So a Jedi walks into a cantina. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, right? One of those long, pointless ones that exist solely to amuse patrons with a few drinks in them and time to spare, which they end up forgetting by the next morning. But this isn't a joke.
The Jedi sits down on one of the old plasteel stools and orders a drink. Last month's swoop results shine from a holoscreen behind the bar, followed by an outdated newscast. The reporter's mouth opens and closes silently while the pictures behind her change from one image to another. First a shot of some washed up politician, then an overhead view of some natural disaster on some Core planet, then a clip of some war hero's promotion to the Admiralty.
And the Jedi watches, because she really has nothing to do until the bartender fills her order. Saying nothing of the almost sad look she gets when the shot zooms in on the new Admiral's face, the caption underneath telling of some far off space battle in some uncharted sector.
It's getting late: the cantina is starting to fill up with the city's seedier specimens; the swoop fans, the lower rung Exchange enforcers, the drug peddlers: the regulars. The kind of rabble the city's police forces are paid to keep off the streets and out of sight. Which is why they're filling up the cantina now, sitting at the low tables and the high stools as they amble in. Most don't spare the Jedi a second glance, unless it's to leer suggestively at her body or glance suspiciously in her direction.
And the Jedi doesn't really mind, because the last thing she wants is to be noticed. The bartender hands her a mug, unstops a bottle and sends a steam of cool, dark liquid tumbling into the glass. The Jedi smiles and takes a long drought, reaching into her vest pocket. The bartender idly wonders why she isn't wearing robes, when she is obviously a Jedi, but decides it's none of his business and silently accepts the credits she hands to him. If she doesn't want to bring attention to herself, it's her choice, not his.
The Jedi spends the next few minutes gazing around the bar, drink in hand. Not much happens in places like these that doesn't happen in a cantina, and she's in a prime viewing spot. The chair next to her is conspicuous in its emptiness, the soft overhead light reflecting the red shine of the leather. The Jedi glances once or twice towards it, then the door, then her drink. Whoever she is waiting for is obviously very late.
The cantina door slides open again, and a Twi'lek saunters in. The cantina patrons watch, and stare, as the Twi'lek makes her way over to the bar. She looks different then most of her kind: she is a vibrant shade of blue, and she carries herself in a way that shows a sense of independence that one does not normally associate with Twi'leks.
The seat beside the Jedi is still empty; the Twi'lek makes her way towards it, only stopping to give a flirtatious smile to a particularly good looking Zabrak at one of the tables. She settles into the seat with a sigh, and signals the bartender to pour her a drink. The Jedi speaks. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking?"
The Twi'lek smirks and accepts the drink from the bartender, tossing a credit chip on the smooth surface of the bar. "Aren't you a little old to be out this late?"
The Jedi laughs, a delighted smile crossing over her face. The Twi'lek tries to be impassive, but fails, and the sound of the two women's laughter mingles with the rest of the noise in the cantina.
Then they both stop, and the Jedi looks seriously at the Twi'lek, all mirth gone from her expression. "Do you have the information?"
The Twi'lek frowns slightly, and pulls a data-chip out of nowhere. She turns it over in her hand, letting the light play over the smooth surface. Then it disappears to wherever it came from, and the Jedi looks at the Twi'lek, confused.
The Twi'lek takes a deep breath to steady her nerves. They have been jangling around in her stomach for the past few minutes now, in anticipation of what she is about to do.
She turns to fully face the Jedi, and speaks. "I want you to do something for me." she says haltingly, then rushes on. "Something important. I mean, it's nothing big, and it did take a lot to get this information, and-" She stops, a blush creeping into her cheeks, embarrassment causing her eyes to stick to the floor.
The Jedi frowns suspiciously, and shifts in the chair. "What kind of thing would I be doing?" she asks, her gaze steady on the Twi'lek. The Twi'lek mutters something, but it is unintelligible to the Jedi, who leans closer.
"What kind of thing?" she asks again, her voice a little sharper. The Twi'lek straightens up, in an attempt to gain back some of her previous poise. In all of three minutes she has gone from the young woman she is to the young girl she had been.
And the Jedi has changed too. She is less of the woman the Twi'lek knew, and more of a stranger; a colder, more calculating version, that she isn't sure she wants to know. Her next words come out quickly, and warily, as if she is speaking to some creature only partially tamed.
"I want-" she stumbles over the first words, then her voice grows more confident. "I want you to talk to him. Let him know how you're doing." The Twi'lek stops talking, and sits back to watch to effect of her words on the Jedi. The Jedi has her head down, her dark hair falling into and obscuring her face. The bartender chooses that moment to un-mute the holoscreen, letting the in-depth report of the admirals' promotion drift through the cantina.
"Admiral Carth Onasi," the report began, "was promoted to this rank earlier this afternoon in a ceremony performed by High Admiral Forn Dodonna. Admiral Onasi has proven himself many times over, most notably in the battle at the Star Forge nearly three years ago…"
The Twi'lek marvels at the coincidence, but then remembers-- there is no luck, or coincidence: there is only the Force.
The report continues, promising an interview with the newly promoted Admiral later on. But the Twi'lek knows they won't be around to hear it. The Jedi lifts her head, her eyes looking tired and sad. Her voice sounds just as sad.
"He doesn't want to hear from me."
The Twi'lek puts a hand on the Jedi's shoulder in a comforting gesture, but the Jedi shrugs her off. She moves to stand up, but holds still for a moment, eyes regarding the Twi'lek. "If you're not going to give me the information now, I understand."
The Twi'lek looks down, biting her lip. Then she reaches into her pants pocket, and pulls out the chip.
"Just think about it, okay?" she murmurs, trying not to let the disappointment she feels bleed into her voice.
The Jedi looks down at the chip, shock crossing her features. Then a grateful smile crosses her face, and she stores the chip in her vest pocket.
"Thanks, Mission. I will."
The Twi'lek smiles softly, as the Jedi gets up and walks towards the door. Her last words follow the Jedi as she palms the control for the door, ready to slip unnoticed into the night..
"No problem, Revan."
So the Jedi leaves the cantina, ready to face whatever comes next. Because time goes on, and there isn't anything you can really do about it. And while this seems like the end of a bad joke that really wasn't very funny, it's only the beginning. And it isn't a joke.