What Happens on Nar Shaddaa

Odessen. 21 ATC.

"Sending proof of completion now." The figure's distorted voice crackles over the speaker as the projection stutters and flickers above her desk. "As you requested. However, you should be aware there was a complication."

She sighs.

"Define complication." Nine pulls up the images, flipping through them idly: the buildings of the ranch now smoldering ruins, the equipment they'd had to leave behind rendered unusable, the rakghoul test subjects-

She wrinkles her nose. They'd had to leave so quickly and there was nothing else to be done with them, of course, no room to bring them to Odessen and the experimental process leaving them unsuitable for return to Taris. Stars know they couldn't just leave them wandering- they'd have had an epidemic on their hands in no time at all. But seeing them laid out one by one in the pens…

The poison had worked, clearly, a blaster shot to each meant to finish the job but probably unnecessary by the look of the wounds. Clean. Merciful.

Still, it seems a shame.

"Someone sniffing around the complex. Republic military, to judge by kit. He fired on us." Arms folded, the figure shifts from one foot to the other. "It's been handled, and he wasn't looking for you- some rogue SIS agent, according to his datapad- but I'm going to have to insist on a surcharge. Combat and sentient disposal weren't part of the initial agreement."

She flips to the last image.

Shit. She should have known they weren't going to leave Coruscant behind so easily as that. "Fine," she says. "An additional fifty. Sixty if you send me the contents of that datapad."

"Two hundred."

"Oh, fuck off. One dead 'pub? Seventy-five. Final offer."

A pause; another voice in the background. And then- "All right. I'll take the rest of the credits to the same account. Data incoming."

"Very good," she says, setting her own datapad down after a few more taps to its screen. "Credits sent. And you can drop the cloak-and-dagger shit, Renzi. I know that's you."

"Dunno what you're talking about."

She grins. "You said I. Xessa always says we."

"She's got you there, Ren. He thinks voice masking makes him sound exotic-" a second figure pops sideways into frame as the masking drops away, Xessa's green-scaled face a contrast against her partner's pale pink torso- "but mostly he couldn't be bothered to put a shirt on. So, where in the Void have you been? We'd heard you were dead."

"Rumors greatly exaggerated, et cetera." Shrugging, she lets the unspoken question die. "Excellent job as always. Cleaner work's not your usual, I know, but-"

"Work's work nowadays, and with Zakuul's eyes everywhere business is slow. A payday's always welcome." Renzi grins as Xessa straightens up beside him, one arm draped over his bare shoulders. "Though we-" a smirk for emphasis, there- "had hoped you might want to render payment in person. It's been far too long."

(A dangerous offer, with far too many pheromones in that room for anyone's good. She'd fallen into that trap once or twice (or, okay, maybe it was closer to half a dozen times) with those two, back in the old days when one of her many jobs was keeping the Cartel from throwing in with the Republic; the happier she kept the Hutts and their lieutenants, the happier her Intelligence masters had been, and-

Well. It had been a particularly enjoyable trap. Besides, anyone who could sit with a Falleen on one side and a Zeltron on the other and manage to keep one's knickers on may as well go join the Jedi- that much self-denial couldn't possibly be healthy.)

"Not this time, I'm afraid. My cargo required urgent transport." The keypad outside her quarters chimes. Someone's looking for her; she ought to wrap this up. "Rain check, hm?"

"We're working in the Core for the foreseeable future. You need us again, come find us and we'll knock ten percent off the going rate."

"Only ten?" The door's chiming again. She pushes back from the desk. "If you'll excuse me, I ought to get that."

Xessa winks. "We'd consider fifteen. A pleasure as always, my dear."

As the holocall disconnects, Nine stands, calling out toward the door. "Just a min-"

It slides open. Theron slips through, wiggling his fingers at her in response to her arched eyebrow. "Don't get up. I can let myself in."

"So it would appear. You could have rung in, you know."

"I did. Twice. When you didn't answer I assumed you were still in science wing."

She shrugs. "I was on a call. Lokin's in the middle of a treatment, so there's no point in sitting around watching gamma rays- though you've just reminded me I should probably change my entry code."

That he'd memorized her passcode oughtn't to have been a surprise. She was careful with it, always, but over the last months they'd walked back to her room together for one too many late-night 'meetings'- of course he'd learned the sequence. She'd expect no less from him; she'd have done the same herself, if they'd ever spent any time in his quarters.

"It took me a while- it's a good code. Not your birthdate, not a predictable sequence."

Old habits were hard to break. "It was my identification number at the Academy. I used it a dozen times a day, so it's easy to remember. But I'd still appreciate a knock."

"I thought I'd surprise you." Theron, wearing a suitably contrite expression (she doesn't believe it for a minute, but at least he's halfway pretending to be sorry), holds up an insulated bag. "Figured I owe you dinner after the whole Coruscant clusterfuck. Possibly like a hundred dinners. And some other stuff. But if I'm interrupting-"

He looks down at her datapad, face-up on the table with the last transmitted image still open on the screen, and then back up, frowning.

"I didn't know," he says carefully, "that we were going against the Republic now."

"We aren't. The team I contracted to mop up on Alderaan ran into-" she gestures delicately with one finger- "this guy poking around. Anyone you know?"

Theron shakes his head. "No, but his gear looks military. Do we know what he was looking for?"

"Files are there. I haven't had a chance to read them yet, but best guess? You."

"No way." Setting the bag on the table and hooking one foot around the chair in front of her, he pulls it toward him, sits down abruptly and reaches out for the datapad. "Coincidence. Must be."

The transmission's there, unopened, in one of her dozen Holonet accounts; Theron glances up at her again and, at her nod- he may as well see it, whatever it says- taps the screen. For the next minute he sits in silence, eyes flickering from line to line as he reads, and then he pushes the little screen away and rests his elbows on the projector table, head cupped in his hands.

"Well, fuck," he says, voice muffled.

She waits.

"You were right. I should have gone to Rhu Caenus for supplies."

Of course she was. Pallista was far too risky, far too many people who might have known him or might have been told to watch out for him- but there's no point in gloating. Instead, she rolls her desk chair across the floor and sits down beside him, leans against his side until he turns his head toward her with a sigh.

"In any case," she murmurs, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, "it's handled. The team that killed him doesn't know who you are or that you were there. Loop closed. We'll just have to be even more careful moving forward."

"I should have known he'd do this. But I thought-" Theron closes his eyes. "I thought- I mean, my own father-"

He trails off.

"Sometimes I think you've got it easier, not knowing," he mutters. "Not having to worry about your parents or-"

Her fingers dig in to his skin, harder than she means them to. "Don't be stupid. Do you really think it's easier?"

"I only meant that-"

"I don't even know who they are. They could be anyone at all, or dead, and I'd never know it. I might have walked through the Kaas City market and passed a sister, a brother-" at that, a spike like lightning lances straight through her head and her hands fall to her sides; she grits her teeth to keep from crying out. Oh, she should know better than to think of such things by now, oh, oh-

When she catches her breath and her eyes refocus Theron's shifted position, sitting up straight, holding her head close against his shoulder.

"And then there's that, of course. A small side effect," she says dryly, unembedding her fingernails from her palms with a shudder. "But ignorance is bliss, right?"

"I'm sorry." He presses his mouth to her temple, his hand in her hair. "I'm sorry. That looked like it hurt."

"It does. But one learns to live with it. Or not. After all, it was my choice." Forcing a smile, she nudges his hand away gently with a tilt of her head, straightening up and reaching across the table for the bag. "Enough philosophy. We should eat before the food gets cold."

"I-" He stops. "Yeah. Yeah. I remember you mentioned these before, and since I'm probably not going to be able to go Coruscant again for… well, possibly ever- um. Ghedi was due to rotate out of embedment last week anyway, so I had him make a stop on his way to the spaceport. He flash-froze them and I just heated them up in the canteen, so I'm pretty sure they're still-"

As Theron rambles, she raises the flap and pulls out a few takeaway containers and a chilled bottle of wine; the containers are warm, lids opaque with steam, and when she opens the first of the containers and inhales the smell's familiar.

This time her smile is genuine. "You seriously had someone bring dumplings all the way back from Coruscant?"

"You said you liked them."

Did she? She does like them, so he's right, but when- oh! "When I sent your implant- Theron, that was five years ago. I can't believe you remembered that."

"It was the last time we talked before the Zakuul war started." As she sets the second container in front of him, he gets up to fetch glasses from the cabinet. "I remembered."

She takes a bite. They've suffered a little from the freezing, but Force knows she wouldn't tell Theron that- he's watching her intently when he sits back down, fills her wineglass but doesn't eat, waiting for her reaction and he looks so ridiculously hopeful that they could have been stone-cold and stuffed with rocks and she'd still have eaten every last one. "Best thing I've eaten in years-" still actually true, frostburn and all- "and yours are getting cold. Here."

Holding one up to his mouth as he starts to reply, she pops it between his parted lips.

"You know," he says around a mouthful of dumpling, "we've never actually been out to dinner at an actual restaurant? The mess hall doesn't count."

"We've been more than a little busy. And Taris isn't exactly known for haute cuisine."

"True. But next time we're back in civilization, I'm buying you dinner."

She grins, leaning into him to steal a forkful of noodles. "If you're attempting to bribe your way back into my good graces with food-"

"Is it working?"

"Maybe." A pause. "Is there cake in there?"

"Is there cake? You wound me." With a snort, Theron digs down to the bottom of the bag. "Of course there's cake. Their cake is legendary."

"Then I forgive you. For now."

She lets him stay that night, too.

She missed him, even in the days it took to get from Alderaan back to Odessen in their separate ships, even with the distraction of Doctor Lokin's fragile health keeping her in the medical bay almost constantly and having to arrange the cleaner team to cover up behind them (it had been sheer luck that Xessa'd answered her holo and that she and Ren'd been near enough to handle the job- no one from the Alliance was within range, and her first two options had been too far away or too busy to pick up the work.)

She tries to tell herself it's habit, this thing they have- he's a craving to be satisfied like any other but somehow still novel even after months together, her want and her affection for him enough to forgive him his recklessness, enough that she hasn't so much as looked at anyone else in that time which is practically a record-

But when he stirs in his sleep in response to her nightmares, arm tightening around her to pull her nearer, murmuring her name against the nape of her neck, she curls into the warmth of his body and whispers back.

Some habits are worth keeping.

The next morning his ringing comm wakes them both a full hour before sunrise and she groans and covers her head with a pillow while he checks who's calling.

Hang on, he signs, lifting the pillow for a moment. Need to take this.

She nods and pulls the blanket up, just in case- one wrong angle and his caller's likely to get an eyeful- as he slides quickly into trousers and undershirt and ducks down the stairs to her desk.

"Do you know," Theron says by way of opening, "what time it is?"

"You said call with the plans." The answering voice is unfamiliar: female, heavily accented- native language almost certainly Huttese. Hm. She peeks out from beneath the pillow as the voice continues. "Got plans. So I'm calling."

"And I appreciate it, I do-" he yawns- "but it could have waited an hour. Or five."

She can't see a thing from this angle. Ducking beneath the covers until she's poking her head out at the foot of the bed (the sheets are a mess anyway, half-stripped, kicked off during the worst of her dreams), she tries again. Now she can see Theron, half-perched on her desk chair, and on the holo in front of him a yellow-skinned Twi'lek, a faded Black Sun tattoo on one bare shoulder, stands with her arms folded across her chest and a very smug expression on her face.

"Oops."

Theron sighs. "I told you I was sorry those SIS guys came after you."

"Not came after, found. Broke teeth," the woman scowls. "Again. And stole my gun."

"I'm paying you for the plans. You should be able to buy, like, ten guns."

"Liked that one."

He settles down into the chair with a thump. "Seriously, Teff'ith. I really am sorry."

"Happens. They said I'm… um. 'Known associate?'" She- Teff'ith, not a name Nine recognizes- sounds uncertain, mouth moving to make the shapes of an unfamiliar word. Her Basic's awful. Not a former work colleague of Theron's, she'd bet, though she's got more than her fair share of old contacts with likely similar histories. "Should have given stupid medal back."

Theron looks sidelong in her direction with a shrug and an I'll tell you later signed behind his back. "But you got the plans, you said?"

"Yup. Not easy." The Twi'lek holds up a data chip. "Lots of slicing. But got 'em."

"Your account's still the same?" Theron glances down to his wrist for a moment, but his commpad's still on the table beside the bed. "Hang on, I need to get my-"

Wrapped up in the blanket, Nine sits up and stretches across until she can reach it; catching his eye again, she mimes tossing it down to him and he nods, reaches up to pluck it out of the air as she lobs it underhanded in his direction. As it crosses the field of the holo's lens Teff'ith blinks and takes a step backward, eyes darting from side to side suspiciously.

"Who's there?" Her tone's even brusquer than before. "Someone else spying, too?"

Letting his breath out with a huff, Theron shakes his head. "No one's spying on you. You just happened to catch me in the middle of a meeting-" (the age-old excuse, of course, though he keeps a straight face when he says it)- "and the Commander's here."

"Let me talk to her."

Clothing would probably be useful right about now. Last night's clothes are all somewhere down in the sitting area, though, and the closet's on the far side of the camera field; she looks around the room for ideas beyond the bedsheet but none spring immediately to mind.

"If it's about the credits, Teff, I'm sending them right now." Commpad slipped onto his wrist and his attention on its screen, he taps out a few dozen keystrokes before he returns his eyes to the holo. "You don't need to-"

If looks could kill, Theron'd be a smoking heap on the floor by now. "You made me get arrested. By your mom."

"You never actually got-"

"It's fine, Theron." Both their heads snap in her direction but not the camera yet, thankfully, as she pulls the sheet tight around her chest and runs her other hand through her bed-mussed hair. Draping the blanket over her shoulders- it could pass as a shawl at this angle, right?- she gestures toward the holo. "I assume she's a friend of yours?"

"That's one way of putting it. I arrested her, she saved my life- the usual. I've been trying to keep her out of trouble ever since."

Teff'ith snorts. "Saved you twice. You're welcome."

"It's true," he says, and turns the camera toward her at her nod. "Teff'ith, this is the Alliance Commander. Commander, Teff'ith. Formerly of Coruscant, currently residing on Nar Shaddaa. She managed to get us a copy of the unredacted Ternion building tenant list and schematics."

She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can get a word out the Twi'lek looks her up and down, at her hair and her bare face and her blanket-wrapped body, and angles her head back toward Theron.

"Never thought you'd leave. Didn't understand why you did," Teff'ith grins. "Now I get it. She's prettier than the wanted holos."

"I'll take that," she says as Theron's ears go scarlet, "as a compliment."

"I'm sorry." Half an hour later, even in the lift on the way up to the War Room, he's still apologizing. "She can be… abrupt. But she's a good kid."

"She's entertaining, I'll give her that, and I'll comp you back the credits from the discretionary fund. But she's hardly a kid." She scans over the schematics as they hit the top floor- they're good. More than enough detail. They'll just need to find their in, now. "She's how old- late twenties?"

(Somehow they've all gotten old while they weren't paying attention.)

"Something like that, yeah. I'm not sure she even knows. But we've known each other a long time. She was there when Ngani- when Master Zho-"

The hallway's crowded when they step into it, bustling with soldiers and crew heading to their morning duties, and everyone's looking at them. "Tell me later?"

Theron nods, voice lowered. "It's a long story. Tonight?"

"Tonight."

They've still got half a slice of cake to finish, after all, and she's still got the extra toothbrush.

With the tenant list projected on one screen and a blueprint on the other, she and Lana and Theron sit staring at the list, crossing out names one by one.

"It seems to be mostly corporate," Lana says, "as expected. Approaching any of the Republic-owned organizations is out of the question, I assume, so that rules out these five."

"And these." Theron crosses out two more. "Off the record, an SIS front and a weapon dev lab for SpecOps."

She wrinkles her nose. They're rapidly running out of options. "Wish I'd known that ten years ago. And these four are Cartel, and much as the Hutts want the blockade gone, I doubt they'll approve of our methods."

"The twenty-ninth floor looks to be vacant."

"Right underneath the shield generator? Ten credits says it's stuffed full of skytroopers." Stretching, Theron reaches across the table for his caf cup. "What about Omnicorp? Twentieth floor?"

She puts a line through that one, too. "Two words: killer robots."

"Never mind." Theron squints, looking harder at the list. "And everything else is Imperial- wait. What about this one?" He traces a circle with one finger around the listing on the mezzanine level. "Umbrella Corporation. That's got to be a joke."

"Reminds me of an old friend, actually. Sia'hla. She used to talk about wanting to own a dance club." Taking a sip of her own caf, she leans her elbows on the table as Lana, beside her, keeps scanning through company dossiers. "I told her she'd be better off running it like an umbrella company- hire girls on as independent contractors, keep the Hutts' slimy mitts out of the whole business. She was still learning Basic at the time, though, and the phrase doesn't quite translate into Huttese. She thought I meant she should call it-"

She stops. That'd be too much of a coincidence, surely.

"It is a cantina." Lana raises one hand, sliding a dossier page on top of the projected list. "An odd choice in an industrial district, don't you think?"

Theron settles into a chair, focused on the page. "Pretty genius, actually. Bunch of white-collar types working long hours and with money to burn- now they don't even have to leave the building to drink and chase tail. Whoever owns it must rake in credits hand over fist."

"Speaking from experience?" She grins as Theron slides down until he can reach her, extending one leg to kick at her ankle.

"Nah. That was Balkar's thing. I was more the 'you've been here for thirty hours, Shan, now go the fuck home before I have you evicted from your office' type."

Lana smirks. "I'd never have guessed."

"Shut it, Beniko." Theron flicks his tip of his stylus at her as she leans neatly out of the way, redirecting it back around with a wave of her hand; it hovers over his caf cup for a moment, then drops into the liquid with a splash. "I was drinking that."

Ignoring him completely except for a soft, amused-sounding hum (Theron, meanwhile, fishes the little rubber piece out when he thinks neither of them is looking), Lana magnifies the line until they don't have to squint to read it. No individual names or contact numbers, of course; it wasn't going to be that easy. "It looks to be a clean tenancy as well- no proxy listed. No connection to the cartels at all, so far as I can see. It may be our best chance of getting into the building."

"I'd prefer not to gatecrash." She shifts her attention back to the blueprints, to the mezzanine level. "Assuming Ternion's constructed like most Nar Shaddaa towers, our access to the power conduit will be somewhere back here-" one circle on the map, marking the location- " well out of the public areas. Not impossible by any means, but we'll be dodging repair 'bots all the way up the conduit already. I'd rather not have to worry about security wandering in while I'm dangling a dozen floors up."

"So, what? We ask nicely and hope whoever runs the place doesn't mind us blowing the roof off the building?" Theron rubs his forehead.

"One never knows. We might get lucky. But no," she says. "We just need to get access to the staff areas." Pulling her datapad out of her jacket, she opens a new search window- the place must have a Holonet site, though whether it'll give her the info the needs is another-

A-ha. Jackpot.

She flips the screen around, grinning.

"Hiring performers for immediate start." Lana reads aloud as she points to the words. "Experience preferred. For interview, contact- Nine. No. Absolutely not. You're the Commander of the entire Alliance. It'd be completely inappropriate for-"

"Shhhh." She leans forward, lifting her finger off the screen and holding it against Lana's mouth. "It's a plan, which is more than we had five minutes ago. Unless you have a better idea."

"I'm sure I could think of- there must be some other-" Lana closes her eyes, lips moving, silently counting to five. "Theron, tell me you don't agree with this."

He considers. "That depends. Do I get to watch?"

"I'll need a handler."

"I'm in. Although I probably should mention that I don't, technically speaking, have clearance to land on Nar Shaddaa right now."

Lana sighs.

The last layer of concealer applied to her cheek, she sets it with powder and brushes her hair until it's sleek and shining. A swipe of lipstick, a touch of rouge, a quick adjustment of her shirt- good enough. She hasn't got the right supplies here to manage anything with the scar on her stomach, a problem she hadn't considered initially; if this club wants the usual costume, it'll be hard to hide even with makeup and airbrush.

(Most clubs don't like girls with scars. Or tattoos. Spoils the aesthetic.)

Oh, well. One step at a time.

Emerging from the refresher back into her quarters, she grins at Lana and slips into the voice she'll use for the call. "War wounds patched. How do I look?"

Cross-legged on the couch, Lana winces. "Force, that accent. You'll shatter glass if you're not careful."

"When's the last time you- hold on." She clears her throat. "I know, it's appalling. Everyone on Nar Shaddaa talks like they've gargled razor blades and snorted helium. But I've always used this cover identity for this sort of thing there, and in any case when's the last time you saw a cantina dancer who sounded Imperial?"

"Korriban, actually. Once again, for the record, this is a terrible idea."

"Objection noted. Theron, is the holo ready?"

He nods, done tinkering with it, gesturing toward the table as he crosses the room to settle down on the couch next to Lana. "Masked and relayed. Ready when you are."

"All right." Clearing her throat once again, she inhales, adjusting her posture and her voice. "Here we go."

She stands before the camera, hands clasped, shoulders back, as the call goes through and a pretty Mirialan, throat bare in a low-cut dress, smiles politely from the other end of the connection and greets her in accented Basic. No cartel ties, no collared employees- by Hutt Space standards this place is getting weirder by the minute. "Thank you for calling Umbrella Corporation, voted Best in Sector two years in a row by the Nar Shaddaa Star. My name is Cira. How may I direct your call?"

(She's had this conversation half a hundred times.

Breathe, girl. Just like driving a speeder.)

"Your 'net site says you're hiring dancers. I'm interested in auditioning, if the position's still open."

Cira nods, giving her an appraising look, then relaxes slightly. So far, so good. "We're currently hiring for performers-" the correction's subtle but emphatic; no dive bar, this. Interesting. "Any previous experience?"

"Of course." She ticks them off, one by one, on her fingers. "Here at home I've been at Haven's Blaze, Club Vertica and the Slippery Slope. I did a stint at the Dealer's Den on Coruscant a few years ago, too."

Across the room, Lana raises an eyebrow and Theron grins.

"An impressive résumé. If you'll excuse me a moment, I just need to confirm with the owner but I expect she'll want to have you in for a stage trial. What's your name?"

"Xari."

All at once the polished smile drops from the girl's face. "Yeah, right. Try again."

If someone picked up that cover identity while she was in carbonite- no. Not possible. So what's-

"I'm sorry," she says, keeping her tone even, her body relaxed even as she starts planning for half a dozen contingencies. "That's the only name I've got. Is there a problem?"

"She's been gone a long time, so I never met Xari, but I've seen the holos. Everyone here has."

Okay, now this really is getting weird. She used the name for years, sure, in more than a few undercover ops- she never got caught out as Xari and after a little while she had enough reputation to open doors, which made the work easier. But it's been six or seven years since she's played the part and the only performance holos she knows of (a mistake, letting those get loose on the 'net, but between wig and cosmetics and costume she'd barely know herself in them, let alone be recognized now) must be ten years old.

Why would she still be so well known there?

(There are holos? Theron mouths.

Lana, squinting, pulls out her datapad- then elbows Theron sharply, pointing down at the screen.)

"That bold a lie might pass down in the sublevels," Cira continues, eyes darkening, "but you should do your research properly next time. You must know who owns this place. Did you really think you'd fool Sia'hla, of all people?"

She blinks.

Maybe Koth's right after all. Maybe this whole thing really is destiny.

"Go and get her, then. Ask her-" she sighs, dropping the accent. This isn't going to work, not the way she meant it to. But this might be even better. "Ask her if she remembers what happened with Belan."

The girl scowls, pushing back from the desk. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It will to her."

As she disappears from view, Nine rolls her shoulders and cracks her knuckles and Theron and Lana both stare at her, their faces twin masks of worry. Disconnect? Theron signs.

She shakes her head. Not yet.

After a minute she can hear footsteps, two sets, approaching on the other end of the call. "I should have just hung up on her-" Cira's voice, out of frame, terse and snappish in Huttese- "but she swears she's-"

"I'll deal with it, Cee. Leave us." The figure that stands behind the desk now isn't the Mirialan girl; a slender Twi'lek woman in a high-necked black dress stares flatly into the holocam, eyes narrowed as she switches to Basic. "Look, schutta, I don't know who you think you are or where you heard that man's name, but-"

She stops, blinks, looks at her face again.

"It's you. It's… Kaliyo told me you died. Five years ago."

(She oughtn't have covered up her scar. It had been there the last time they'd seen each other, after Hunter and that last damned lucky shot- they'd joked about it, even. So much for my stage career.)

"I keep hearing that this week. But it's me. I swear."

"Prove it." Lekku winding anxiously around each other at their tips- the markings are new, elaborate tattooed bands in a pattern Nine doesn't know the meaning of- she presses her lips together tightly. "Tell me something only you would know."

Theron and Lana both look entirely confused now, straight-backed in their seats, hair-trigger tense in a way that echoes in her own nerves: an op poised on a razor's edge, ready to turn good or bad in the span of a single moment. She nods, as much to them as to the holocam.

"You shot him. You shot him because I made him stop. Do you remember?"

One hand flies up to her throat, just for a second, and the projection shimmers as Sia'hla leans forward hard against the desk. "I- I remember. Where the fuck have you been?"

"That's a story better told in person. But I need to ask you a favor."