Chapter 2

Lieutenant Derai Mol'shik, Rancors Teeth Battalion, C for Cresh Company, shook her head in disbelief as she watched her comrades on the dance floor of this local club. The junior officers had all been given indefinite leave on the planet below while the senior officers were briefed on Home One, the Mon Cal cruiser orbiting this Outer Rim planet. To tell the truth, Derai was glad for the leave; she'd just gotten out of Officer Candidacy School, and felt like celebrating. The only problem was what she had learned from her new friends in the Marine company she had been assigned to: that indefinite leave always meant a big mission, and that the next leave wouldn't be coming for a long time. Derai was left busy wondering why in the seven hells she had asked to be assigned to these psychos. The SpecForce Marines were the elite of Alliance assault units... but Derai didn't have a clue how they managed to fight after these leaves. Much less retain consciousness.

The place was a dance club, with a large bandstand facing the dance floor of the establishment. The music being played had quite a few similarities to Corellian Swing music, probably due to the majority of the colonists on this world being Corellians. The colony was a few hundred years old, largely ignored by the Empire; the locals preferred it that way, and had refused to house a Rebel base here. They didn't mind, however, the infusion to their economy that a fleet leave provided. At least they weren't hostile, Derai figured. The fact that they hadn't put in a call to the Imperials was amazing in and of itself.

The other junior officers were busy hitting on the locals, as well as the other Alliance officers from the various services who were frequenting the club they had ended up in. Derai was almost entirely certain that the entire population of the Alliance fleet in orbit had come down here. Suddenly, a voice and an arm around her shoulder brought the lieutenant out of her reverie. "C'mon, Der, wake up! Are you gonna sit here nursing your drink all night?" came the voice, another female, which meant it was Visha Teraf, a platoon commander in B for Besh Company. A Wroonian, Visha's naturally blue hair was cut short to retain military standards, but she still managed to style it for maximum effect. Derai grinned at that; that was one of the benefits of being Twi'lek: you didn't have to deal with the hair that was the bane of the other species. Of course, her brain tails required a great deal of upkeep when she wanted to go out, but they were otherwise much less of a burden than hair seemed to be.

Even without hair, Derai managed to cut an alluring figure. Light, whitish skin and deep brown eyes complemented each other perfectly, giving off a sense of intelligence. She was pretty enough, by human standards, but was less than comfortable in an environment like this, and it carried over into her attitude.
"Sorry, Visha, but I don't see this place as the target rich environment you do. Besides, I figure if I look surly enough, no SF Command flyboy will try one of their various routines on me," Derai replied, smiling at Visha, who already had quite a few marks of male company on her blue tinted neck. Probably just from the boys on the dance floor, actually, Derai guessed: the upbeat music being played seemed to encourage quite a bit of dancing that would be banned for excessive lewdness on most Imperial worlds.

"Derai, anytime from a minute from now to a week from now, we're going to be called up and sent out to the frontlines. If you get killed without having any fun, don't blame me," Visha pointed out.

"Vish, this isn't my type of celebration; I couldn't have as much fun as you're having if I tried," the more conservative lieutenant replied, smiling.

"Is that a challenge? You know how we Wroonians respond to challenges, don't you? Bartender! Two Iceblasts, stat!" Visha called at the top of her lungs.

"Never heard of it, miss; there's a thousand different drinks on every planet in the galaxy: you don't think I've heard of every one, do you?" the bartender replied, his eyebrows raised.

"It's simple, buddy; just toss in a little of that... a little of that, a lot of that, and a bit of that blue fruit stuff for flavoring... beautiful," Visha instructed, taking the two drinks that the bartender produced and tossing him an Imperial credit: knowing that any money the Alliance issued would be valueless to most people, the Alliance paid its troops in Imperial Credits for the time being.

"Now, we down these, then we snag ourselves a couple of partners... dance partners, Derai: you've got a sicker mind than I do; then we have ourselves some fun. That clear, Lieutenant?" Visha asked, smiling, the excessively alcoholic drink grasped in her hand.

"Oh, yes ma'am; I just don't know what I'd do without you, Vish," Derai replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Me neither, kid. To the Marines, who can make even a boring girl like you have some fun!" Visha screamed at the top of her lungs, then upturned the glass into her mouth. Derai followed suit, readying herself for whatever this drink contained.

Surprisingly, it slid down her throat with ease: the Marine was almost willing to congratulate Visha on her choice of drinks when the force of the drink hit her, almost knocking her over. "I see you have yet to develop a Marine tolerance, darlin'. That's alright, just shake it off, and we can move to the next step of the mission," Visha suggested, grinning widely, not even phased by the potent mix she had ordered.

Derai coughed once, shook her head vigorously, making sure not to disturb her head tails too horribly, then stood up straight. "Remind me again why I joined SpecForce, Vish," Derai ordered as the two women strode off towards a grouping of fighter jocks.

"Because you needed to learn how to have fun, kid. I'll take the sad looking one, you take the one who looks like he needs to grow up," Visha murmured as they moved, placing their drinks on a passing server's tray.

"Next time, I pick the dance partners. Your taste in men is obviously severely damaged by your taste in drinks," Derai murmured back.

"It's not like I'm asking you to go off and graft with him, kid, just dance; let me do the talking," Visha shot, her face now lit with a winning smile.

Derai's elbow caught Visha in the side, somehow without distracting the pilots they were approaching. Of course, the pilots weren't looking at their arms. "Hey, I heard you Rogue Squadron boys were pretty hot in the pilot's seat; want to try the dance floor with me and my friend?" Visha asked, her eyes twinkling.

Derai was absolutely sure they would have the effect they desired; there were very few fighter pilots who could resist any female, much less a pretty Wroonian. Fighter pilots just couldn't stop themselves if presented with any kind of female at all.

The sad looking pilot and the boyish looking pilot were the first to jump to the forefront, just as Visha had predicted. The latter flashed a grin and replied, "Didn't they tell you, Rogue Squadron is the best at everything; I'm Wes, and everyone calls him Hobbie. I don't know why; and I don't even think he knows why, so don't ask. Don't worry: he's a better dancer than he looks like."

Derai couldn't help but smile; it was obvious that this Wes guy had the same job as Visha in this duo. She didn't know if it was the drink talking, or if Visha's attitude was infectious, but Derai found herself interjecting, "C'mon, boys, you can't be serious: everyone knows that the SpecForce Marines are the best... with everything. Trust me."

"Only one way to find out," Wes replied, grinning widely, taking the hand she offered to him as he left his drink unfinished at the Rogue's booth. The other Rogues just groaned, watching the two be led off by the Marine women.

"Watch out, Wes," one of them called out, "You get out of line, and they're liable to break you in half."

Derai just turned and winked towards the booth, provoking an abashed grin from the fighter pilot whose hand she had taken. The band had just finished up another number, and was just starting on another tune, just as upbeat, just as sensual. The floor was crowded with locals and Alliance Military personnel, each pair of dancers seemingly fluid in their motion. Despite his boyish looks, this pilot was no different; as Derai grasped onto him and let him lead, she could tell that he was in very good shape. She decided that letting Visha pick both the men and the booze was a good idea after all.


In another part of the city, one of the few on the planet, the Alliance enlisted personnel were frequenting a darker, less grandiose establishment. Private First Class Met Vaeisto, Rancor's Teeth Battalion, was well into his heavy drinking for the night, along with about seven other compatriots, males and females, all enlisted. "Now tell me this, Beranger, why in the hell do we have officers at all? I'm pretty sure that the Sergeant could run this battalion himself. What are officers for, except to take the first pick of the women before we drop in?" Vaeisto asked, taking a pull from a bottle of the locally brewed beer. It tasted horrible, but it was cheap, and that was what they were looking for.
Vaeisto was short for a soldier, but his build more than made up for it. He'd grown up in a mining town, a long ways from this place, a hot, unforgiving world that rewarded the hard workers and drove away those who couldn't handle it. He'd been a hard worker, if only because he wanted to help his sizeable family, but had been driven away by something else; the intense isolation of the place. With short cut brown hair and a lightly tanned, somewhat craggy face, he was not what you'd call handsome, but rather stolid. When one looked in his face and they knew they could depend on him. Of course, his rather limited exposure to the world prevented him from getting into any scholarly debates. Not that it mattered here; he had adapted perfectly from living with tough, self-dependent miners to living with tough, self-dependent soldiers.

"Now, I'll admit that a great deal of officers aren't exactly what I'd call the best of the best; especially the ones we got from the Empire. Like mynocks off a collapsing starship, though Madine is a notable exception. The thing is, in SpecForce most of the officers are former enlisted, just like us. So we're pretty well off. Nah, the real problem in the Alliance is the Fleet," Lance Corporal Derin Beranger replied, his arm around Lance Corporal Moira Terif.

"I'll agree with you there, Beranger. Fleet sits around in their nice climate controlled starships while we pack our way through every climate that's ever been imagined by whatever it was that created this mess of worlds. Though I'm not adverse to their women," Vaeisto agreed.

"Ah, Fleet Command, because Nerfs would be too obvious," Moira shot in, grinning. The entire group broke into raucous laughter at that; SpecForce more universally despised Fleet Command than even Starfighter Command. Though SF Command was a close second, followed by SecForce, looked upon as basically a militia that would turn tail at the first sign of combat.

One of the other women there, Private Reifi Stream, shook her head in mock shame as she took a pull from the bottle of cheap whiskey she grasped in her right hand. Her dark blonde hair was cut through with brown; though she claimed it was natural, the streaks seemed too perfect to have been with her from childhood. Still, with a harsh, cynical demeanor reflected in her behavior and her dark green eyes, she did not exactly look the type to take the time to perfect her looks. A moderately tall woman, she was not perfectly shaped, but her SpecForce training had kept her fit enough.

She was one of the few here who had previous combat experience, from a stint in a commando group previously unaffiliated with the Rebel Alliance. Most of the men and women of the Rancor's Teeth Battalion were fresh from training camp or non-combat duty on various bases. They'd been sent in to replace the large gaps left by the last campaign, along with the fact that many of the survivors of the last campaign had transferred to less exciting duty. The majority of the battalion was not combat tested, despite being very well trained: though training could only do so much.

This was common in the Alliance forces. A unit could lose more than seventy five percent of its original contingent through combat alone, and another ten percent through transfers. Luckily, the stream of volunteers had yet to abate: units were quickly brought back to strength, but the fact that they were largely untested served to bring about even more casualties. Most commanders preferred to bring his forces into light engagements first, give them a taste of combat, then move them up to more bloody engagements. The only problem was that this luxury could rarely be taken in the SpecForce Marines: every engagement they entered was bloody, so every engagement was a trial by fire. The best survived longer than others, but everyone died eventually if they were out there long enough. That was why long campaigns in the field brought so much distaste to the mouth of soldiers. They drastically increased the chances that one would die, just because of the sheer amount of time one was under fire. But right now, such considerations were abandoned in favor of a few moments of forced cheer.

Reifi took a second pull from her drink, then contributed to the ongoing argument, "I don't know, maybe we don't need the Fleet anymore: it seems like every ten seconds that relationships are popping up between the soldiers in every company; maybe the Fleet is obsolete."

"You got a problem with that, Reifi?" Beranger asked, his eyebrow raised.

"None at all, Beranger; but you've got to admit that it brings up some questions: if you only have the chance to save one of us, are you gonna save Moira or me?" Reifi questioned, taking another pull.

"She's got you there, Beranger; though really, I think we'd all save anyone before we saved Reifi," another Marine, a Rodian Pfc named Te'chun.

Reifi grinned towards Te'chun, winking, "Well, of course, Tec, that's a given: but seriously, you gotta wonder occasionally."

A Sullustan Lance Corporal, Noran Vlunb, shook his head morosely, "You realize you've cursed every couple in the battalion now, don't you, Reifi?"

"How so, Nor?" Reifi questioned.

"Well, if this is a bad holofic, which I'm absolutely sure it is, the situation you described will come up, with the lover trapped in a position where any rescuer would certainly die, and the non-lover in a place where they could be rescued. And in order to prove that he or she is a soldier now, and knows how to think like one, the rescuer/lover will rescue the one who can be saved, leaving the lover to die. Then there will be all sorts of broken hearts, and the battalion will be plunged into heartbreak," Noran pointed out, taking a swig of his own drink.

"You realize that if that happens now I'm gonna kill you, right, Noran?" Moira inquired.

"Well, I'd be threatened, but technically you're the one who's supposed to die in that situation," Noran replied, grinning a mousy Sullustan grin.

"Hey, this is the SpecForce Marines, Noran; nothing makes logical sense, and everything is topsy turvy: I'll probably have to go after Beranger here," Moira opined.

"Ah, the superior wisdom of the woman has spoken; and since this is SpecForce, you better save both of us; otherwise the drill instructor who trained us will be very, very disappointed," Beranger stated.

"If all of you pessimists are finished, this place's music is giving me a headache; how bout we find another joint and some Fleet babies to mess with," Vaeisto suggested, lighting a cigarra and taking a draw.

"I'm with Vaeisto. I'm guessing we ship out pretty soon, so we might as well have some real fun before we leave this bumfrag planet," Te'chun agreed, getting up to go, finishing off his drink.

"I think me and the soon to be dead here will let you guys go for now," Moira replied, grinning while giving Beranger a light kiss.
As the rest of the Marines went to the establishment's exit in order to leave, Vaeisto opined to Noran, "You know, right about now, that'd be worth dying for."

"I hear that... though you're in a better position than me, kid; how many Sullustan females do you think there are around here who aren't officers?" Noran asked, grinning morosely.

"Damn... ok, you are worse off than me, Nor," Vaeisto conceded.

Reifi draped her arm around Vaeisto and piped in, "Much worse off than you, kid; after we find those Fleet babies you promised and rough 'em up some, I'll make sure you end up dead."

Vae raised his eyebrows, knowing he shouldn't reply, but somehow having to, "I thought you were worried about an adverse affect on our unit cohesiveness."

"Kid, if we survive this campaign, then I'll have the luxury to worry about unit cohesiveness. Tonight, I just want to have some fun," Reifi replied.
Te'chun turned to one of another Rodian Marine who was with the group, "Anybody here got a track on the birth control market in this battalion? I have this weird feeling it's going to be incredibly lucrative."

The surrounding Marines just laughed, stumbling drunkenly through the streets, their voices rising in the night air.


First Sergeant Arnysent 'Saber' Helteran winked over the hand of cards he held. He was in no mood to go out tonight; boozing it up and working out those hormones was for the kids. He would be alive today, he would be alive tomorrow, and he would be alive for the next thirty years. He didn't need to assure himself of that fact, it just was. He had a confidence about him that was not weakened by the responsibilities of rank, nor by the fears of youth. Unlike many sergeants, men who had to run battalions, companies and platoons while making it seem like the officers were still in charge, Arny did not respond to the strange situation with overt cynicism. In fact, the man was one of the truest believers in the ideals of the Rebellion; that didn't blind him to reality, either, though.

Still, it was a war, and you had to accept the danger. You just had to find that middle ground, accept that no one lives forever, and go off and do your job. Someday you would get to sit in the retirement community on some world somewhere and tell kids huge lies about the War Against the Empire, or the Galactic Civil War, or the Galactic Revolution, or whatever the hell they ended up calling it. He was certain that the politicians would change the name once or twice; if the Rebellion won the war, they wouldn't annihilate the Empire: they'd have to integrate its remains. Thusly, a politically correct name for the war would have to be discovered. Not his problem, really; politics did not concerned Arny Helteran, though he figured he had as good a grasp of them as anyone did.

Arny had not joined the Rebellion for any high-minded political ideals; no, he had signed on because he didn't like being told what to do. Even in the moderately Alliance military Arny made his own rules; it was the only way to get anything done. The Alliance was a Rebellion, but it had its own bureaucracy with layers of red tape. Arny worked within the system when he could, but if it was hurting the operation of C for Cresh Company, he ignored it. The Alliance brass didn't notice, and even if they had, they would have overlooked the discretions because Arny was excellent at his job. But right now, the first sergeant was unconcerned with the smooth operation of his unit, and more focused on important concerns. Such as winning this Sabacc hand.
"Comeon, Amp, didn't you think you had a pretty hot hand a few moments ago?" Arny taunted one of the other players, Sergeant Rhriampount, a rather large reddish brown furred Wookie hailing from 4th platoon.

The Wookie let out a couple of short barks in reply, tossing two cards into the skifter, the card randomizer at the center of the table. Arny just laughed heartily.

"You've got to be kidding me, Amp; you know that you'd be as likely to lose an arm as I would be if you tried that arms ripped from the sockets routine you're so fond of mentioning," Arny replied.

"Someday you two are actually going to get drunk enough to go at each other, and the Alliance will be out a couple thousand credits providing you with four cybernetic limbs each," Sergeant Elian Rendisan, a Deveronian with 1st Platoon, shot in, tossing one card into the skifter.

"And the company's oddsrunners'd gain a couple hundred thousand credits; I'm guessing that the entire company would toss in some credits to see that fight. Well, even if you lost all your limbs, at least our company would be legendary; 'Man bit by wookie, bites back'," Sergeant Mista Contrevi, a red haired near human with third platoon, guessed, letting her hand stand.

"I know I'd toss a few credits in," Elian assured, grinning.

The other two at the table, another 3rd platoon sergeant, a Sullustan by the name of Terin Lusub, and a 2nd platoon sergeant, a human named Gaferin Stantin, threw two and three cards into the skifter respectively. The skifter activated, and the sergeants checked their new hands. Lusub tossed his cards down immediately, swearing in his own language.

Smoke hung in the air as if it were a blanket; every member of the group clutched a cigarra or some other instrument of lung damage in their mouths. This was their escape for the night; they had to spend what credits they earned on something, after all, and the chaos of the younger soldiers' leave just didn't appeal to these veterans. The group had stayed aboard the Home One; luckily for them, the NCO's club was empty; most of the other Sergeants had gone down for leave.

"I gotta wonder why none of us are out with the kids tonight," Mista pondered as she looked over the combination in front of her.

"Well, Mist, do you feel like getting smashed or having some kind of sexual misadventure that you'll regret for the rest of your life?" Stantin questioned.

"Not particularly," Mista replied.

"And there's your answer; I'm out," Stantin stated reasonably, tossing his cards down.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I plan on getting smashed tonight; and as for the misadventures, I've already had my share: I'll wait a few years before embarking on any new ones," Arny shot in.

Amp roared in agreement, taking a swig from the bottle of Whyrens Reserve Whiskey that the group had 'procured' from the quartermaster on Home One. It had required some sweet-talking, and the donation of a few hundred credits to the Quartermaster's coffers, but they'd pulled it off.

"Does he have to drink straight out of the bottle? I'm staying in," Mista questioned and stated her resolve to keep in the game as her turn came up.

"You gonna argue with him?" Lusub questioned, raising a brow.

"Yes! Being a Wookie doesn't automatically make you exempt from polite society," Mista replied.

"I thought being a sergeant did," Elian opined, tossing his cards in with a sigh of disgust.

Amp barked an apology and very theatrically wiped off the rim of the bottle, then held it out to Mista. He growled to the assembly at whole that he'd be happy to go a round with Arny, but wouldn't want to risk his limbs with Mist.
Arny chuckled, "Rule by fear... you sure you don't want my job, Mist?"

"Not for all the credits you've lost over the years, Arny," she assured him.

"Well, I begin earning them back tonight; I'm in," the First Sergeant replied, smiling contentedly.

Amp growled, but rather than issuing out a string of Wookie curses, he very carefully placed his cards on the table and barked something sarcastic towards Mista.

"Yes, that was so much better, Amp; you'll be ready for polite society in another century or so," she replied, grinning wickedly.

"So, what's it gonna be, Mist; call or fold?" Arny questioned, smiling.

"Call, of course. I'll be dead before I fall for one of your bluffs, Arny," Mista replied, tossing a few more credits on the table.

Arny replied with his own contribution to the center of the table, winked at her, turned his cards over and stated simply, "Read 'em and weep. Once in a very long, long while, I'm not bluffing."

Mista cursed, turning her own cards over, "Well, that's why you're the First Sergeant. But twenty credits says I'll have won that hand back from you by the end of the night."

"I'm flattered: you're so amazed by my ability, you've decided to start tipping me," Arny mocked, laughing.

"Watch it, Arny, I don't think you want to make a woman angry; especially a SpecForce Marine," Lusub cautioned.

"You're right as always, Lusub; I don't want a Wookie and Mista after me at the same time. I better make up with her; I'm less afraid of Amp here," Arny joked.

"Remind me to transfer, Elian," Mista requested amid the laughter.

"Duly noted, Sergeant," Elian replied, chuckling.


Lieutenant Derai Mol'shik was drunk; more so than she'd ever been before in her life. What was more, she was kissing a starfighter pilot she'd met about an hour before and danced with for most of that time. But then again, as Visha had said, they weren't here to forge any long lasting relationships. Another plus was that the pilot was pretty handsome, in a boyish kind of way, and funny, though she wasn't really focusing on that aspect right now. Still, this basically went against every principle Derai held dear. Maybe that was why it was so damn fun. What was his name again... Wes, that was it...

She broke away from the kiss for a few seconds and managed to get out, "Wes, I've gotta go to the bathroom for a few seconds, I'll be right back."

"Uh, sure," he stuttered, still a little surprised that he had lucked out this much.

The bathroom was a literal portrait in chaos, as SpecForce, Fleet and Starfighter command women leaned over the stalls, relieving themselves of the contents of their stomachs after a night of drinking. Derai wondered if she would be emulating these girls in another hour; the buzz was still around her, but she knew that that could give way to excessive pain at any moment Other women were swishing mouthwash before going out again, while still others were trying to wake up a compatriot in Fleet Command who seemed to have passed out. Visha was among the women helping the girl, a human female with blonde hair drawn back in a pony tail. Visha looked up, saw her friend, winked at her and flashed her a smile.

"Give us a hand here, darlin?" Visha hinted.

"One second," Derai managed to get out, moving to the sink and splashing a great deal of water on her face, drinking the rest, trying her best to get some non-alcoholic fluids flowing through her body.

After a few moments of this, she felt rejuvenated; whether this was just an illusion or not, she didn't know, but Derai figured it was better than nothing. She walked over to the other women who were trying to wake up their friend. Derai held the woman's head up as they moved her over to the sink, letting the water flow over her face. This did not have the desired effect: the woman remained comatose. "Lift up her head again, Der," Visha commanded.
Derai did as she was told; the other women propped her up against the sink. As soon as she had a good track on her, Visha landed a slap across the woman's face. Nothing happened: she seemed to be pretty far gone. Visha considered for a second, then drew the woman over to one of the few sanitary, unused toilets. Derai looked at her friend, giving her a "You've got be kidding me" look, but realized that in this kind of situation, you did what you had to do. If anything, it'd teach the girl to celebrate a little less heartily next time around. The group pressed the woman's head under the water for a moment, then withdrew her again. They repeated this motion about three times when they were finally rewarded with a sputtering cough from the woman, followed by an excessively long evacuation of her stomach. The girl opened her eyes wide and staggered over to the sink with her friends, quickly trying to wash her face with what soap was available. Priorities, Derai thought, somewhat resignedly.

After her other friends helped her clean herself up some, the woman staggered out of the room with her arm over one of the other girls, ready to go out for more. Derai just looked at Visha, raising her eyebrow curiously. Visha just grinned, standing there, her uniform still spotless somehow. "Having fun with that fighter jock, Der?" Visha questioned.

"Yeah, I like him; speaking of, he's probably missing me already, I better get out there soon," Derai replied, haphazardly rearranging her headtails.

"Don't worry about it, Der; I'm guessing he'd be willing to wait for a few standard timeparts before he gave up on you," Visha guessed, leaning against a dry part of the counter.

"You think? How's your guy coming?" Derai asked.

"His friend was right: he's better than he looks; but I think it's time to move to the next one; you might want to try that yourself," the Wroonian pointed out.

"I think I'll just stick with one for tonight, Visha; I've yet to reach your level of mastery," the less experienced woman stated dryly.

Visha giggled, "Don't tell me this is your first time doing anything with a guy."

Derai's eyes widened, and she assured her friend, "No! Of course I've dated guys; but this is the first time I've ever randomly picked up some guy in a dance joint!"

"Ahhh, that makes more sense then; well, ok, your funeral: and didn't I tell you you'd have fun?" Visha gloated.

"Yeah, and you were right; I haven't had this much fun in my entire life," Derai admitted.

Visha just laughed and walked out, crying, "I win!"

Derai just shook her head as she walked out herself, "Wroonians and their bets..."

The lieutenant immediately saw her pilot friend; he was indeed still sitting at the booth they had been sharing; she also noticed his pessimistic looking friend there, though he seemed a little happier than usual, a grin on his face. As Derai approached, a little more sure of herself than she had been before, the pilot's friend excused himself.

"You talking about me, flyboy?" Derai asked, smiling as she stretched out a hand to the fighter pilot.

"A little bit; but mostly Hobbie was telling me he got ditched by your friend for a SpecForce Pathfinder lieutenant," the pilot replied, grinning back, letting himself be pulled.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be fine, Wes," she assured him, her eyes shining as they stepped onto the dance floor just as the music was starting up again.

Another Corellian swing tune, this one was simple enough, but was designed so that the skilled could perform incredibly complicated moves to its beat. As soon as the music began, Derai began moving, draping herself across her partner, then breaking away a moment later, only to be swung between his legs a moment later. She slid with the movement, twisting perfectly to come out behind Wes, cooperating with him to come up again. As he spun to come face to face with her, they became intertwined again, their feet seeming to move in concert.
Derai couldn't help but smile at this; she had danced very little over the course of her life, but knew exactly why she could move like a natural. She would have to thank her Drill Instructor someday: Her hand to hand combat instruction had been enough to teach her how to move with another body, compensate, and apply pressure when needed; she doubted her combat. She just had never expected to use these skills in a dance hall, much less on another Alliance soldier. Of course, knowing that she was successfully attracting the young pilot with a set of skills that were better geared towards killing others caused her smile to grow even broader. Who said the military didn't teach real world skills that could be used after the war? This was benefiting her non-combat life already, and she hadn't even gone on a mission yet. Yes, she definitely had to thank her drill instructor.

Her arms sliding across her partner's, Derai swung back and forth with the music, her head tails swinging freely. The things almost seemed to move with a mind of their own, easily avoiding colliding with her partner or any other dancers. They slid across each other, seeming to mirror her movements in dance, beckoning to the pilot. He couldn't know what their movements meant, though several Twi'lek onlookers could only shake their heads in sorrow. Only a human would be clueless enough to still be just dancing with a Twi'lek girl who was that far-gone. Still, if he ever got what was going on through his thick human skull, he would be one lucky fighter pilot. Hobbie was already taking bets on whether his wingman would break any bones tonight.

Meanwhile, Derai was caught in her own little world, her every move in perfect harmony with her partner, her every dip, dive, sway and leap a perfect combination. She'd never let herself go this much in her entire life; she'd never danced with a man she'd never met before, she'd never been this intoxicated with both life and various alcohols. Lieutenant Derai Mol'shik had discovered the point behind a SpecForce Marine leave: to enjoy every moment alive, so that if death came during her next mission, she could say she had really lived life. Or at least what her best guess at a life was. She was about to be launched off to almost certain death, and would most likely be fighting for however long her life lasted, be it five more weeks, or fifteen more years. Needless to say, living ones life in the midst of total conflict could not be expected to mold the most well balanced people. So, starting with tonight she would live her life the way Visha and all the other Alliance Military personnel were living it: in the state of a constant party, punctuated by periods of brief fighting, long plateaus of boredom, and excessive amounts of everything in her moments of leave.

The Galactic Civil War had done something that Mon Mothma could never have predicted. For a generation of females and males serving the Alliance, life had become both perfect and horrific: they could act with complete abandon, live life without consequences, live as teenagers for the rest of their lives, at the cost of their ability to live without the Galactic Civil War. If it ever ended, this generation would be totally and completely lost, unable to comprehend a world without constant conflict, both on and off the battlefield.

None of this matter to Lieutenant Derai, however: she was celebrating this new, almost mystical, state of bliss she had entered, a state of bliss many had entered before her, many had entered tonight, and many would enter for as long as this conflict existed. She merely relished living, as Flight Officer Wes Janson, the man dancing with her, was relishing living. As everyone in this room, as every soldier on this planet was relishing living. The dance continued, but Derai and Janson could have cared less about the music; they were only living for being in someone else's arms for a few moments longer. They just wanted to feel protected, in that bubble with a perceived loved one, for a second longer. That feeling, which could not be duplicated with all the powers in the galaxy, was one of the few refuges they could find for themselves in this turbulent time. Derai just smiled again as the song ended and she landed, upraised, in the young pilot's arms. Her entire body was being overwhelmed by her surroundings; a thousand fragments of thoughts competed equally for her attention. The only complete thought she managed to form was that she was profoundly glad that she wasn't sitting at the bar, nursing a drink.


The Duros gunner's mate was faster than he looked, Vaeisto grudgingly admitted to himself as the alien landed another combination to his face that he only partially blocked this time. If he had been sober, and if he hadn't already been dealing with three other Fleet Command bozos at the same time, he could have handled this in his sleep. Still, the Marine knew that no matter what the odds, he'd never live down being beaten by some Fleet gunners mate. So, when he saw the opening, Mik Vaeisto slid his elbow through the Duros' defenses, connecting with its naturally collapsed nose. Taking advantage of the alien's dazed state, Vaeisto moved in close, sending his knee into its gut, causing it double over in pain. A second blow with his knee, this time directly into the gunners mate's head, sent the creature into unconsciousness.

That was when the next one came; a human this time, slamming a fist into Vaeisto's gut then connecting another two shots to his nose. Luckily, depending on how you looked at it, Vaeisto's nose had already been broken much earlier during the scuffle, rendering the blows ineffective at best, and merely distracting at worst. Vaeisto just turned, grinned and winked to the man, then waded in. The Marine private slammed repeated blows into the Fleet man's body, breaking ribs and causing general collateral damage. By the time he let up, the man was still standing, but all the fight had left him. The last thing that passed before his eyes while he was conscious was Vaeisto's fist connecting with his face.

Looking up from his handiwork, Vaeisto saw that the other Marines had finished with the rest of the Fleet personnel in the cantina. It had been about twelve men and women against a total of eight Marines; Vaeisto grinned, thinking that they had done pretty well, considering. All the Marines were badly damaged, some clutching ribs, other broken bones or severe bruises, but none had gone down. Reifi had taken a few hits; her eye was obviously blackened, and like all the Marines, her nose had received some severe damage. It seemed like the Fleet bozos always went for the face... of course, Vaeisto considered, he'd done the same thing. Vaeisto observed that Reifi had managed to maintain her rough beauty despite the damage that had been done to her. Or perhaps the damage made her even more desirable. Pfc Vaeisto didn't really know, to tell the truth.

Reifi winked to him, and called over, "Not bad, kid; seems we're already embracing the SpecForce Marine code: defeat numerically superior enemies through superior morale and training."

The gathered Marines laughed, a laugh that was strong in spite of the pain it caused them. Laughing with broken ribs, after all, is a true chore. Not that they cared; this was their own escape from the reality of whatever it was this coming conflict entailed. Vaeisto suggested, "We might want to head out, split up; I'm guessing the local magistrates or our own MPs'll be here in a few minutes."

"Not a bad idea, kid; let's go get smashed somewhere else in celebration; I'll see you grunts later, Te'chun, Noran," Reifi Stream agreed, saying farewell to the rest of the Marines, who exited the establishment, leaving only the bartender and a dozen unconscious Fleet bozos to clean up the mess.

Reifi and Vaeisto staggered down the street, their arms over each other more in support than in any gesture of camaraderie. Still, they carried with them the pure adrenaline of the previous encounter with the Fleet, and were wracked with occasions of unreasonably raucous laughter.

"Gods, if this is what SpecForces do for fun, I can't wait for combat," Reifi stated, giggling, as they staggered down another back alley.

"Yeah, it's not like being sober is required when fighting the Imps," Vaeisto replied.

"Oh damn... I think that that bad whiskey is catching up with...," Reifi started, interrupted only by a sudden torrent of expulsion. Much of what she had drank and ate that evening ended up on the street floor.

"That's a lesson for yah, Private: don't drink and fight," Vaeisto mock lectured, laughing.

"Don't make fun, kid; five credits says that you'll be on your knees in another few minutes," Reifi replied, wiping off the remnants from her face.

"I only take bets I can win, Stream; where are we, anyway? I don't see any bars nearby," Vaeisto pondered.

"I don't think there are any in this part of town...," she stated, looking around.

"Well, then I guess we'll just wonder around, throwing up and getting sober until we reach the next joint," the other Marine resolved, helping her up.

As they staggered through the streets together, Mik could only wonder at what might await them. The fact was, despite the alcohol, despite the brawling, despite everything, Mik was scared. There was an innate strangeness about this whole environment, about this new world beyond his home and family. He was pretty sure he wasn't afraid of the enemy; he was a crack shot, and had come out near the top during his SpecForce training. He'd been in fights before, back home, and had never backed down. Just because he was using a rifle instead of a knife didn't change anything: he was sure that couldn't be the source of whatever it was that had been striking him the past few days.

The only thing he could think of was that he was afraid of the vast change his life had taken over the course of the last several months. He knew things were changing, had been changing from the moment he joined up with the Alliance, up to tonight, probably his last night of peace before shipping out. What made Mik wonder even more was a profound assurance that everyone else here was as scared as he was. They were all responding the same way as he was, all latching onto one another, to life as a whole. It struck him as kind of strange as he looked at Reifi; despite her relative experience, she was only a year older than him, nineteen. They were shipping out an army of teenagers and twenty somethings. Basically kids. He knew he felt like a kid, anyway: nothing like the veterans he'd seen coming through the base he had been stationed on briefly before this assignment. They had been a couple years older than him at the most, but seemed like they'd seen decades of action.

"Wondering what the hell you're doing here, aren't yah, kid?" Reifi interrupted his thoughts.

"Something like that; it's just that everything is different from the way it used to be," Mik replied.

"Get used to it; I don't think anything's going to be the same anymore after this," Reifi stated.

"Yeah, but what happens afterwards? What happens when I go back home? Do I get a job? Work at the mine I was going to work at before I joined up with the Rebellion? Will my family even want me back?" Mik questioned.

"Well, there's really only one way to solve the problem, Mik," Reifi answered, using his first name for once, "We live for today, we do our jobs, and we hope somebody else is living a normal life, cause we sure as hell aren't."

"You know, that could have turned into an incredibly effective pickup line, Rei; 'We have to live for today, so be with me tonight' or something like that," Mik Vaeisto suggested.

"Who said it wasn't? Seriously, Mik, try not to worry too much about it. If this war ends in another few years, then we can afford to waste time wondering what to do next. Until then, we've got more important things to do," Reifi stated simply.

"Like what, Stream?" Vaeisto asked dubiously.

"Like this," she answered with a kiss, holding him against the wall of the alley.

Strangely, Vaeisto found himself not minding the aftertaste of Reifi's recent expulsion of the contents of her stomach. In fact, he found himself not really caring about anything, the future or the past. Holding this girl, kissing her in this godforsaken alley on this backwater planet, gave him more feeling than anything had before in his life. The spontaneous kiss seemed sweeter than any kiss he'd stolen from the girls in his mining town. In fact, that mining town seemed further away than it ever had before. The great thing was, he did not mind anymore. The girls intent on finding husbands, the men working the same job that they'd been doing for decades... it was behind him. She was right, after all: he had more important things to worry about now.

The two moons of this planet shone down on the darkened alley, slightly illuminating the pair. They held there for a few moments longer, two frightened kids trying to find solace and protection in a world that had ceased to provide any of either for a long time. After a few moments, they finally broke the embrace. They felt embarrassed for some reason, even though there was no one to observe them. Despite their earlier flirtations, the two had not expected to end up this way.

"You still want to grab that drink, Mik?" she asked him quietly.

Vaeisto knew that his answer would decide something. He also knew that he would not get a chance like this for a long time. They'd be busy with the Imperials, with trying to survive. Chances were that one of them would die in the next several weeks, which would most likely play havoc with a relationship. Even if this did not develop anything, even if it was just a few moments to forget where they were going... Vaeisto, over the course of his life, had developed very few sensibilities, but something about this seemed wrong, like they were both taking advantage of each other.

"Yeah; besides, like you said, I'll probably need to throw up in a few blocks anyway," the young man replied, smiling disconcertedly.

"Alright, the next rounds on me. And it wouldn't have been wrong, kid, but that's ok," Reifi stated, throwing her arm over his shoulder. Together they moved to stagger towards the nearest possible cantina.


As Lieutenant Derai staggered from the bathroom for what seemed like the fifteenth time that night, she was able to observe that the dance hall had changed significantly over the course of the night. Smoke was permeable in the air, booze spilled in a multitude of locations on the floor. Many Alliance officers were collapsed on the floor of the establishment, others were still attempting to continue drinking and talking. As far as Derai could tell, Visha had left earlier, most likely with one of the various men she'd been flirting with over the course of the night. Her pilot was still there though, in not much better condition than she was. She finally staggered over to him and landed in his arms, hardly able to stand thanks to her copious intake of the best this place had to offer.

She had to wonder if the fun she'd been having all night was worth feeling this bad. Of course, after looking up at this pilot she'd met, Wes, she had to admit that the night hadn't been a total loss. Even if she never saw him again, she'd at least gotten to share this night with someone else, been able to share her fear, her enthusiasm for the cause, everything she was feeling, without having to say a word. Of course they had talked, but never about what they were really feeling. Rather, like all short meetings, it had been filled with jokes, stories, conversations about where they might be shipping off to, or when the leave was going to be canceled. In a situation like this, people never talk about how they are afraid of dying. They never say, "I'm afraid I'll never see you again, but just hold me for a few more minutes, and we can pretend we'll be together forever." It was just felt, without the words ever being spoken. However it was conveyed, this time was important for them: they might never get a chance to feel this again.

Of course, Derai was no longer thinking clearly; the alcohol had long ago rendered that faculty unreliable at best. She smiled up at Janson, her eyes twinkling, her movements awkward, yet somehow still alluring. "You want to get out of here, flyboy?" she questioned.

The Rogue Squadron pilot just grinned and replied, "Sure; if we stay here much longer, we'll need artificial lungs."

The two of them managed to remember to pick up their dress jackets on the way out of the dance hall, then staggered out, arm in arm. Except for their insignia, they looked like any other pair out tonight. Alcohol is the one great unifying factor in any military, something that transcends rank and status. Idly, Derai wondered if she might regret this the next day; that thought found quick dismissal in the realization that she'd be too busy the next day, and every day after that for a long while, to be regret anything.