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Chapter 3: Identification

The key was the center. He could never claim it from its current owner, even if he was oblivious to the treasure he held. But if the current owner was to throw away the key, or better yet, reject it; well, that would suit his purposes well. It had been a hard step to take, this final one; for he had crossed a line that he knew all too well. And this time, there was no going back. He took the offer when it was presented to him, and that irrevocable action had set him firmly upon his course. When he had employed it, he had been driven even deeper. And now, he had only to wait and see the effectiveness. The trap had been triggered; the prey, oblivious to its impediment, had walked right in. Now he had only to wait and see how events played out.

Jagged Fel blinked disbelievingly at the display around him. Seeing the Ewok back at the bar had been bad; the associated memories the face provoked had only fueled his anger and caused him to tear up the bar even further. If they were going to torture him, fine, but it would be nice if they showed some decency about it. Darth Vader wasn't this cruel.

Abruptly, the cacophony stopped, and a male – and thankfully human – voice came over the speakers. "Tarfang, you stupid little fuzzball, stop messing with the controllers! If you want a look at him, fine, but let me do it before the computer explodes!"

Maybe they weren't trying to torture him, after all. The images of the bizarre Ewok disappeared, and were replaced with a single image of his interrogator. The interrogation actually hadn't been that bad; not even the Jedi would torture a prisoner, let alone some honest police officers in the back corner of the galaxy. The guy was a little unskilled, sure, but that wasn't his fault. Not everyone had the abilities of a Chiss. He was, however, glaring at Jag a little more angrily than he had before. In fact, he now looked like he wished he could tear his heart out and feed it to a Gungan.

"Can you hear me, Anor?"

Ah good, some entertainment. Good officer vs. bad officer. Anor's screen must not have been working, or else Jagged would surely be subjected to a kindly and sympathetic stare to counter the vile-looking glare Phenir was aiming his way.

"Answer me, you slimeball!"

Well. That ruled out the possibility that Anor was Zair's superior. Most of the time, in these situations, the bad officer was the higher one, anyway. It was odd for the assigned B.O. to be that abusive of his partner, though. Jag had no idea what bright-light psychologist had come up with this comedy routine, but it was a fair guess that he was recently graduated.

"I swear, scum, if you don't answer me I'm going to tear that silly beard of yours out by the roots and give it to Tarfang for a headdress!"

That was extremely odd. These guys needed to get their act together, or they would have Boba Fett wannabes wandering the streets while they interrogated Chadra-Fan grandmothers.

As the insistent officer kept spouting invectives at his poor subordinate, Jag tuned him out. At least, he tried to. The abrasive oaf was getting annoying, especially since he was glaring at Jag the entire time, as if his subordinate's lack of auditory sensitivity was his fault. At length, unable to stand it any longer, Jag yelled out, "Will you stop that! It should be obvious even to someone of your limited intelligence that Anor can't hear you, but I certainly can, and let me tell you that it isn't exactly interesting!

"So, first you're a death-sneezing, scaled-down biological version of the Death Star, and now you're schizophrenic? Nice. Real nice."

It occurred to Jag that he had probably made the psychologist's day. He wished that the idiotic fellow would turn his attention from Suspect Information Extraction to Employee Mental Health, because clearly, this man was insane. Jagged was about to wish for the Ewok again. "I'm sure that you're a fascinating conversationalist at parties, and Anor would really enjoy this, but could you tone it down a bit? Anor obviously isn't listening right now."

"I'll bet he isn't, you creepy di'kut. Since 'Nom Anor' isn't available, do you mind if I talk to, ah, you instead?"

Idle thoughts vanished from Jag's mind as an icy splinter wormed its way down his spinal cord. "Where did you hear that name?"

"From the Jedi Temple, spiceloaf."

Confused by the reference to a Corellian food, Jag stared at his deranged tormentor. "Nom Anor died in the crash-" he winced inwardly, remembering a holo one of the Chiss spies had captured "-aboard the personal flagship of Shimmra, the Supreme Overlord of the Yuuzhan Vong. What makes you think he can hear you now?"

"Holy bantha, you actually believe that? Well, since Anor can't hear me now, let me tell you this; he's as alive as you are, you backstabbing Gamorrean. And anyway, aren't you supposed to bow or kneel or stab yourself or something when you hear Shimmra's name?"

He gave up trying to puzzle out the Corellian food reference, and applied himself to this new challenge, with the same results. "Why would I do that, you kar'laka?" Jag had to get out of here. Any minute now, this 'security officer' was going to bring out a vibrosaw and start dismembering him. He had a sudden, horrible image of a police station taken over by a handful of deranged criminals wearing official clothing. "And since when is Nom Anor alive? I was told of his death by Jain…" The name he had been about to say stabbed him in the gut, and he stopped as quickly as if he'd been about to fly into a black hole. For an interminable minute, the world around him dissolved into spinning darkness. Not again… He fought to stay above the whirlpool sucked at his mind, pulling it in with the voraciousness of a Sarlacc sensing prey. Frantically he thrashed out with his mind, attempting to focus on something, anything, other than the word that was trying to kill him. You will never think of her name again without pain. She is the ruination of your life, and the bane of your existence.

He came out of the blackness slowly, but once he was out, his mind cleared and the tactical analysis that it was best suited to came flooding into his consciousness. Zair Phenir, voice still tight and furious, crashed into his ears once more.

"…yeah, I bet you can't talk about your shaper masters, the ones who created you. Oh no, they probably implanted a block along with your second personality, along with your Death Sneeze, along with all the rest of your…"

Death Sneeze? Somebody had been watching too many low-budget Rebel Alliance spyflicks. It sounded like some weird 'advanced technology' that the hero would use to disable his captors in one of those horrible productions with no plot and flashy vehicles, which the hero used to escape other spies and pick up pretty girls. He needed to stop, to think; The Name always left him drained and tired. Weakness had seeped into his limbs, and he found it hard to think properly.

"…crazy implants, you out-of-alignment rodder, and then they sent you out to fight a war they'd already lost, so who are you working for, what are you doing for those filthy savages who stole my Karley, remade her into some aberration, sacrificed her to one of your Yunny-whatever gods, why would you do something like that, why did you take her, she never did anything to you so why would you hurt an innocent girl like that, why would you steal her from me…"

Jag jumped as a short-barreled, repeating blaster –an E-Web, from the looks of it—swung down from the ceiling directly in front of him. Situated slightly on the far side of the room, above where an interrogator would normally be seated, it stopped a meter and a half below the abnormally high ceiling and unfolded itself. When its transformation was complete –0.27 seconds, the military-trained part of his mind reported to him, with a blast rating powerful enough to vaporize a bantha -- the E-Web, manipulated by a trackball and the hand of a madman, swung around to face directly at him. Phenir's voice grew in pitch and volume, and the man's face contorted into a mask of hate so distorted that he no longer looked entirely human.

"…she was on vacation, visiting her grandmother, the only other relative she had in the galaxy, and you came and stole her away from me, ruined her, experimented on her, scrambled her brain up, and when she was no good to you…"

A blinking orange light flashed on the housing of the E-Web, showing that it was armed and ready to blast Jag into pieces. Zair was screaming now, sobbing through his anger and hatred.

"…took her, just threw her life away like garbage, my poor precious Kayley, alone in the universe, she died screaming in front of one of your kriffing statues…"

All sluggishness was gone from his limbs and mind, now. Jagged Fel had faced death too many times not to know when it was staring him in the face, and his body reacted accordingly, flooding him with adrenaline and the powerful desire to live, despite his pain, despite his misery. All the times he had half-heartedly wished for death were blown away and suddenly, abruptly, he was his old self. Gone was the pain, gone was the darkness in his mind. He could think clearly for the first time in… months? …and he saw how vulnerable he was. He knew all too well how quickly death could claim someone, anyone. Licking his lips, which were suddenly dry, he spoke carefully, shifting his gaze from the E-Web to the maniac controlling it.

"Listen, Zair, I've got no idea who or what hurt your, ah…"

"My niece, you-"

"…your aunt. You're in control here, so lets keep this calm and talk to each other like reasoning, sentient beings. You have the power here, you're in charge, and we need to-"

"You're not a 'reasoning being,' Huttslime, and you're certainly not sentient. No, all your kind are is just mindless mutations, with no human thoughts or feelings, no sympathy, no love, just wackos with a weird philosophy, who think they ought to rule the universe…"

That hit a little too close to home, in more ways than one. With a voice like ice, he said, "If every anti-alien bigot like yourself got on board one great big ship and flew straight into a black hole, the galaxy would be a lot better off. Just because a group of sentients espouses a different philosophy than you do, just because they like their privacy and home, doesn't give you the excuse to-"

"Oh, if you liked your home so much, why didn't you stay there, eh? Why did you have to come here and sacrifice Koley to Yun-Nerfhead, eh?"

A small portion of his mind began to clamor for his attention, and he knew something important had just been said; but he didn't have the time to stop and think about it! He had to keep this man appeased and try to calm him down, or…"I don't know what glitbiter told you that story, but I assure you, the Chiss Defense Force does not conduct ceremonial sacrifices and certainly does not…" The niggling thought at the back of mind suddenly clarified, and realization of his predicament asserted itself. "Wait! You're saying she was killed by the Vong? What has that got to do to me, you screwed-up mental? I changed my mind, I want a lawyer now! Give me back the Ewok!"

"One Vong is as good as any other, fake human skin or no. I hear your kind like pain. Do you like pain? I'll show you pain, Nom Anor, and give you scars, oh yes, you'll be right up near godhood when I'm finished with you…"

The E-Web fired, and the blinding flash obscured Jag's vision. The tabletop in front of him splintered from the impact. He threw up his arm reflexively as fragments peppered his face and upflung arm, embedding themselves into his skin.

"…I'll do to you what you did to her. Prepare to meet Yun-Bantha, you murdering…"

"Hey! Stop, you delusional nerfherder! Just stop, OK? I have no idea what you're talking about. My name is Jagged Fel, not Nom Anor! I'm not a Yuuzhan Vong, I'm from Corellia, raised in Chiss space, and I fought with…" Once again, even in the midst of crisis, The Name intruded on his vision, daring him to utter it and face the abyss, worse than the abyss. "…everyone else in the galaxy against those di'kutla-"

"I'm not interested in your lies!" Another shot came from the E-Web, this one striking what was left of the table and passing right through, splintering the leg of his chair and dumping him unceremoniously on his shebs. "I'm so sick of being lied to, sick of being comforted! She's dead, and nobody can change that! I couldn't save her, I didn't even know she was dying, I was at a party…" The man in the viewscreen, now sobbing, lifted his hand to brush furiously at his eyes. His sleeve brushed the trackball, and the E-Web spun rapidly in a downward-aiming circle that covered every corner of the room. As he brought his hand back down onto the trackball, it fired into the door on the opposite side of the room, leaving it smoking and blackened – but unbroken.

Another voice came over the speakers then, a female voice that Jag identified as the female who had interrupted the interrogation…just before this all had gotten ugly. "Zair! Don't, he isn't worth it! Stop! You're just supposed to be interrogating him, not seeking revenge!" She sounded close to tears, pleading with the kriffing maniac, as if that would do any good. "…Nom Anor? I can't stop him from doing anything he wants to, since he's at the control station and down the hall off-site. He's locked me out of the control room, but I might be able to shut down the system remotely. Just hang on, OK? Just hang on. Zair? Zair, can you hear me? You need to calm down. There's going to be a record of this, and if I have to slice into your console to prevent you from killing a prisoner, there'll be an investigation. Zair? There'll be a record of this, Zair. Don't make me arrest you, please!"

He couldn't rely on someone else's rationality to save him from this. He pushed his elbows off the floor as hard as he could and contracted his stomach, catapulting himself off his back and into a standing position. Past his tear-stained cheeks, Zair Phenir watched him with crazed, burning eyes, manipulating the E-Web unerringly. "Lady! Arrest him, quick! This…spiceloaf is crazier than Darth Vader and the Emperor put together! And stop calling me Nom Anor! My name is Jagged Fel!"

"You are Nom Anor." The female sounded surprised. Maybe she was crazy too, maybe this was all some sort of sick plot to kill him, cooked up by a Peace Brigader he had slighted. "The Jedi Temple has confirmed it. And unless you want to spend your afterlife with Yun-Shuno, I suggest you make your peace with death and face it like a warrior." A tinge of sarcasm entered her previously kind voice. "The abomination I'm manipulating doesn't have the authority to overrule his abomination."

What did the god of the Shamed Ones have to do with anything? Sure, he knew from Tahiri through…blast, there he went again! Through the Solo's, that any Vong refusing to face death with honor and in the name of the Yuuzhan Vong would be automatically Shamed and denied his place in paradise, but what that had to do with him he didn't know.

"Listen, if I'm going to die, I don't want to die because some bloody demented official on a backwater planet thinks I'm a Yuuzhan Vong who killed his aunt!" Desperately, Jag looked around the perimeter of the rectangular room, a scant four meters across and two meters wide. There has to be some way I can shield myself from it…there!. Slowly, and with every indication of fear and surrender, he backed backwards and to the right, the blaster tracking his every move. When he reached the corner, he paused, knowing that what he was about to do was foolish. Then he jumped.

------------------------

With every bit of his agility, honed by the years of exercise to make him battle-ready and tough, flexible and lithe, he launched himself to the left. As fast as he could move, he approached the wall, accelerating. The two meters between himself and the far wall flashed by in a heartbeat. Instead of turning as he reached the wall, he angled slightly when he reached it and jumped, feet first, onto it. The combination of his angle and impetus allowed him to, instead of bouncing off, momentarily maintain his speed and run parallel to the gravitic pull of the planet below him. He continued to yell to the female, almost unaware he was doing so. "If you don't…" His heart pounding, choking out the words, he exerted every muscle in his body to keep himself running straight. Barely able to speak for the amount of effort he was putting into a maneuver he had done once before in low-g, he ran across the four meters to the far wall, putting himself ahead and to the left of his earlier position in the chair. As his right foot touched the wall centimeters from the far corner he summoned his strength and threw his torso backwards, placing his body straight out from the wall, kicking off sideways with his right leg, whirling through the air like a Mon Calamari ballet dancer in microgravity, spinning to the right with his arms tucked close to his chest and his legs out straight, facing the floor, the near wall, the ceiling, the far wall, flashing by in a blurring spin, stark white corners and angles and the hate-twisted visage staring at him.

As the far wall spun by into the floor, he flung his left leg out at right angles to the door, and stretched his right hand out straight in front of him, like a dancer suddenly turned sideways and suspended in midair. His body continued its rotation, so that he was facing the floor, his left leg kicked out wide, his right arm outstretched above his head, the rest of his body straight as an arrow. As his body began to angle away from the door and towards the point where he had jumped onto the wall, eons ago, his outstretched right hand grasped at air, his body began to fall, to twist; and then his fingers closed around the ceiling-mounted stand for the protruding cannon, a good meter above the actual barrel of the weapon. He grabbed at it desperately, and did his best to halt his spin and throw himself sideways, parallel to the floor once again, using the strength of only his forearm. He left leg hit the far wall, his right the door wall, and suddenly all motion stopped.

He hung there, pushing with simultaneous and equal force against the wall and the cannon bracket with his feet and right hand, stretched out straight, straining with the effort of holding himself up. Bracing the heel of his sweaty palm against the cannon, he shut his eyes for a brief moment, barely aware that he was still screaming to the female, "stop hesitating and shut down that blasted control station, I'll be dead-"

In that moment of quiet, it clicked. Nom Anor, Yun-Shuno, the angry officer, the threat on his life, the kind, sympathetic female voice over the ceiling, telling him to make his peace and be a true warrior as he died. This was a test…in fact, it was a slightly more bizarre version of the one he had originally suspected. In a calmer voice, slightly angry at himself for being so easily fooled, he continued, "then I'll come back and use this and my lawyer to demote the both of you to garbage collectors. After that, I'll get to work on you."

Looking downward, he saw that his acrobatics to get out of the path of the laser cannon had been futile. Apparently, the E-Web was able to not only spin 360 degrees, but rotate its angle so it pointed upward. It was currently aimed directly at his torso, the end of the barrel only a half a meter away from his stomach. As he looked at the barrel, mildly surprised but no longer concerned, the viewscreen in the door flickered out. A hologram of Zair Phenir grew out of the wall in its place, also parallel to the floor, and stared up at him. Jag smiled at him menacingly. Phenir's already distorted face twisted itself further into hatred and anger, and he slid his hand over the trackball.

"I guess it's Yun-Poodoo for you after all, Vong. Hope you're ready."

The E-Web's readiness light blinked from orange to blue, a bare half-meter from his nose. Stunned, Jag opened his mouth before the creep could blast him and said "You and your Yun-Poodoo can go space yourse-"

The E-Web fired. The bolt ripped into his torso, and he collapsed onto the floor like a boneless Quarren, striking the still-smoking E-Web on the way down.

----------------------

Jagged absolutely hated waking up after being hit by a stunbolt. The slow recovery of senses, the initial paralyzation, the confusion and nausea, all combined to make it an extremely unpleasant experience. The smell of fresh ryshcate helped things out somewhat, though.

He opened his eyelids, once he figured out how they worked, and stared at a pair of green eyes from the uncomfortably close range of four centimeters.

"Khi." He croaked.

"Hi yourself. What's that smell? Is the station burning down?"

It's ryshcate, you idiot, and furthermore I am going to tear your neck off of your shoulders and feed it to a food processor! Stang, I hate this!

After a moment, Jag realized he had forgotten to actually speak the words, so with dignity and precision, he said; "It'sh ryshkhathe, you biddyit, amd fhurthairmhar, I-"

"You passed. Definitely Corellian origins. No need for 'furthermore', either, so for the sake of my eardrums, save the exultations of delight until you learn how to use your tongue again."

With that reassuring bit of medical advice, Zair Phenir withdrew to a more comfortable range, and pressed a button on the medical drip attached to Jag's arm. While he recovered, he looked around the room he was now in.

It was a pleasant space, warm and well-lit, with gray upholstered seating and tables, perfectly suited for sabacc. It looked an awful lot like a pilot's Down Time station, a comfortable place to relax after a mission. The walls were painted in soothing colors, which provided a stark contrast to the crazily upholstered furniture and the raucously decorated games and entertainment consoles that were scattered about the room. Everywhere he looked, there were tables and couches and games; even a small kitchen was visible through a door into a side room.

Zair, noting his gaze, said "We didn't need to keep you in the interrogation room anymore, so we moved you to the lounge. Hope it's more comfortable."

The reminder of why he was so uncomfortable in the first place fueled his anger, and he discovered he could talk after all.

"What was that all about, you di'kutla maniacal Sith you, I ought to rip you up into little bitty…"

"I'd like to see you try it. Truly. It would be an amazing fight. However, if you're going to do that, let me know beforehand so I can produce a clone of myself to do the fighting for me. I saw the wreckage of Ikondres' place." He frowned thoughtfully. "I'd still like to know how that Weequay hit the bar hard enough to crack it…but I'll pass on the demonstration, thanks. Technically, you're still my prisoner, so it wouldn't be very smart of me to let you-" Catching sight of Jag's murderous expression, he hurried on. "At any rate, I think it's time to get a little explaining done.

"Raal and I had to play out that little charade for one purpose, and one purpose alone. We had to be absolutely sure that you weren't Nom Anor."

"Nom Anor died in the…" Jag let his voice trail off. There was no need to start that all over again. "So none of that was for real?"

"No. The only aunt I have ever had is most likely back on Hapes, getting her chin lasered. When she visited earlier this week, I told her that if she was going to grow a beard, she might as well make it a full one. She left in a huff and hopefully made an appointment."

"Loving family." Jag wasn't quite sure if he was serious or not. His own mother had certainly never had any hair on her chin, and neither had….fierfek! "Why did you think I was Nom Anor?"

Zair leaned forward again, serious once more. "Because the Jedi Temple flagged your name, and told us you were. Given your reaction to, and opinion of, the Jedi, it made sense."

"The Jedi Temple told you that I was-" Again his voice trailed off, out of disbelief this time. He had heard plenty of stories about ex-girlfriends exacting revenge from the pilots he flew with during the Vong War, (his favorite one, which had something to do with a pile of clothes in front of a food processor and a suicide note, came from a bald man with a wicked-looking mustache and a cheerful smile, whose name he could not remember) but he never heard anything quite as preposterous as this. "Who created the flag?" He already knew the answer. And even as he realized he knew it, panic set in. He would hear the name again, was about to think it, and the blackness waited for him! He tried to take back the words even as they left his mouth; he knew the agony that awaited him now. He wished he could take the words back. He didn't want to hear her name, he wished he had never heard her name…

"A Jedi Knight named…"

You will never be able to hear her name again without pain. If anyone so much as whispers it in your presence…she is the ruination of your life, and the bane of your existence.

…Zekk."

The blackness that waited to swallow his mind vanished. Still frantically trying to ward it off, Jag did not even notice for a long moment, until comprehension sunk in. When it did, Jag couldn't respond. He had almost…no, he had gotten shot, all on the orders of that woman's current toy? That guy had some learning to do. Women just plain weren't worth it. Jag felt nothing but sympathy –well, there was some hatred, disgust, murderous rage, and jealousy thrown in, but he wasn't about to acknowledge it—for the poor fellow, who would discover soon enough that…that woman and the Jedi weren't worth anything. They were incapable of normal feelings and loves, caring only for power and whatever weird philosophy they currently espoused.

Words exploded from his lips in a disbelieving tumble, without him needing to think about them. "Zekk wanted me shot!"

"No. Our orders were to place you in a comfortable cell, treat you well, and leave you alone until Jedi Zekk reached here."

Jag rubbed his aching stomach where he had caught the blaster barrel on the way down, and peered ruefully at his arm, where fragments of tabletop had embedded themselves under his skin. "I'm glad he didn't tell you I was dangerous and needed to be treated forcefully, then. Mind if I sue?"

"Sure, go ahead. Of course, that terribly clumsy Ewok had a little accident with the recording device in the room, and Sullustans have notoriously bad eyesight…"

"Yeah, I get the holo. Never mind."

The door opened and Raal came in, smiling brightly. "Glad to see you're feeling better."

"Largely due to your efforts to save me from the madman and shut down the control room."

She turned bright red and surreptitiously glanced at Zair. "Yes, well, sorry about that, but we had to make sure that you weren't-"

"Nom Anor, I know.' Jag waved her off tiredly. "Zair here already explained that bit to me. What he didn't explain was that mad Ewok. Where you found that little gem, I'd like to know…"

The door banged open. Tarfang and Juun walked in, trailed by an old translator droid with a deep dent marring its head dome, and fresh tooth marks and saliva on the old metal of it's forearm.

"Sithspit." Jag was not happy. "Now I know my existence is nothing but a series of ghastly horrors strung out one after the other. What in Kessel brought you here?"

Juun smiled happily. Tarfang glowered. Zair hid a smile. Raal laughed aloud.

The QTD said, "Why sir, I was brought here 27.63994 standard years ago by a Incom T-63 Skyhopper, when my interpretation services were no longer required by my former employer and I was purchased by the Planetary Security Force of-"

"Shut up." That explained the dent, at least. Tarfang's presence was all the explanation needed for the attempted bite. "Juun, Tarfang…why are you here?"

"We came to help you."

"How the garzal did you recognize me?"

"Well, after the destruction of the Dark Nest at Qoribu, we were present in the control room of the Kendall when you had your holocomm conversation with Jedi Knight Zekk and Jedi Knight-"

"Enough!" Surprised at the forcefulness and violence in his voice, they all stared at him. He calmed himself quickly; The Name had not been spoken. "I already knew you from briefings from the Chiss Intelligence division. But none of this explains what you were doing in that bar, and what you are presently doing at my interrogation."

Zair gave an exaggerated start and stood, stretching languidly. "Oh, right! I'd forgotten that you were still our prisoner. Fetch me something cold to drink, will you?"

Raal gave him a sideways look and said, "Shut up, Zair."

Juun said cautiously, "Why, Jagged Fel, you do not seem happy that we are here to help. Technically, you are now considered an ally, and our procedural manual mandates that we-"

"I don't want or need any help, thank you very much. In fact, the fewer reminders of any previous life I may have led I receive, the better!"

Raal stared at him, sympathetic tears in her eyes. Juun merely looked bewildered.

He stared at her, then growled, "I don't want your pity!"

Zair stepped between them all. "If you don't settle down, Tarfang is going to pick up on the mood and start fighting with the droid again—ow!"

Shaking his leg in an attempt to dislodge the Ewok, Zair performed a comical dance around the room. Everyone laughed, and even Jag smiled.

When Tarfang had been persuaded to unclamp his jaws and Raal was engaged in bandaging Zair's leg, Jag continued. "I merely want to live out my life quietly, away from wars and starfighters and…Jedi. I want to be able to drown in sorrow if I want to, pick a bar fight and go berserk if I want to, hop from planet to planet when I get bored. I don't want a 'normal' life. I had my chance, and she left me. Now I just want to live out my days in peace and misery, thank you very much."

Zair, who had been staring wistfully at Raal's face -she was pretty, Jag noticed abstractly- during the bandaging process, looked away from her as she raised her eyes to his. Her face was slightly flushed, and her breathing had quickened, but his hasty aversion of his gaze prevented him from noticing. He shifted his attention to Jag, face reddening almost imperceptibly.

"Listen, Jag, now that we know who you are, I think that the charges aren't so serious that you should be held. We'll just tell this Jedi Zekk when he comes that we had already released you. The holograms of your cell will verify this, since we put them onto a continuous loop of an empty room. We didn't want, ah…we didn't want the more creative aspects of your interrogation recorded."

"I understand," Jag interjected dryly.

"At any rate…you're free to go. Do you need help? A ride someplace? A meal?"

He half-smiled, thinking of the canny investments his parents had made. "I'm fine, thanks. But if you wanted to drop me off at a bank, it would be appreciated."

"Sure. My speeder's out back. Raal and I will drop you off…"

Tarfang chittered.

"…and these two will come along for the ride," he sighed.

Jagged spun on his heel and left the room, heading for the wrong door. Raal stared after him, with those tears back in her eyes. "He's in such pain…oh, the poor man. He needs someone to comfo-"

Desperate to stop her before she lost her mind entirely, Zair interjected, "Say, Raal, did I ever tell you about that time when I was fourteen that Zephany Broshgar told me I was short? I tell you, I walked around depressed for six months after that. Sometimes I still find myself looking up at Wookiees and thinking, 'Why me?'"

She gave him a conciliatory smile and swept out of the room, stopping Jag before he walked into the trash room. She took his arm to lead him out to her speeder. "Women," Zair sighed. "He has emotional pain. I have emotional pain. What's the difference?" Tarfang said "Hyooo, thaboota!" and nodded sympathetically.