Meetra went to the cantina looking for a drink. At least, that's what she told herself. She was really looking for some space and a practical way to deal with her mind free of Kreia's intrusions. She also somewhat took to heart what the old woman had said as she strolled around Telos, taking in all she saw and heard. She had work to do, but right now, she was a hot mess. It could wait: her head still ached painfully and her eyes felt constantly watery, but she found herself being able to force a sort of calm acceptance through the nausea bubbling in her stomach.

Clarity, weak and unstable came and went with her concentration. At moments she even felt solid from the inside out; a feeling she had not experienced in years.

She glanced around her surroundings outside the cantina, making sure the coast was clear before holding out her hand as nonchalantly as she could. She flicked her wrist slightly and a small smile danced across her lips as the door slid open seemingly of its own accord. A small triumph indeed, but discipline was paying off in some small way at least. She entered the bar, trying not to look too pleased with herself.

The cantina, creatively named Distinct Jemmen's was apparently one of the cleaner joints on Telos; still a den of debauchery and gambling, but at least it was tidy, well lit and smelled fairly respectable. Cigarra smoke hung in the air and the holovisions lining the walls cut through the haze, casting pleasing multicoloured hues on employees and patrons as they went about their evening.

A quick glance around the bar was perfect practice; the Rodian playing pazaak with the Bith on the end of the bar was counting cards, and somehow still losing. A Republic soldier, to all others merely enjoying a date with a pretty blonde woman was actually picking up a prostitute (nervously) for the first time.

Someone was far too drunk.

Someone in the corner was selling spice and... someone was watching her.

Not watching in a lecherous way, or for an easy pocket to pick. No, she could sense that someone in this bar had recognized her the moment she walked in the door.

Uneasy at this realization, and with the knowledge of the bounty on her head, she crossed the floor, passing the bar and the tables full of patrons and she sat in a secluded booth, but one that gave her full view of the door and the rest of the room. Who knew her face?

Her eyes swept the building, but no faces stood out to her and that was a worrying thought. Her head started to pound again and the bar became far too loud and bright as anxiety started edging into her being. Her fingers fumbled under the table to loosen the blaster in her holster. She slid it out subtly, resting it on her lap as the bar screeched around her.

She gritted her teeth and forced herself back to clarity and the light dimmed and the volume lowered, but the headache persisted. She failed to notice the figure standing by her table, looking down at her through a veil of smoke.

"Well hey there, stranger." He said.

The way he stood was familiar. His physique was unforgettable. She knew his blue eyes and pale hair as well as she knew her own name, yet she couldn't think of a single useful word to say now that he was standing right in front of her.

So instead of acknowledging his familiar greeting, she pulled out a cigarra and tapped the filter on the table before lighting it and simply saying, "Whiskey please, Corellian brand."

Of every cantina in the galaxy, Meetra Surik, you had to come to this one. The headache got worse.

"That's all you have to say?" He said, not budging. His face was friendly, his tone was amicable. Oh but she knew better.

"Oh yeah, and some crunch-peas too. Thanks for reminding me." She cleared her throat and ashed her cigarra.

He didn't reply this time. He just smirked and walked away.

Sleep with a bartender once or twice and it haunts you years later. She let out a huff and held her head in her hands when he was far enough away not to see her. That explains the instant recognition when I walked into the place...

Gordo Wils was his name. During the war, the executive class battleships often had fully serviced cantinas on board. Gordo worked at her favourite one... there wasn't much else to do other than plan strategy and drink.

He was a good man; light of heart and excellent at the art of conversation. Stimulating. She spent many of her nights in his cantina after hours, when all the other officers had gone to their barracks. They drank the night away, laughing and doing riddles... having mock lightsaber battles with damp, twisted bar rags. Her lips twisted at the memory of the welts.

He had made her feel good at a time of intense uncertainty and doubt. Her act of rebellion by joining Revan and Alek in the war weighed heavily on her conscience and if anything, she was drawn to the simple frivolity of hitting on the sweet, laid-back bartender with an easy disposition. He was brightness and positivity and in his eyes, Meetra Surik could do no wrong. Hero, although never as memorable as Revan and Alek had made themselves. Meetra Surik was the good bits of life, where the other two were the duty...

A distraction from the true weight of her choices. She clung to it.

Like many others, she would come to learn, he was drawn to her, for some reason that she still failed to understand. In his words, he told her once that she had inspired him to pursue his dreams in some creative endeavour or another... she could no longer remember what exactly it was. He told her he found beauty in her very existence; something she always felt a bit guilty about. He never really knew who Meetra Surik was.

By her own admittance though, she encouraged him, prompted him onto his goals, offered him willingly the sort of advice he craved... about being genuine and charismatic in all that he dare to achieve; that is how success is won, she would say, and then she would go off into the sea of tables, drink in hand, and make another friend or ten.

She remembered him, awestruck by her words, her casual confidence and effortlessly positive outlook. She was born to inspire, so it only seem fitting she inspire him. It was fair to assume he had idolized her to a point, even though he was a few years older than she was and any true inspiration was one sided; Meetra knew the hardship and trial and skeletons in various closets it took to get to where she was... he never wanted to accept it. To him, success was something you could just decide to do one day, send out a few dozen employment records, and have by then end of the week.

Fool.

Sweet and well meaning as Gordo Wils was, he was naive and soon she felt that she had become something of a coveted jewel to this man; a scrap of some tangible proof that dreams really do come true. She never dared to tell him how terrible she felt at night, despite all the dreams that had become reality.

She never lied to him; she meant it when she told him drunkenly one night that she loved him. It just turned out that for her, love meant something different.

It would never work and she knew it from the very start; The war was too demanding, Jedi were technically forbidden to love, and in all honesty, he was feeding off of her in a way that made her uncomfortable... she could feel it in the very Force: She was The General... not a docile pet, meant to be kept and doted upon. She was action. She was wild as the grass on Dantooine and as spirited as the sandstorms in the harsh, Tattooine deserts... she knew it too. It was her identity.

He wanted love songs, and displays of affection and declarations of commitment.

She wanted uncertainty and that tight feeling one gets in their stomach just before jumping into hyperspace.

Freedom.

Or recklessness.

He drained her of that feeling, so, regardless of all other notions, she cut the tie she had made in her own short-sighted blunder. She cut it hard and fast after the war was won: She visited the cantina less and less, sometimes going for a short time and disappearing when he was occupied with other patrons, claiming ignorance or an emergency when he asked where she went later. She stopped answering his calls on the holovid and sending him silly riddles from her datapad late at night. She gave him no goodbye, no explanation. She just faded out of his life; she saw no need to do anything further. She never looked upon the situation with remorse, although she had tried once or twice in earnest.

And now here she was. Caught in her own trap.

I shed people like snakes shed skin.

He returned to her table with her crunch-peas and not one, but two glasses and an entire bottle of whiskey. Not a good sign.

"Hey, Gordo, look..." she began as he set the order down and took a seat across from her in the booth. "I-"

"So what happened?" He interrupted. "I just... I never understood. Was it something I did... or said?"

She urged herself to take a calming breath; find a centre, prepare inwardly for what you owe this man... a damn explanation.

"It was never anything like that." Defend.

"Then what?" He asked when she failed to elaborate any further.

"It was... a difficult time. There were things I needed to do." Parry.

"So you just disappear? Stop coming around? Stop any sort of contact? I had no idea what happened to you." He said, hurt creeping into his voice.

"No one did." Meetra said, sinking into her booth a little bit, hoping for any sort of distraction that might call for an end to this conversation. A bar fight, a fire... anything. "It just seemed pointless." Stab. She admitted it, aware of the cruel honesty she could no longer hold back. "I had things to do... certain transgressions to answer for at the end of the war and everything between us was still so new. Better to sever the tie when it is young and soft, rather than further down the line when it is hard and tough, I think. It would have hurt you more."

Sever. Decapitate. Eviscerate.

That was the sort of honesty she never felt he could handle.

"But why like THAT." He pressed. "I just never understood. If you had gone about it differently... just talked to me, it could have been so much easier."

For you, maybe. She thought blandly, deciding to keep that remark to herself.

"I am sorry." She admitted, draining her whiskey. "I really don't know what else to say."

He threw back his whiskey and poured them another round.

"I just really hope you never do that to anyone else." He said in an unfamiliar tone she was not accustomed to hearing from him; disappointment through and through, where before there was faith and admiration.

She withered a bit, despite herself. She felt angry at these words; the rest of the verbal barrage was well-deserved, but this... this was a lecture she was not prepared for. It took everything she had in her to tuck her blaster in between her legs and throw back another whiskey with a smile on her face.

"I hear its polite to ask around here: Am I interrupting anything?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you're not!" She breathed, a charmingly flustered smile on her face, inwardly utterly relieved. "Atton Rand, Gordo Wils."

They acknowledged one another before Gordo stood up, leaving the bottle and his full glass.

"Poured you a drink." He said, offering Atton his seat. "Enjoy." He cast a final patronizing look at Meetra through the smoke before disappearing.

"So, was that what I think it was?" The scoundrel asked, not wasting anytime setting into the free liquor in front of him.

"It was." Meetra replied, still gazing across the smoky bar distractedly as Gordo's figure vanished into the smoke. "I wouldn't get anything from the kitchen. It'll have spit in it." It was more of a distant observation than a real warning.

Atton grinned at her.

"You talk like I haven't been in the exact same spot before, sister." He raised his glass to hers. Reluctantly, she kissed her brim to his. "Ever run out on a bar tab?"

A/N: This will be more... than... this. Probably. I basically just sat down and started writing and didn't stop for two hours. And it felt amazing.

I've written before and after this in this story... but this is what I *really* wanted to do right now. So here it is.

I apologize for nothing.