is, they would face a belligerent customer, but had learned their lesson from last time. At least he wouldn't have to be turned over to the Nubian Guard or carried home this time.
After Nate had been led out of the Pub and had nothing but the vague destination of home to guide him, he began to stumble his way there. Home, he thought smugly. Sometimes he wondered if he cared whether he made it there safely or not. In a sense, this attitude served him well, for the underworld of any planet could smell fear, and thrive on it. The others, they tended to ignore.
He mumbled obscenities to himself as he tripped, his words slurred and incoherent, before something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. It wasn't necessarily that it was a dark alley, or that two figures were negotiating a deal. It was the bearing, straight and solid, exuded by one of the silhouettes. He knew, even in a drunken stupor, the likely identity. He'd known him all his life.
Gregar.
As he made his way to his nephew, the other figure turned sharply, as if alerted to his presence, and headed in the other direction. If he hadn't been drunk, if he hadn't been unemployed, he would have likely followed and gotten down to the bottom of the matter. His nephew stood, facing in his direction and staring at him in the darkness said nothing.
Gregar would have likely stared at him that way for a long while; little could rattle him, but Nate broke the silence.
"Who the hell was that?" he asked.
Gregar sighed, and was silent a moment. "No one."
"Brankspit!" he cursed. He was drunk, and emboldened, and didn't need this evasive behavior, least of all from the nephew to whom he'd imparted such skills.
"Who?" Nate demanded. His curiosity was high, patience even shorter. He stumbled, and caught himself before falling down, standing again and regaining his bearings.
Gregar regarded his uncle. People had different ways of dealing with grief, loss, and disappointment. Somehow he had thought that when push came to shove, his uncle could pull through and lead with the best of them. Seeing him fall off his pedestal not only sickened Typho, it demoralized him.
"I used to look up to you," Gregar began, speaking more to himself than his uncle. He shook his head. "Now look…"
An uncharacteristic temper flared in Panaka, and he took a swing towards his nephew, who quickly and competently stepped out of the way, distancing himself but still just watching his uncle. An air of confusion hung between them, for just a moment. They used to spar when he was younger, but now the attack was ineffective, yet genuine in its effort.
Nate pointed his finger at Gregar. "You--you owe ev-every opportunity you'v-ve ever had to me. I trained you, rec-mended you to the Guard. Sthow some restpectt" his words were slurred. "I can sthill hurt yyou"
Gregar stepped toward him. "You couldn't beat your way out of a wet paper bag." His voice was low, gravelly, and he grabbed a fistful of his uncle's shirt, hoisting him to his feet. "Now get up."
Nate started to push, to resist him, illogically, and Gregar used a more militant voice. "Now" he boomed, and Nate was sobered, at least enough to be led back home.
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Gregar sat in his uncle's apartment, regarding the dirty linens and utensils strewn everywhere, in contrast to his own. Nate was in the bathroom, per his orders, cleaning up. That was a good thing, at least, Gregar thought. He hadn't looked out for him for sometime; he didn't have the inclination to nurse him back to health and sanity, if such a thing was possible. But at least they'd met in the right place in the right time and he'd made it home tonight. Gregar knew he could handle it from here. The heaving, the sleep--those would all come later. He rubbed his forehead tiredly.
When he looked up, Nate stood in the doorway. His eyes were red but not glazed, and Gregar could see that he was washed and more coherent. At least we can hold a conversation now.
His uncle sat down on the couch across from him, and was silent a moment. "Caff?" he offered.
Gregar considered for a second before shaking his head. "Just had some. Have to go home, rest; soon actually." He looked towards the door.
"I'm still curious as to what you were up to with that being in the alley."
Gregar looked back at him, some amusement crossing his features. He'd half expected him to forget in his drunken stupor. For the last several months, he'd made a habit of missing all of his other mandatory appointments. But this one incident clung to his memory, and it almost made Gregar smile; his investigator instincts were still there.
"An acquaintance," Gregar said, with some reservations. What he was doing, what information he was receiving, was really no one else's affair but his own, he'd decided. His uncle had never factored into the equation.
"Don't start," His uncle snapped, angering again. "You know, you've been distant for the last few months, not just from me but from everyone."
Gregar nodded. He had to give him that. Little made him feel alive anymore… let alone a sense of purpose. So he distanced himself. It was, he thought, glancing back to his uncle, better than drowning his sorrows.
"Yes," he admitted, looking at Nate.
"Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need some help?" Now he started to sound more like the uncle he remembered-competent, caring, and honorable. The thought grazed by Typho's mind for just a moment before he pushed it away. What did he need to know about the informant, anyway? The more people became involved, the more confusing the matter became. The more were placed in danger.
"I miss her, too" Panaka said, reading Typho's feelings and drawing a sharp breath from his nephew. That he could still feel pain was not in doubt. "I know we're different, you and I, but don't think for one moment that if I could turn back time, prevent things, even at the expense of my life, that I wouldn't do it." The sincerity shone in his eyes now, the light, and memory of his uncle ever being drunk that night seemed to recede.
Typho wrung his large hands slightly and bowed his head, taking a breath. These were his mannerisms when the time came to consider a different path, to falter, and falter was a thing he rarely did. He was a focused and decisive man.
Different options toyed with his thoughts. Could his uncle help him? Would he really want to, with the underground means and subterfudge he was using?
But then, it doesn't really matter, does it, when you've both been discharged from law-abiding jobs, when the institution itself has been turned upside down, and you have no future.
Typho's thoughts ruminated in his mind, and he looked up, facing his uncle. Perhaps Nate cared about the cause and sought answers as much as he did, just in different ways. This could be a reason for him to move forward, to clean himself up. Typho prided himself on self-reliance and realized, finally, that he not only wanted his uncle's help, but that sharing his grief, and sharing a purpose, would lessen his burden.
He slowly brought his eyes to meet Nate, before lowering his defenses and deciding to speak.
