On Corucsant, it feels vaguely like she's drowning.
The events on Ord Mantell catches up with her – a cold chill down her back, a jolt of adrenaline to her system at the most unexpected of times - as she moves across those fancy pavements in the best parts of the very heart of the Republic where the political turmoil of its capital does nothing to make her feel less overwhelmed.
At least she's not alone in it.
"It's gorgeous here," Erviel says as they head for the Senate tower. "Didn't think I'd get to see this."
"This is limited to the elite," the sergeant replies, quiet and composed as ever; he nods towards a pair of tall towers glittering in the sun. "The less important people are left in the undercity, at the mercy of the gangs and the slavers."
She doesn't have to ask where his sympathies belong or where he, perhaps, once had belonged himself; his posture, that angry little fire at the very bottom of his gaze speaks louder than words. There's the limitations of her upbringing right there, the lack of perspective, the missing links to the rest of the galaxy. The whole universe that isn't defined by regs and protocol and hard regimens of blaster training and survival simulations. The whole universe that runs on other things, far less suited for breaking down into understandable, well-organised charts.
Charts are her thing. Corrupted senators and complicated chains of galactic politics belong to the category that really aren't.
"I've no idea." She looks down at the evidence in her hand, resting behind the seemingly unimportant shell. It's a confession, of sorts, the fact that she tells him at all. An admitted defeat. "About any of this. Blasted politicians."
For a while they're both silent, then Jorgan clears his throat. "I'd have exposed her, sir."
"Yeah?" she asks and he nods once and very definitely, a gesture of certainty. If you can't feel it, fake it. Who told her that? Good advice, at any rate. "I guess you're right. The people of Coruscant deserve the truth."
"The people of Coruscant deserve a lot more than that." There's a tone in his voice that makes her look at him but he averts his gaze before she has time to catch it and the moment passes by, unmarked.
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On Coruscant, Aric half-expects her to drop his name when the interrogators repeat that one question he has been asking himself over and over and over. It sounds as foul in their mouths as it does in his head, its implications as frustrating.
"Do you believe that anyone serving on Ord Mantell should have seen this situation coming?"
The lieutenant doesn't hesitate; her voice is clear and low, a voice of command and authority.
"No, I don't believe anyone could have seen this coming," she says and for a fraction of a second Aric believes her.
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On Coruscant, they become a squad again as duty and purpose pull them together regardless of everything else. They fall into a simple, comfortable rhythm together – simple because it doesn't require much beyond cooperation and comfortable because it's a relief to be a soldier when it's all you know. The firm structure of it pressed into their shapes, protocol and regulations in their blood and bones, yessir, rightaway, sir and it's like breathing.
"That could have gone worse," Jorgan half-mutters from the dusk of the cantina.
"Such praise! Careful there, it might go to my head." Erviel puts down two glasses on the table in front of him and takes a seat. He looks at the drinks and then at her; she shrugs. "You're off the clock, sergeant, don't worry. Thought you said this place had the best Corellian whiskey on Coruscant."
Though he probably didn't mean he had any intention of finding out in her company, she adds to herself. Tough luck, Jorgan. The Havoc squad is going to be short on members for a long while yet, they'd better make the best of what they have.
"Never thought you paid attention to details, sir," he states flatly and reaches for his drink.
"If they're about booze or guns, I do."
He glances at her, something irritated in his gaze – no shock there, of course. She figures by now that he doesn't run on blood like the rest of them, instead he seems fuelled by an endless supply of disapproval and ideas for improvement. It makes him an excellent soldier, a good man (probably) and a huge pain in the ass.
"You've got a perfect service record," he says then, as though that would be a direct contradiction to her earlier remark. Perhaps it is. But that way she'll always have the upper hand, carrying the surprise card.
"I'm good at what I do." She thinks of all those months and years of training and her breathless, mindless determination to always come out on top, always win, always prove herself against the rest of the galaxy. She's never resisted a bet or a challenge in her life.
"A perfect record doesn't make a good leader."
It doesn't make a poor one either, she thinks, raising her glass again. These are the kind of retorts she's quickly learned to avoid. Of all the things he'll find to accuse her of, being dense isn't going to make it to that list.
"If you have any advice, I welcome it," she says instead to Jorgan's obvious surprise. "Give it to me straight."
He pauses for a beat, then nods, and for the first time since she met him she can see a trace of genuine warmth appear behind his composure.
"I'll remember that, sir."