Author's Note: The semester is winding down (and essays are looming), so I probably won't update for a while. But the next chapter will be about Jonathan.

"I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn…"For Good, from Wicked

Syrianna

Amara stared at her name, trying to see letters in the scribbles. Hello, my name is Kcktk Cktivt Tiyektfn. How the hell is that English? So far, she knew that the "K" looking symbol was "A," and that was about it.

There was a soft chuckle behind her. She half-turned in her chair to find Professor Reach shaking his head over the map of the solar system she'd sketched for him—when it'd become quite apparent that while English may sound like Basic it sure wasn't written the same.

"What?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Amara."

"Right," he said and chuckled again, "I just think it's quaint how you've given all the planets individual names—even the moons! It's adorable…heh, Io."

"Yeah well, we're lonely," Amara said, rolling her eyes as she turned back to her work. She'd managed to transcribe the alphabet into Aurabesh (thankfully the letters were interchangeable). It was like those silly codes kids invent in middle school. As long as she had the code, she could read and write the language albeit slowly. Now I just have to memorize it.

At his desk, Reach was muttering to himself: "Ripples meet, blend, cast the same light, but in different directions…same stones, different names, yes, yes."

Why does this language have to look like a crazed mechanical chicken invented it? Biting her lower lip, Amara stood and walked over to where Reach was drawing circles on the solar system and muttering. The third little planet from the sun (marked 'Earth' or 'Vk7v' as far as Amara was concerned) had so many rings circling and colliding with it that it looked like it was being sucked into a vortex. She held out the sheet of flimsiplast she'd been practicing on. He ignored it—he was playing with his hands again.

"Professor Reach?"

"Wh—"

"Amara."

His watery black eyes regained some of their lucidity. He blinked up at her. "Oh, yes…"

"Yes, Amara," she finished for him with a smile.

"Your patronizing is not appreciated, Miss Immortal, though I never say no to money. What do you want?"

But Amara wasn't about to fall into that trap. She laid the paper in front of him. He smiled, raising his bushy white eyebrows and read her attempt to translate a Monty Python sketch into maniacal motorized chicken.

"Your writing is good, yes, yes, but the content is…questionable."

"It's supposed to be funny."

"My dear, you come from a strange planet."

"Well, there's a pot calling the kettle black."

"My point exactly," Reach said turning back to his star charts. His spider hands traced the whirlwind around Earth. "Until tomorrow…Amara."

"If you trespass on these premises again…"

"You'll sniff disapprovingly? I was just…"

"I am well aware of your activities, Ms. Macri."

The young woman raised a black eyebrow; a seductive smile slid across her sugarplum lips. "Oh please, Cracknar, call me Syri—everyone else does."

If possible, the Calamarian lieutenant's bulbous eyes bulged even farther out of his head. He made a sound like an asthmatic underwater. "I'm reporting this to the Vice Admiral."

"I'm jealous."

Lt. Cracknar's sickly pink skin purpled. "I'll have Cortel charged with dereliction of duty. He'll be—"

"Do not bring Rick into this." Syri's face was white; her cerulean tattoos paled, but the scrolls across her hands grew dark and glistened as if freshly inked.

Amara cleared her throat. Cracknar jumped, but Syri only lowered her glistening hands. Color once again suffused her tattoos. Her eyes glittered strangely in the hall lights. "Sorry for interrupting," Amara said, "I just thought you'd like to know, lieutenant, that it's raining in your office."

Cracknar stared, very much resembling a fish out of water, and then, with a curse that sounded suspiciously like Harris, scurried off down the gray hallway in a most undignified manner.

"Not bad."

Amara glanced at the taller woman who waited until Cracknar turned the corner before meeting the questioning green eyes.

"I wouldn't have picked you for a liar," she said with a smirk.

"Well, I didn't think Vice Admiral Harris would appreciate you murdering his secretary."

Syri laughed. "No—he would prefer to handle that himself."

Amara relaxed slightly. When she'd come upon the Calamarian and the tattooed woman (They weren't making out, thank God!), the look in Syri's eyes… Even now, something felt off in the woman. There were drops of blue ink on the floor. Noticing Amara's glance, Syri slid the sole of her shoe over the spots. Amara chewed her lower lip. There's no need to be rude.

"Amara Richards," she said, tentatively holding out her hand.

The other woman's smile widened, revealing ice-white teeth, but she didn't shake Amara's hand. "Syrianna Macri—I thought you looked familiar." Amara stiffened.

"I…I have to go." The last thing I need is to make small talk about the trial especially with…with her. "It was nice meeting you, Syrianna."

"Syri."

"Right," Amara said and turned away. Her footsteps sounded too quick even to her. But before she could turn the corner, Syri's soft voice pulled her back.

"You shouldn't wear black before the funeral."

"What?" she said, turning, her shoulders tense. Syri crossed her arms over her chest—moving without appearing to move, she seemed like a beautiful snake spun from the vacuum of space.

"Is he dead?"

"Who?"

"Inanity doesn't suit you, Amara," Syri said, "I'm referring to a certain dark-haired young man with stunning blue eyes and an exquisite ass."

Amara flushed. "Sgt. Knight is…will be fine." She stared at a seam in the floor. He has to be. When she looked up, Syri stood before her, an inscrutable look on her face.

"Lie if you must, but never to yourself."

"What do you know about it?" Amara shot back, bristling. She didn't give the other woman time to answer. He can take care of himself. "It's not like I can do anything about it anyway," she said.

Syri's pupiless eyes glinted as if to say: can't you? She opened her mouth, but just then Rick Cortel rounded the corner, and Syri's entire aspect changed. All seriousness melted away, replaced by the flirty lightness she had used on Cracknar, but there was true affection in Syri's eyes when she looked at Rick. "What have I done now?" she said, smiling slyly when she saw his scowl.

"You tell me. What the hell did you do to Cracknar? I haven't felt that much well-mannered hostility since staring down the gun barrels of half the Imperial Navy."

"Oh—I just exposed his sexual repression."

Amara took the opportunity to slip away, but not before catching Syri's eye. And for some reason, she felt a little less alone.

The aging troop transport shuttered, caught in the Ssi-ruuvi flagship's tractor beam.

"We've got a bite," Marcus said over their helmets' com system.

Sgt. Jonathan Knight surveyed his men, each one relaxed and alert in their black armor. They held their weapons with a familiar grace—ready to fire at the slightest twitch of the large, gray airlock doors, ready to kill—and die. The dark-visored helmets didn't allow him to see their expressions, or they his, but he knew none of them were afraid. This is what they did: infiltrate enemy ships and take them over. This was their life, but was it still his?

The transport groaned and rattled as it docked with the larger ship. The overhead lights flickered and died, and Jonathan's helmet switched to night vision. A momentary silence filled the darkness—there was no need to give orders. They each knew their objectives. Jonathan tightened his grip on his blaster and forced a pair of wide green eyes from his mind.

The door screeched open.