Chapter: 3

Vick Fleen cursed as he sprawled on the nose of the A-Wing snubfighter, the upper half of his body submerged in the cockpit. Due to his inverted posture, sweat trickled from his chin to his forehead, trailing through the mottled patches of oil and grease on his cheeks as he fought with the fighter's internal wiring. The accumulation of filth covering his body was severe, but to a boy who'd grown up a technician, always up to his elbows in one repair job or another, it was far from uncomfortable to be so dirty.

He twisted slightly, shifting out of the awkward position, and accidentally hit a switch on the control panel with his elbow. With a cough, the A-Wing's twin engines roared to life. Vehement blue sparks geysered from the outlets below the control panel where vital wires were disconnected, and the snubfighter's exterior vibrated beneath him angrily in protest.

Oh, goddammit –

Vick slammed the switch again – with his fist, purposely this time. The wailing engine shut off instantly, and the sparks that had fallen on the transparisteel gradually flickered out of existence. He'd forgotten to reconnect the failsafe, and he was fortunate the exposed fuselage hadn't started slinging petrol as a result.

Berating himself, Vick lay back on the starboard s-foil and closed his eyes for a moment. The hangar echoed with the sounds of other mechanics working, and the air was cool enough to dry the sweat on Vick's forehead.

He lay still a moment longer, exhausted, until he heard the questioning beep from somewhere behind him. Forcing his eyes open, Vick found himself looking up into the single photoreceptor of the orange–trimmed R5 astromech droid he'd hijacked from the maintenance bay. "Sport", the Verpine tech chief had called it.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said irritably, forcing himself to sit up. "Sorry about that."

Sport swiveled its flowerpot head slightly, gazing quizzically at him. It tootled a series of singsong spats and whistles, clearly admonishing him to be more careful, then swiveled its head back around and returned to the task Vick had assigned it – recalibrating the port laser bank.

I do have to be more careful, the boy from Tatooine thought sourly, folding his legs beneath him as he watched the astromech's ultra–human precision. Equipment is scarce these days, and I don't want to get myself kicked out of the squadron… Having to order another brand new fighter because I broke the one I haven't even flown yet could do the trick.

Green Squadron, a week or so away from receiving its active–duty commission, had been granted seven A-Wings by the Galactic Alliance, and the remaining five were being paid for by the Provisional Council. As yet, only the initial seven had arrived in the hangar, but the rest were assuredly on their way.

Assuming the Vong fleet didn't catch up with them beforehand, Commander Corsurge wouldn't complain about the delay. The aging CO was decidedly the cautious type and never seemed to be satisfied with anything. He wasn't necessarily a glass–half–empty persona, but if there was anything at all within consideration that could stand improvement, Corsurge would find it and improve it. Building Green Squadron from the ground up was a massive project in which the commander had invested much time and energy: seeing his pilots fly into combat unprepared was something he simply wasn't going to do.

That was fine by Vick: not only did it give him the time he wanted to work on the A-Wing he'd been assigned, but it was more time to stay alive. He wasn't a coward by any means, nor was he afraid of dying, but life was something he'd always taken for granted before joining the squadron. In retrospect, the years he'd spent working in Tosche's repair bay back on Tatooine seemed blurred together, but during the time, they had passed so slowly. Crawling around beneath sandspeeders and Incom 5s had been a passion of Vick's, but it had been his only passion. Now that he'd escaped Tatooine, there was so much he wanted to do – things he didn't even know yet.

And on top of that, he had a lot to prove – to Commander Corsurge, to Farve, to himself. Barely 20, he was the youngest member of the squadron, a position that was daunting yet beneficial. People like Seth and Captain Ven were role models he could follow, people from whom he could learn invaluable lessons. But proving his ability was also essential, if only to avoid being treated like the baby of the family.

Ever since their first meeting, Farvebacca had always treated him gently, forever an overprotective sibling, but not in any sort of demeaning way. The brotherhood Vick and the Wookiee shared was a bond closer than friendship – something that was almost inexplicable. But it was time for Vick to really step out as who he was: confident, self–reliant, independent.

I need to learn to stand on my own.

He swung his legs back into the cockpit and slid down to a crouch amidst the tangles of wiring. He had temporarily removed the command couch so that he could tinker with the cockpit wiring and put things back together as he pleased.

His first and only job back on Tatooine had been working with landspeeders and skyhoppers at Tosche Station just outside Mos Eisely, not far from the wastes where he and his father had lived. He'd been eight years old on the first day he'd wandered into the sand–blasted refueling station, and Farvebacca, the lonely Wookiee who had been working at Tosche's for barely a month on less than minimum wage, had been well into his sixties. An immediate camaraderie had sprung up between them, and Farve had been delighted to show the quiet, inquisitive boy around the shop and repair bay, attempting to communicate through various woofs and hand gestures.

Days had passed in a similar manner, then weeks. It hadn't been long before the aging Tosche had offered Vick an under–the–table job assisting Farve on speeder maintenance, and from there it had only been a matter of time before the 10–year–old boy was repairing everything from shuttles to droids to speederbikes all on his own. Farve taught Vick everything there was to know about vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and makes, and Vick had quickly learned how poorly constructed brand new vessels of any class could be. The Wookiee's intuition in vehicular mechanics had translated itself to Vick in more ways than just head knowledge, and as a result, he preferred to perform his own maintenance – if only to fix all the faulty systems the droid assembly lines had carelessly glossed over.

"Nice ship."

There had been silence in the hangar bay for well over two hours – save for his mishap mere minutes prior, the steady hum of the Kiss, and the irregular but decidedly background noises accustomed to a maintenance hangar. As a result, Vick jumped at the voice and hit his head on the transparisteel viewport. He sat down hard and saw stars dancing before his eyes.

"Are you okay?" The voice was distinctly feminine and it had a melodious ring.

Great first impression. Clumsy Vick Fleen: under–socialized runt from Tatooine. Got too much sand in his head, spent too much time with Banthas and a Wookiee.

Massaging his head furiously, Vick sat up – more carefully this time – and peeked over the rim of the cockpit.

A woman of medium height stood beneath the small service ladder hanging on the A-Wing's starboard s-foil. She was clad in a green New Republic flight suit, carrying a helmet tucked under one arm. Despite the thick clothing she wore, Vick couldn't help but notice the full breasts or the long, athletic legs. She was quite attractive in the face, and now hers was an expression of scrutiny as her eyes met his, and Vick had the oddest feeling that she was reading his mind.

He suddenly realized that he was staring. Say something, idiot.

Vick blushed, blinked and straightened. "I'm sorry?" It probably hadn't been the best option available for conversation, but Vick wasn't necessarily up on social skills.

The dark–haired woman arched an equally dark eyebrow at him. Her gaze was intense, like staring into Tatooine's twin suns. "I complemented you on your ship."

He was sure the reiteration hadn't been intended rudely – it had just come out that way. Vick winced, rubbing his head roughly as he crawled out of the cockpit. He quickly scaled the nose of the A-Wing in a crouch, and climbed down the service ladder. As he came to stand beside the woman, he realized that he stood nearly a half–a–head taller.

I've always been the short one in any group, especially standing next Farve. The change was not unwelcome.

The woman looked up at him, strangely not dwarfed despite the variation in size.

Vick gestured vaguely at the cockpit. "Er – sorry, I just get carried away with my maintenance."

She favored him with a small smile. "I think I'm the one who needs to apologize – I tend to 'jump to conclusions' as the phrase goes."

Vick smiled too. "Ah – forget it. It's nothing." He turned abruptly and ducked under the A-Wing's nose. "So you're a fan of the RZ-3?"

"In most respects," the woman replied, watching him as he flipped open the panel on the snubfighter's belly that housed the forward sensor array. "I've heard rumors that these newer models have somewhat inferior handling when it comes to really tight flying. There's more give in the rudder than the RZ-2."

"Not after I'm done with it," he called to her, smiling even though she couldn't see his face. "I take it you're an applicant for the squadron?"

Her voice echoed in the hangar as she replied. "Just got out of the simulator. Commander Corsurge told me to take a look around while he and Captain Ven discuss my scores."

"I guess we'll be getting to know each other in the future, then." Vick swore as he realized that he would need a wrench to open the internal access panel and ducked back out of the compartment. Immediately, he smacked his head on the distended landing gear attached to the fighter's belly, causing him to see stars for a second time.

The woman pilot fought a giggle as he staggered back against the landing strut, grasping his head. The laughter was out of character for one who was presumably so serious. "Apparently you're not hard of hearing – just clumsy!"

Vick growled, rubbing his throbbing head tenderly. "I thought people from Dathomir were serious."

The woman's mirth faded into an inquisitive look. "How did you know that I was Dathomiri?"

Smiling despite his watering eyes, Vick pointed at the patch on her jumpsuit directly over her heart and a little to the left. "Your flight patch has Dathomiri colors on it. I recognized them."

For a moment, she said nothing. Finally, a smile began creeping slowly over her face, and she extended her hand to him. "Maybe," she said with a trace of amusement, "you are perceptive. Have you visited my home planet before?"

Vick shook his head. "Oh, no – I've just studied a lot. Useless information, mostly. Reading is somewhat of a hobby of mine. Not much else to do but roll around in the sand on Tatooine." He took her hand in his. Hers was smaller, but although petite, he could feel great power emerging from her.

Her grip is like iron.

"My name is Teneniel Tyra," she said. Her green eyes flashed almost violently.

"Vick Fleen," he replied awkwardly. He dropped her hand and stood back to look at her, folding arms over his chest. "Dathomir… Can't say I've never met anyone hailing form there before. I can't recall, but something about the place sticks out in my mind…"

She smiled grimly. "The Nightsisters."

Vick shivered involuntarily. Jedi witches. Yeah, that was it. "I always thought they were stories told to frighten children into being good," he told her, grinning. "Guess not, huh?"

Teneniel shook her head; dark locks danced over her face. "No. My name is steeped in their lineage. I am the only child of a reformed Nightsister." Understandably, she placed significant emphasis on the adjective: mention of her blood would have caused many to frown upon her.

Vick was suddenly struck by revelation as to why he'd thought Teneniel had been reading his mind earlier – she had been.

"So, you're a witch?" he asked as though he couldn't care less, turning to ascend the ladder to the cockpit again.

"I didn't say that," Teneniel replied crisply, ice lending razor edges to her words.

He paused at the top rung and looked back down at her. "You're a Nightsister then."

"I didn't say that either," she refuted, looking back up at him. "Technically speaking, I am a Jedi learner or padawan. Whichever title you prefer. I impugn the Nightsister ways and have separated myself from them."

Absently, Vick handed Sport the fusion cutter it had been looking for. "Why did your mother decide to leave the Nightsisters? If you don't mind my asking."

She shook her head. "Not at all. During a battle between the Singing Mountain Clan and the Nightsisters, a woman named Teneniel Djo – who was aiding the Singing Clan – saved my mother's life. So, in honor of her rescuer, she renounced her old ways forever and named me after Djo. I am her only descendant."

"Aren't yours the people who capture their mates?" Vick asked abruptly, poking his head out of the cockpit to retrieve the laser cutter from the astromech. He caught the wordless smile she threw up at him and implied meaning it carried. Somewhat nervous all of a sudden, he ducked back into the cockpit and changed the subject. "Teneniel Djo is the queen of the Hapes Cluster now, no?"

"Until several weeks ago, yes, she was." The tone of Teneniel's voice deepened with sadness. "Her daughter, Tenel Ka now rules in her place."

Vick grimaced. Too many had died beneath the Yuzzhan Vong onslaught.

He looked around the cockpit in silence, realizing that since the conversation with Teneniel had begun, he'd accomplished nothing. Sithspit, he thought mildly. He couldn't work well while he was talking and never had been able to. It had driven Tosche crazy, but Farve had always found every opportunity to work together with Vick on a project.

He leaned over the side of the cockpit and rested his chin on his arms. "So, what can you do?"

Teneniel frowned up at him, confused. "Pardon?"

"Sorry – do you have any special Jedi talents?" he rephrased, genuinely intrigued.

The Dathomiri's frown took on a new origin. "I… I am not strong yet. I am still developing my skills. Being a self–taught Jedi takes time and effort."

"Can you show me something?" he requested, perhaps a little too brusquely to be polite.

Teneniel thought about the request for a moment somewhat reluctantly, but after a moment's hesitation, she closed her eyes and concentrated, drawing her brows together. "I seem to be somewhat gifted in the ability of telekinesis – you know? The movement of objects by one's mind?"

Vick nodded even though her eyes were closed, wondering what she was going to levitate. Then he realized that Sport was floating a foot away from him, several feet above the A-Wing's cockpit. The little robot screeched indignantly at him, demanding to be put down.

Vick blinked, then found his voice. He jerked a thumb at the Dathomiri woman. "Curse at her."

Teneniel's lips parted in a small smile. The effort of concentrating caused beads of perspiration to form on her forehead and cheeks. Slowly, she set Sport (still blatting furiously) back down on the A-Wing's s-foil, and then put a hand out against the service ladder to steady herself, breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" Vick asked, quickly climbing out of the cockpit and crawling toward the edge of the fighter's nose.

"I don't normally have audiences," she explained, wiping away sweat from her temples. "The Force is not very strong in me."

"Could have fooled me. That was amazing!" Vick raked fingers back through his hair in numb disbelief and immediately regretted the action because of the engine grease covering his hands. "I've never seen anything like that before."

Teneniel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It will be more impressive once I've mastered my technique."

"It's impressive now," Vick assured her. He swung his body over the edge of the A-Wing and began descending the ladder once more. "How long have you been studying?"

"Since I was small," she admitted, twisting her lips into a look of wry dissatisfaction as he landed on the deck beside her. "It goes without saying that I've not made significant improvement. I suppose it's to be expected because I've never been as disciplined as I should… I've spent more time flying snubfighters than applying myself to personal credence."

She lapsed into silence with a shrug.

Unable to turn the negative around, Vick changed the subject instead. "So how'd you do in the sim run?" he asked, leaning against the A-Wing's hull. "Did Commander Corsurge have you fly the Redemption scenario or Loose Hand?"

Teneniel's eyes brightened considerably as she looked back up at him. "Redemption. I vaped Captain Ven in the first run – he was in a TIE – but then the Wookiee got me from behind in the second. Commander Corsurge says I'm a natural."

Vick felt a spark of pride over Farvebacca's success, but at the same time his jaw dropped.

She smiled at his surprise and continued. "My total score was 2083. I'm hoping they'll let me stay on."

Vick laughed as though the statement was amusing and shook his head in disbelief. "If you can vape the XO, they're not gonna get rid of you anytime soon. Damn! I can't even touch Captain Ven!"

Teneniel took her pilot's helmet in both hands, studying the carbon scoring that marred the timeless insignia of the Rebel Alliance. "I just got lucky. The other trainees were screening me as he and the other TIEs hit us head–on. I just popped up and nailed him with a concussion missile at point blank range." She snorted a small laugh. "But Captain Ven is human. He and I are on the same playing field despite our differences in skill. I shudder to think of actually facing the Yuuzhan Vong while a Yammosk is coordinating them…"

They both were silent for a long, weary moment.

The Alliance had been actively hunting down the Yammosks, but it had proven difficult to probe into Vong territory when the fleet was on the retreat and the space the Far Outsiders controlled was only broadening. The Yammosks were living organisms that coordinated the Vong fleet into a single unit of destruction by joining the minds of each Vong pilot into a singular consciousness. Nothing could be as perfectly coordinated as the Vong coralskippers when they were connected by the brain creatures, seeing all through each other's eyes, thinking collectively, flying in perfect formation.

Vick blew out a sigh. "Commander Corsurge said he'd be putting us through intensive training against skips soon, though I'm not sure when. I haven't simmed against them yet, but some of the other pilots have actually flown against them for real."

"Captian Ven and Commander Corsurge for starters," Teneniel commented.

The boy nodded. "Right. And I think Led Sketz has too. Lieutenant Roulvecksch, I'm not sure. The rest of us are all new to this. I've fought smugglers before, but really I'm here because I know how to fix pretty much anything."

"And you can fly," Teneniel added, smiling in an encouraging sort of way.

"Yeah, that too." He grinned back, wiping grease from his hands onto his trousers. "Alright, I've had enough of this for now. Sport?"

Above, the astromech turned its bucket head around and fixed its photoreceptor onto the pilot's face.

"Make sure your tech friends don't take those tools away – I'm not through with them yet." Vick tossed the little droid a salute. "Just finish that one laser bank, would you?"

Sport gave him a whistle in the affirmative and went back to its labor as though there had been no interruption.

Vick turned back to Teneniel and offered her his arm, blushing and feeling stupid. "Care to continue our conversation over a drink?"

Teneniel smiled – whether at his exaggerated manners or his obvious embarrassment, it was hard to tell. She looped her arm through his, tucking her helmet under the other elbow. "You've got the sweeping a lady off her feet thing down and you're certainly charming, but usually a girl likes her date to be clean."

He laughed, unconsciously smearing hydraulic fluid on the back of his neck with his free hand. "But you've clearly already decided to go out with me anyway. Are you saying you're not the norm?"

"Hardly." She tugged him forward and he stumbled a little but managed to fall into stride with her without falling. "Seeing as you're so gentlemanly and polite, I just already know you're going to buy."

They stepped into the turbolift together and left the hangar behind, laughing all the way.

"Tell me about the Vong," Seth said, leaning on the table with his elbows.

Across from him sat Captain Dano Ven and Led Sketz, nursing their own drinks. The entire mood of the evening had been light and genial, full of laughter and small talk, but now the smiles faded from their faces at the request hanging in the air before them – like a black hole from the Core, sucking them in.

The bar in which they sat was relatively empty for being the dinner hour, but the thrum of the Kiss's engines was a comforting constant, filling any gaps in conversation. The evening was fading rapidly into night, but "night" was a decidedly relative term in space, so all chronometers in the fleet were set to Courascant time. The passing hours were easy to feel, especially for pilots in training.

When neither of the older men answered his request immediately, Seth leaned forward, setting his drink down on the tabletop. "You've both flown against them. I just want to know what exactly I should know about them – what to expect."

Dano took a sip of his Lum ale and bared his teeth as the liquid burned its way down his throat. "Well, what exactly would you like to know?" he asked mildly, swiping a hand over his mouth. "I'm sure you've heard all the stories, and for the most part they're true –"

"The skips," Seth clarified quickly. "They're good."

"Yeah, they're good," Led agreed, studying the drink he held in two hands. "They're real good. No shields, but you know they've got those gravity things – like black holes. Dovin basals. They suck in lasers and missiles to keep them protected. That's what stutter–fire was designed for."

Dano scratched at his unshaven cheek, squinting at the ceiling. "Works better with X-Wings 'cause they've got four cannon embankments."

"But our A-Wings can handle them," Seth said, and although he said it like a fact, it was more of a question.

"Skips aren't invincible, Seth – we can beat them." Led fixed him with a confident grin full of teeth. "They're damn maneuverable for asteroids, but we can beat them."

"We'll sim against them soon," Dano promised, studying Seth's face – perhaps for a reaction.

The Corellian pilot nodded mechanically. "Yes, sir – I'm looking forward to it." Even if he was nervous, it was the truth: the sooner they began, the better. The more practice he got in before facing the real thing, the more confident he'd be.

Led turned to Dano, letting a beefy elbow ride the tabletop. "How good are our skip programs? I mean, they've been significantly updated as the war's unfolded, but can they really simulate Vong tactics accurately?"

"Accurately enough," Dano replied with a shrug. "Feels like the real thing. Courascant's actually working on a skip sim for us to train in – for a more inside–the–other–guy's–head experience. Problem is that hood thing the Vong wear to control the ships. In the real thing, you steer with your mind. The design's not real easy to duplicate."

"But you said we'll sim against them soon," Seth said before he could stop himself.

"Keep your pants on, Seth," Led said with mild irritation, and Seth felt his face tightening at the older man's condescension. He held up an index finger. "Remember: no patience, no gain."

All three of them looked up as the newcomer came to stand beside the table and saluted smartly. He was a Bothan – instantly recognizable by the excessive body hair, violent eyes, and short stature. He was dressed in a simple brown tunic, devoid of any insignias or personal identification.

The three seated pilots returned the salute without formality, and Dano said, "At ease, Mr. Yuvahak."

The Bothan relaxed visibly. "Permission to join your table, Captain Ven?"

"Granted." The captain indicated the empty spot on the bench beside Seth, who immediately scooted over to make room. "Have a seat and drop the titles."

Looking distinctly uncomfortable over the latter part of the request, the Bothan sat slowly and folded his hands on the table in a dignified manner. He made no move to speak.

Dano took the hint. "Gentlemen," he said, indicating the Bothan to his human fellows, "I give you Croutz Yuvahak, newest entrée to the Green Squadron roster."

Ah, Seth thought, scrutinizing the Bothan carefully.

Led raised his cup in salute, smiling warmly. "Welcome to the club, Mr. Yuvahak. I'm Led Sketz, and this is Seth Joust. We're your squad–mates for the time being."

"Until we kick them out," Dano said with disinterest.

"It's a pleasure," Yuvahak said, as though oblivious to the jesting. He inclined his head at the two pilots in turn, spitting each with a mild glare. "Please call me Rusty."

"Can do," Led replied easily, offering a smile.

Dano flagged the bartender with a finger for another round of drinks, winking at Seth (who was purchasing them, as was the obligation). "I trust you found your quarters easily enough?"

Rusty nodded shortly, without enthusiasm. "Yes, sir. They're comfortable."

The captain snorted a laugh, drawing grins from Led and Seth. "You don't have to lie for my sake, Rusty – I didn't design them." He took a mouthful from his drink and growled as he swallowed. "They're tighter than a Sarlaac's stomach."

Rusty's black lips curved in a reluctant smile. "Generally speaking, it is considered impolite in my culture to openly criticize a host's dwelling, even if they themselves are not fond of it."

"You've got more manners than Seth does, then," Led said, speaking as though the younger pilot wasn't sitting across from him.

"Seth likes to complain," Dano agreed lightly in the same manner.

The Corellian shook his head with the air of someone much put–upon. "Rib on me if you'd like, gentlemen. My sim scores would prove that you're just bitter."

Dano winced as though Seth's words had caused him physical pain and Led snorted a laugh. Even Rusty cracked a smile, although it was after a moment's hesitation. His open–mouthed grin revealed sharply pointed teeth.

"Well, if you're even unofficially on the roster, you must have impressed Commander Corsurge," Led said conversationally. He flattened his hand into an A-Wing and took it through several loops above the tabletop. "Seth will want to keep track of your scores."

The Bothan glanced sidelong at his bench–mate, who rolled his eyes in a "don't listen to him" sort of way. He couldn't tell if Rusty had gotten the message; human and Bothan body languages were significantly different dialects.

"I flew the Four Points scenario with Captain Ven and the Wookiee as wingmates," Rusty said to Led. "I soloed in Redemption several hours later."

"He ratcheted up seven kills total," Dano announced as the bartender set a foaming mug in front of the Bothan. "Standing sim score is 2802."

Seth whistled, impressed. "Sounds like I've got my work cut out for me."

Led downed the last of his drink and sank back in his seat contentedly. "Are you an A-Wing pilot by default, Rusty?" he asked, folding his hands on his belly.

The Bothan shook his head, rippling the fur on his face voluntarily. "I flew two tours of duty in a Y-Wing – both with different gunners. I'm fully checked out in X- and A-wing fighters, but my formal training was in the Z-95."

"Gods, how old are you?" Seth asked with a laugh. He immediately realized the cultural error of diplomacy he had just committed when both Dano and Led simultaneously shot him looks of abject horror. Flushing, Seth opened his mouth to amend his jest, but Rusty was smiling disarmingly.

"Too old to be doing this, Mr. Joust," the Bothan admitted, growling in a warning–yet–forgiving sort of manner. He met Seth's apologetic gaze with a look full of orange irises, sending a shiver up the Corellian's spine. "But I'm not going to lie down and wait for the Vong to come to me."

"As well you shouldn't," Dano praised, smiling thinly. Apparently, he'd been prepared for a decidedly messier breach in the conversation.

"It's always been my philosophy," Rusty said, tentatively sampling his alcohol.

They lapsed into awkward silence for several minutes, brought about by the less–than–pleasant exchange. Rusty did not seem as affected by the uneasy break in the conversation as the human pilots were. He seemed almost dignified by it.

Finally, Dano pushed himself to his feet with a groan, and the other three pilots stood respectfully. Seth was immensely grateful for a break in the deafening silence.

"We've got some flying to do in the morning, gentlemen," the captain announced, stretching broadly. "I suggest you rest up if you entertain any notions of besting me tomorrow."

"A challenge?" Led asked, grinning.

"A promise." Dano yawned deeply, an act which took some of the edge off his cocky swagger. "Goodnight, gentlemen."

They saluted him, and he walked away toward the exit.

Rusty turned to Led and Seth and nodded at each in turn. "I'm somewhat fatigued myself, so I think I will retire as well. It was a pleasure meeting you both. I look forward to flying with you both tomorrow."

"We'll meet in the sim," Led affirmed with a smile.

Seth nodded mutely, and the Bothan turned and exited the cafeteria after Dano.

Immediately, Seth turned to Led, to apologize for his blunder, but the stocky pilot had already beaten him to the punch. The stocky man dropped a hand onto Seth's shoulder and held up the other to halt any comments before they could escape the Corellian's lips.

"You don't have to apologize to me, Seth," the shorter man said. "Just take some advice from a guy who's seen enough cultural ignorance amongst squadmates to know a thing or two about manners. Do yourself a favor and spend some time learning about other sentient culture as opposed to enforcing your own upon them."

Seth frowned. "But I –"

"None of us realize it, but that's what we do." Led sighed heavily, with his whole torso. "We're all idiots sometimes – humans, Quarrens, Twi'leks, it doesn't matter. We all like to assume that everyone's just like us – that they find the same things funny, that they eat and drink the same things we do – and that if they don't, they're somehow inferior. As fighter pilots, it's easy to become introspective and blunt, because generally we kill things, kill more things, sleep for a day or two, and then kill some more. That's our lives, and it's understandable, but there's more to life than just killing."

He gave Seth's shoulder a firm pat. "Okay?"

The Corellian nodded slowly, somewhat sheepishly, taken aback by the speech.

"Good." Led smacked the taller pilot lightly on the cheek and trod the steps their fellow pilots had taken moments earlier. "I'll see you in the morning," he called over his shoulder.

Seth said nothing. He stood still in the empty bar for a while longer, left with Led's message of acceptance with which to ponder and the bill with which to tend.