The Galactic Senate session broadcasts of the following week left a sour taste in Ashkhen's mouth.
According to the reports, Clovis's scheming with the Trade Federation had been exposed by none other than Senator Amidala of Naboo. She had undertaken a dangerous mission to Cato Neimoidia, risking life and liver, as she had nearly succumbed to a misterious poisoning during her stay. She came back with indisputable evidence of the Banking Clan's plans to resume weapons manufacturing on Geonosis.
Morrdul never bothered to extend his appreciation for the tip-off.
Upon unveiling the existence of a fully operational droid factory on Geonosis, the Jedi Council had dispatched Masters Kenobi, Skywalker, Mundi and Unduli to quash the insurgency and retake the world. To see the Grand Army of the Republic fight the same fight on the same planet for the second time in as many years lead to widespread disillusionment with the government.
Despite the general outrage, the official mass media coverage vastly downplayed the scope of Senator Clovis's dealings with the Trade Federation; the Galactic Senate didn't even have him step down as a representative. Ashkhen spent many a late night sifting through war-related message boards to gain a better understanding of how people felt about the business ventures between the Banking Clan and the Trade Federation, and their power dynamics in relation to the Republic.
Everything, everywhere, always boiled down to money, she concluded. The sole reason behind glossing over Clovis's transgressions was the Republic's dependence upon the megacorporations' funding of the war effort.
Then, as the Clone Wars entered its third year, the unimaginable happened. Coruscant, for the first time in a thousand years, came under attack. Official reports confirmed that the CIS was responsible for the bombing: on Count Dooku's orders, demolition droids infiltrated the Central Power Distribution Grid and destroyed the main reactor. Massive blackouts devastated four districts, causing the critical failure of the life support systems in the lower levels, innumerable casualties and incalculable material damage.
By the will of the Force, the attack happened during Ashkhen's shift at Irigo's—her apartment complex was smack-dab in the epicentre of the blackout. Fong showed up within an hour, and with more intel about the situation than all the news channels combined. Ashkhen, now effectively homeless, debated between serendipitous and alarmingly uncanny timing—Fong offered her his place to crash at for a short while.
A few weeks had passed since the initial bump in the road—Ashkhen had quickly gotten the hang of hanging out with Fong, and after brief consideration, she welcomed the invitation to take up temporary lodging with him. His apartment was bigger and made for a shorter commute, but lacked that certain atmosphere of people living in it. Ashkhen suspected it was either very recently acquired or one of multiple places he kept. When she brought up her concerns to Tilla, she waved the issue away, saying that all entrenched bachelor abodes shared the same characteristics.
In a few days, power had been completely restored to the blacked out districts, and coincidentally, Fong announced he was leaving for the Mid Rim. He only gave a ballpark of when he would be back, for the last leg of the trip was now beyond enemy territory, which meant he would have to take the scenic route—so far as making a series of micro jumps through Separatist controlled space could be considered the scenic route.
The timing was opportune. At Captain Obrim's direct behest, Ashkhen spent more time inside CSF detention cells conducting post-bombing interrogations than at Irigo's. During those weeks of "spiritual counselling", she earned a bit of a notoriety among the arrested as the nun who did unspeakable things to minds. Not even the most hardened criminals could escape the encounter without a full confession.
The efficacy of the Anti-Terrorism Unit skyrocketed in such a way that Doushan considered lending Ashkhen out to other police departments.
She politely declined.
Few days prior, a pair of drunk Nikto brothers had trundled up to the bar at Irigo's. One of them said his gangmate was arrested, then got eight years after having been mindkriffed by a tiny squirt of a white Nautolan. The other argued that no such things existed—up until the point he stood in front of Ashkhen, looking very confused. Ashkhen poured them both a double shot of the strongest liquor Irigo's kept and proposed a toast to all the endangered subspecies. The Niktos cheered, Polar Nautolans be dope as kriff (sic), and left with even less steady steps. It took her a while to unclutch Obrim's speed dial comlink in her pocket.
Ironically, her deepening involvement with the police turned out to be inversely proportional to her overall sense of safety.
••• ••• •••
A short while after life settled back into Ashkhen's version of normal, a medicinal herb garden, personified, took a seat at the bar. Ashkhen muffled a sneeze into her elbow, then greeted the long time no see customer by setting out a glass for him.
"Aye, Ash. Fon' around lately?"
Ashkhen's headshake was in part directed at Tilla, who had the preternatural sense to pop up with a tray's worth of empty glasses and circle around the bar not two seconds after Skip arrived. Ashkhen never would have believed that washing the glasses in the sink—which wasn't and had never been in Tilla's job description—in such a suggestive way was possible.
"Work, Mid Rim," she said after a moment of shock. "He didn't specify."
Skip appeared lost in thought, looking at nothing and everything at once. Ashkhen guessed Tilla's performance had long driven the thought of Fong's business trip from his mind.
"He a right," he said. "Them eyes really pretty."
"Thanks!" Ashkhen smiled at the compliment, earning a death glare from Tilla.
"Yah know, Ash, mi was gonna wise yuh up to what sorta ginnal Fon' is." Skip savoured his drink with eyes closed. "But lately he seem all difren' now."
"How so?"
"He's been acting lakka fool." An emotive eyebrow wiggle accentuated Skip's gill-to-gill grin. "Anyhoo, once he wash up, he'll prolly catch you before he catch me. Pass him this, 'kay?
Skip reached into his inner pocket. Ashkhen's mouth opened, ready to launch into her list of impermissible dead drop items, but the object in question was just a plain old comlink.
"He has mi boss's ear."
"I'll tell him that."
Skip drained his glass and stood to leave, giving her an upwards nod. "Stay outta mischiff!"
I'll tell him that, too.
Ashkhen waved him goodbye slightly wincing—Tilla stood so close she accidentally trod on her heel.
"Is that his?" she asked, snatching at the comlink.
"It's for Fong." The device evaded her grip and leapt into Ashkhen's hand. "It's for contact, I doubt he's left any thirst trap pics on it."
Tilla visibly deflated.
"Oh, for star's sake!" Ashkhen threw the comlink into her bag. "Just make your move already!"
"I can't. It's complicated."
"In what way? He's throwing eyes at you, you're throwing everything at him. You could have gone out, broken up, and gotten back together again by now."
Tilla shook her head and left with the empty tray under her arm.
"It's not that simple."
Irigo's was as busy as it would get on a weekend night. Both Tilla's inexplicable inhibition around Skip and the comlink in the bag were soon forgotten.
••• ••• •••
Ashkhen accepted the small paper—real paper—package with an amused look on her face. She had no clue what the writing on it said, but one sniff was enough to confirm the pattern she started to suspect—once again, first harvest.
"I appreciate it, but you really don't have to bring me one every time you pop off radar," she said. "At this rate, I'll run out of life expectancy before I run out of premium tea to drink."
"In-flight entertainment gets pretty boring after seventy-eight hours in transit," Fong said. "Reading up on the hammerheads' tea culture was… illuminating."
Excitement swirled in his lucent eyes, way out of proportion to be solely attributed the joy of their reunion. Ashkhen tilted her head to the side. "How much Spirit Vine did you take?"
"They've vending machines for that shit over there, would you believe that?" Fong's mouth pulled into a grin. "I don't think I'm ever coming down."
"Ithorians have two stomachs, Fong, and they're twice your size."
Fong wrapped an arm around her shoulders, waving her worries away with the other. "I'm as tall as a short Ithorian."
"I was talking about mass," Ashkhen said, looking up at him concerned. "Keeping pace with their casual consumption could mess with your hearts, cause serotonin overdose, nausea, persistent phychos—"
Fong pulled her in and shut her up. "You're so wise."
"And you're so not."
They sat in silence for a while, observing the lambent play of light on the water surface. The sun had long disappeared below the horizon; the ripples across the pond fragmented the reflection of overhead traffic and landscape lighting. Ashkhen took a different path this time, one that wound up a small mound above the koi pond. She had a clear view of the small artificial island in the middle, and thought about the last time she had met Nahdar.
A soft buzz against her hip brought her mind back to the present moment. Ashkhen had long given up on keeping count of Fong's incoming messages—around one hundred, she started suspecting that instead of a comlink, he had a live cicada in his pocket who wouldn't give up on trying to break free. He seldom ever took it out in her presence however, which she much appreciated.
"Almost forgot. I also got something for you." Ashkhen took the comm from her bag and handed it over.
"A used comlink?" Fong looked at the device, then back at Ashkhen. "You're gonna have to walk me through the metaphor here, love."
"It's not a metaphor, it's a burner." Ashkhen leaned back against his side. "Skip left it at Irigo's for you. I'm not even going to ask."
The mentioning of Skip bumped Fong down a few spheres. His aura went from vibing to red alert in the span of a few seconds. "When was this?"
"…ten days ago?"
Fong sprung to his feet. "You were sitting on this for ten kriffing days!?"
"You got back today." Ashkhen said in a cool voice. "Ithor seems to have truly kriffed up your sense of time."
"N-no, I'm, uh… I'm right, you're sorry." He ran his hands through his headtails. "Shit, can you give me a minute?"
Ashkhen gestured towards the winding path. "No rush."
Fong took a solid quarter-hour to walk around the pond while having an animated remote conversation. He closed the lap with a shrewd gleam in his eyes and stopped before the bench Ashkhen occupied. The comm plonked into the water behind his back.
"Let me drop you off at wherever you're supposed to be, and I'll"—he patted his pockets—"what the…?"
Ashkhen indulged in a bit of Force-fueled sleight of hand, and twirled the ignition cylinder around her fingers.
"You swiped my keys?"
"Like I was going to let you drive in that state." Ashkhen stood mid-stretch and headed towards the gates. She bumped into Fong on purpose as she walked past. "I'll drop you off wherever you're supposed to be, and then I'll be on my merry way home."
Fong caught up a moment later.
"It's a deep dive, love, with no lifeguard on duty."
Ashkhen gave a soft snort. "You remember where I live, right?"
Fong had parked his speeder a stone's throw from the entrance. Ashkhen opened the passenger door with a mock flourish, then got in on the opposite side. When both doors closed, the engine came to life with a low thrum. Ashkhen pulled out into traffic, accelerated, thumbed the switch to shift gears, then took over the airspeeder in front of them.
"Where to?" she asked as she took the northbound lane of the Ranfe Rilma Expressway. She caught a glimpse of Fong's face and slowed down a bit.
Fong rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I really kriffing wish all that Ithorian happy brew wasn't clouding my judgment right now, but to Sector 731, please."
"The Boneyards?" Ashkhen half turned to face Fong, raising a questioning eyebrow. "The one on level 1313?"
"Do you know about any other Boneyards on other levels?" Fong's lighthearted banter and his uncomfortable shift in his seat made for an interesting contrast. "Hold on, how do you know about it?"
Ashkhen fixed him with unblinking eyes. "What kind of intermediation requires a burner comm from your pothead pal and a trip to an area shadier than the surface of Umbara?"
"I'd prefer if you looked ahead, love." He swallowed. "It's pretty trafficky around this time."
"Is it sharking? Or a shakedown?" Ashkhen stepped on it and started weaving in and out of traffic, still looking at Fong.
"Eyes on the skylane, please." His hand creeped up to grab the oh-shit bar. Masculine pride forced the movement into a slightly less embarrassing headtail adjust.
"I'm just worried, you know," Ashkhen said with the most overdone wide-eyed innocence showing on her face. "I don't want you to get in trouble… or hurt!"
She performed the same barrel roll overtake that had Master Balian rescind her driving privileges for a month all those years ago. Fong's mien acquired a rattan undertone.
"You ran a light!"
"No one was coming."
"You couldn't have known that!"
"I'm not slowing down unless you tell me what you're doing in the Boneyards."
Ashkhen let go of the steering yoke with both hands to fold her arms. She kept it perfectly steady with the Force, but Fong couldn't have known that.
"All right for kriff's sake, it's business!" Eyes squeezed shut, he thumped his head back into the headrest several times. "Someone has stuff they want to sell, someone else has the means to spread it, they can't meet in person, I'm the go-between. Now please, drop the stunt driving before I barf all over my own kriffing ride."
By the time he pried his eyes open, Ashkhen had already switched on the blinker and carefully glided towards the highway exit marked Underworld Portal Osk Mern 9110.
"That wasn't funny, love."
Ashkhen, grinning ear to ear, further decelerated to let a lumbering family hatchback merge. "No, that was hysterical."
••• ••• •••
Ashkhen must have been the closest thing to a Jedi to have ever walked those streets.
They left the speeder in a garage on Level 1314 and took the public turbolift one level down. The reason for making the last leg of the trip on foot was self-explanatory—Fong personally knew the guy who owned the parking house. Had they parked anywhere within the Boneyards, they would have never seen the vehicle again.
The elevator doors split down the middle, and the wino who had leaned against them fell out to the ground. Fong, unfazed, stepped over him, with Ashkhen following closely behind. As they turned left and started down the busy street, Fong's pace quickened. He entertained Ashkhen with Underlevels-related trivia to draw her attention away from his upward gaze—he kept checking windows left and right as though he expected to be sniped at. They turned another corner, and headed down the alley to the establishment where Fong was expected.
"Rumour has it that there's a tunnel system beneath the Ink that was built during the Old Republic," he said. "No one who's ever went down there found their way out."
"The Ink? As in, this is where you…?" She nodded at his right arm.
"No, it's short for Jah Inkabunga. These"—he patted his arm—"tell many years' worth of tales from all across the Galaxy."
Ashkhen raised an eyebrow. "So what's the story behind the cover-up tattoo for the blaster scar by your spine?"
"Ah." Fong chuckled. "That's the 'don't turn your back in the middle of an argument' lesson that I had to learn at a painfully young age."
They stopped in front of a flight of U-shaped stairs leading down into what looked like the basement of an abandoned factory. The lower half of the stairs, below the first landing, disappeared into darkness. Ashkhen slowly shook her head.
"Why do I sense the 'don't enter an underground unit with an unmistakably Huttese name' lesson is up next on the curriculum?"
"O ye, of little faith." Fong's footfalls down the stairs thumped to the rhythm of the heavy bass line coming from below. Taking a moment to shove all her bad feelings down, Ashkhen followed him.
At the sight of Fong, the muscle by the entrance waved them through with a humph. Once inside the vestibule, Fong turned to Ashkhen. His sudden tenseness hit her like droplets of supercooled water in a cumulus cloud.
"It's been a while since I last came here," he said. "I wouldn't mind if you stayed close, love. A quick in-and-out and we skedaddle, okay?"
Ashkhen gave a noncommittal half-shrug. "No dallying on my account."
The inner door opened. Heavy isotope music boomed from the speakers inside the main room of the Ink. The establishment was the very definition of dive bar—Ashkhen made a conscious effort to let out the breath she found herself holding. The pub in which she had cornered Sel Miett seemed like the wine terrace at the Coruscant Opera in comparison.
Fong walked in, eyes sweeping the crowd. He tipped his head to the bartender across the room, then turned toward the stairway leading to the second floor. They were about halfway through when a Weequay, as tall as he but twice as wide, blocked their path. The ridges on his face were scrunched up into a bellicose expression. His aura wasn't contradicting that sentiment, either.
"What do you mean, right now?" Fong asked while shifting fully in front of her. Ashkhen appreciated the gesture, albeit it impeded reading the situation a bit. A distracting notion fleeted across her mind—she could have sworn she had seen his face somewhere before.
The Weequay just kept staring. It unnerved both Nautolans for different reasons.
Fong folded his arms. "Well, I don't have it."
Something interesting was going on with the tough, leathery skin on the Weequay's face—Qilka and Chate, her neighbours from a previous life, used to look at each other like that before punches started flying. He started turning away without a word.
"No, no, wait!" Fong grabbed his shoulder before he could complete the about-face. "I don't have it on me but—"
The Weequay stared at Fong's hand as though he meant chop it off. Fong let go and raised both in an allaying manner.
"Got it. Give me a sec."
They watched him leave and settle back to his table. Ashkhen remembered to close her mouth.
"You understand them?" She blinked at the Weequay mercenary cutting his way through the crowd, back to his table. "H-how did you learn—?"
"That is another long story and shall be told another time." Fong let out a long sigh, then muttered under his breath, "No more kriffing surprises, please."
However subtle, Ashkhen noticed the change in Fong's posture. His strut tightened into a prowl, his eyes never left the table where the Weequays sat. He pushed people out of the way as they ascended the stairs—most of them were either too drunk or strung out to step aside in time, adding irritation to his unease.
They weaved through the crowd, passed a second bouncer by the PRIVATE sign, headed down the roped off corridor to the last doorway and entered. Luxury couches abutted the walls of the small outer room, but neither of the four people sprawling on them gave off partygoer vibes. In a previous life, Ashkhen had spent more than enough time around security details of the delegacies she and Master Balian had accompanied to recognise the formation they so casually sat in.
Skip stood with a wide smile, swinging forward his right for a handshake in the same way one would pull a knife or a gun.
"Ey, look who did run ashore!"
He pulled Fong into a loose hug which, from Ashkhen's perspective, looked very much like a pat-down. She knew Fong wasn't in the habit of concealed carrying, at least based upon the times she had watched him get dressed.
A few back and forth pleasantries later, Fong made a move towards the door at the back end, but he bumped into Skip's outstretched arm.
"Big heads them nuh like out a road faces." Skip hit a very unexpected wipe-the-shit-off-your-shoes-before-you-enter tone as he jerked his head at Ashkhen. "Matey will wait ousside."
A squall of anger darkened the air around Fong. His smile gave way to a snarl.
"Were you raised in a kriffing tank?" he growled.
The setup took a wrong turn in a blink of an eye. Two of the guys got to their feet in silence. The fourth muscle casually reached under his jacket front. Skip dropped his hand on Fong's shoulder.
"Them rules a rules, mi fren." There was nothing friendly in either his voice or his grip.
Fong's stance shifted—Ashkhen took it as her cue to intervene and de-escalate. In one fluid motion of unarmed Soresu, she manoeuvred between them and pawed Skip's hand away.
"I don't mind at all," she said in a soft voice, a perfect imitation of Master Balian's lilt and cadence. A bit of nostalgia entwined into the unpleasantness of standing amidst two cyclones of masculine energy, seconds away from duking it out. "Saw some people playing Sabacc over there. I'll go join them, then buy this place with my winnings."
She took both of Fong's hands in hers—more so from a practical consideration than simply trying to make a sweet gesture. At long last, Fong tore his gaze from Skip's face and looked down at her. He planted a kiss on her forehead.
"I won't take long."
"Me neither," she said, and sidestepped with a wink.
As promised, Ashkhen headed back down to the club area proper, eyes on the surroundings. The Force had been screaming danger danger danger since the moment they set foot inside the Ink, but true focus eluded her. A stock of a disruptor protruded from a holster. A thermal detonator dangled on a belt. Someone picked their teeth with a serrated blade. A fistfight broke out a few tables over. It'd been a long while since she itched this bad to feel the smooth hilt of her long lost lightsaber. A Herglic haummed after her—could have been a catcall or, just as likely, a threat.
She made it to the Sabacc players and took a seat, sacrificing a good position at the table in exchange for a hundred-and-fifty degree view of the area, with the Weequays' table in the centre. Building on her experience at Irigo's, sitting with her back to a 'Staff Only' door seemed the least risky option.
A handful of credit chits clinked together. Her buy-in on the table, two cards in her hand, Ashkhen glanced up at the last door on the gallery.
Hurry up and let's get the hell out of here, okay?
She slowly exhaled and turned half her attention to the game.
The players around the table were neither too sharp nor too lousy, not that Ashkhen felt any interest in the game itself. She merely watched the swells roll in, round and round again. Credits went into the pot, cards changed, bets were raised, she called some and folded some.
A Tognath, straightening up and turning away from the Weequays' table, caught her attention. She briefly wondered how could he consume anything with his breathing apparatus on.
Ashkhen followed him from the corner of her eye—the Tognath walked to the bar, slid something to the bartender, then weaved his way back towards the Weekquays' table.
It was her turn again. Ashkhen was about to draw, but the Randomizer went on again. She looked down—different cards, still the same shitty hand.
"Check," she said and looked up. No tan skin, smooth head, breathing mask, tubes, or augmented eyes anywhere in sight.
Force damn—!
"Compliments from the gentlemen at table sixteen."
The deep voice in her ear nearly made Ashkhen jump. The very same Tognath placed a tall glass of what looked like waste oil next to her, and slowly straightened with a nod at the group of Weequay. Fong's silent interlocutor sat at the head of their table and glared at her. It finally clicked—he was one of the gunrunners on Obrim's list. Ashkhen forced her heartbeats to regulate and gave him a strained smile.
"Gee, so sweet of them!" She bit her lips. "I'll, uh, go and say hi when I finish up here, okay?"
The Tognath bowed his head and left, leaving Ashkhen with yet another dilemma—how to dump the contents of the glass without anyone noticing. She glanced up at the door on the gallery again.
What the kriff is taking you so long?
Two quick rounds later, her cards glitched out. Ashkhen gave them a little tap on the corners, but they stayed blank. One of them had been a Commander of Flasks but she couldn't remember the other two.
"Hey, these won't work," she said to the dealer droid, holding the cards up.
Her words elicited a bout of laughter around the table. "You win some, you lose some, sweetface," one player said.
"You mean to fold?" the droid asked.
Ashkhen blinked at it. Did all dealer droids have three photoreceptors? It looked weirdly reminiscent of an ST-series military strategic analysis unit.
"No, I mean that these are dead!" she said. "Deal me ones I can play with."
"Sit down, princess," the player right across the table said. "A game is a game."
Ashkhen skewered him with a glare. "I'm not standing!"
She was.
Wh…what?
While she tried to grab at the thought that had slipped her mind, Ashkhen gave the upstairs doors a quick scan, one so habitual she barely noticed. Emerald, Garnet, Amethyst, Sapphire, Krayt Dragon Pearl, Beryl… Bust came out from the Obsidian suite, gave her a nod and headed towards the stairs. Ashkhen shook off the stupor and placed two coasters on the tray.
"Everything okay, sweetie?"
Tilla's voice came from a stranger's face.
Ashkhen frowned—her dirty-yellow skin and forehead tattoos looked odd, but she couldn't put a finger on why.
"Yeah, no… I'm…" The third coaster dropped from Ashkhen's hand. "…I'm folding out."
She backed away from the table, leaving the cards, the credits and the glass by her seat. Shielding her eyes against the glaring lights, she looked for the restroom. Walking that three-meter distance felt more difficult than trying to walk on the riverbed, upstream.
Not good!
Water of indefinable temperature filled her palms. There was just enough space on the mirror between the scratch tags to catch a glimpse of her reflection—dark grey circles stood out under her eyes, giving her skin an unhealthy blee.
That doesn't look—
The restroom door creaked open. Ashkhen looked behind herself in the mirror—two Weequays have entered. The wiry one on the left must have been a head taller than Fong; the other was average height, but very heavyset. She grabbed the edge of the sink to steady herself and slowly turned around.
"Look, this gender issue is one quagmire I'm not willing to flounder into, but you people, in here, are making me uncomfortable."
Stocky lurched forward, splitting Ashkhen's focus between himself and Spindly's drawn blaster. A trace of a bigger threat, besides the muck of their conversation, eddied in the air.
Something's burning!
The back of her head hit the tiles—short black pause—and she was sitting under the wall with a burst lip. Stocky lowered his fist. Spindly had his blaster trained on her.
Ashkhen's hand shot across on instinct. However, what her fingers curled around and detached from her belt was just Obrim's comlink.
Sh—!
The device exhausted all its usefulness when it smacked Spindly in the face, buying Ashkhen just enought time to find cover in one of the stalls. Three short bursts of shots ripped holes through the panel, centimeters above her head. Stocky wrenched the door from its hinges, but Ashkhen had already crawled under the divider into the neighbouring stall. With a massive blast of the Force, she sent the still intact door ploughing into Spindly, and ran for the entrance. Something told her ducking would be a good idea—two bolts struck the opening door where her head would have been a moment before.
The sight that greeted her in the main area expelled the mercenaries from Ashkhen's mind at once. Throats slashed open, limbs severed, faces blown off. Fire, and the stench of burning flesh. She panicked.
"FO—"
Two blaster bolts zinged past her head, the second nicked one of her headtails. The searing pain was incentive enough for Ashkhen to drop and roll behind the closest booth. Four more shots were fired.
Blue bolts.
"We have confirmed visual, Commander, I repeat. We have confirmed visual."
The sole voice of the entire Clone Wars, the one in every field report, interview and talk show for the past two years, with helmets on and helmets off, speaking from the battlefields, the streets, in arcade games and children's toys, came from behind.
She slowly exhaled, building up the courage to peek around the side of the seat she leaned against. White helmets. T-shaped visors. Aerators at the chin. DC-17's at the ready.
The relief she expected to flood her never came. Nothing made sense. Clone Troopers on the scene? Did the Ink just become a battlefield? Or was it the whole Underlevels? Did someone order the troopers to raze a civilian compound to the ground in search of Separatist operatives?
"Charger, Tops, Scythe—take the left flank. Don't let them escape!"
"Roger that, Commander."
Do they… do they think I'm one of…?
Ashkhen did the one thing she could think of to bring their conditioning to reason.
"Cease fire, that's an order!" she roared over the noise. "I'm a Jedi!"
It hailed plasma.
Huge chunks of plastoid and durasteel splintered away from her cover, showering her with debris. The bodies who slumped at the table got vaporized from the waist up. In a last desperate effort, Ashkhen tore the 'Staff Only' door open with the Force, and dashed through it.
Hallway, first door on the right, stairs down, hallway, corner, hallway, stairs down, door, hallway again.
Good soldiers should kriffing follow orders!
Ashkhen slowed down to a jog. Maybe the clones' contitioning had been a little more sophisticated than to obey any rando claiming to be a Jedi. She listened through the echo of her footsteps to hear if anyone was following, but all fell silent.
She turned a corner and came upon a brown bundle on the floor. Ashkhen leaned over, strangely compelled to pick it up. Her hand jolted back as though with shock—its fabric was one she would recognise from a thousand.
Her hearts skipped a triple beat. Jedi only ever dropped their robes when shit was about to really go down. Ashkhen looked down the hallway, eyes following the familiar inlay patterns on the marble floor. Every passage, every turbolift, every stairway had been etched into her memory; this one lead to a seldom visited part of the Temple—the catacombs.
"Moving in to clear the area."
"Copy that."
"Bastion squad, standing by."
"Let's wrap this up, boys!"
Ashkhen ran down the corridor as silently as possible. The troopers had already mistaken her for a target once—she doubted they would give her much time to explain her trespassing. Ten meters or so until the next turn; if she could make it, there would be an ancient stairway on the left, leading further into the lowest levels.
A cylindrical shape on the floor caught the faint light. Ashkhen's mind dismissed the improbability and she skidded around the corner. Her knees nearly gave way at the sight.
Battlemaster Cin Drallig lay on the floor, his lightless eyes piercing up into Ashkhen's, face frozen into eternal sadness, hand outstretched towards the lightsaber she had just passed. A terrible gash ran across his torso from shoulder to hip. Next to him sprawled two Padawans—the girl had both her hands severed, the boy's head lay next to his own hip.
Ashkhen's stomach turned. Jedi had been killed with a lightsaber. Inside the Temple. Ventress? Grievous? Dooku himself? She ran her hands through her headtails, and darted down the stairway to get as far from the macabre scene as possible.
Fire blocked her way again and again as she made her way through the basement. The bodies of Jedi, young and old, lay everywhere; some had been cut down with a lightsaber, some had been shot. The bodies of clone troopers, one and the same, lay scattered among them; few had died of saber wounds, most of them were peppered with scorch marks of reflected blaster shots.
Who did this!?
Something—a detail, a factor, a hallmark—was frighteningly amiss, but Ashkhen's brain merely filed the feeling away, for the flight response had used up all her mental capacity.
Finally!
Ashkhen ripped the grate off the ventilation and squeezed inside, a much tighter fit now than she had remembered.
You knew I'd always choose dare, Nahdar.
Her mind flew back to her days as an Initiate. Crawling through the vents to sneak out had once been a game of mischief, not a matter of life and death. Tears welled up in her eyes as she inched forward, leaving the mass grave behind.
A steep chute branched off the winding shaft. Ashkhen had no place to turn around, so against better judgment, she slid down headfirst. If she remembered correctly from fifteen years ago, it would lead into a maintenance building in an area that was otherwise separate from the Temple.
Force help me, she thought as she picked up speed, and braced herself for landing.
Thud.
The impact knocked the air out of her. The first stunned breath confirmed that she had inexplicably slid down four thousand levels.
Ashkhen sat up, dizzy with the fall, the stench, and the confusion. Tall walls on three sides, a dumpster, a rust eaten shipping crate, trash strewn around. The alley opened onto a busy walkway. Speeders zoomed overhead. White helmets made their way through the crowd.
They're everywhere!
Shock and panic urged Ashkhen to hide. Her eyes darted about. The dumpster? That would be the most obvious spot to check first. Under the crate? Hard to gauge if there was enough room. The sound of approaching steps put an end to her hesitation.
Ashkhen backed under the giant container, effectively reducing her field of view to a less than knee-high slice of the alley. She covered her mouth with one hand, held the other against her side. One of her hearts was about to give out.
The footsteps slowed down. A pair of boots stopped in front of her hiding place.
Hide! Shield! Not a sound!
As Ashkhen got a better look, her terror somewhat abated. Dark leather, not white plastoid alloy. The laces were of two different shades, black and grey—a weird detail to note, but they couldn't have possibly been military issued.
A soft sigh. The boots shifted. First a knee, then a hand for support. Green headtails coiled on the ground, and lastly, a familiar face filled out her narrow field of vision.
"That doesn't look too comfortable, love."
"Go away!" Ashkhen angry-whispered. "You're giving away my position!"
Fong lay down on his side with the experience of a seasoned trip sitter, bringing himself face to face with Ashkhen. "Why are you hiding?"
"They're killing everyone!"
Fong slowly nodded. Not a thought was wasted on who the heck they were. "That's bad. Listen, how about you and I find someplace better to lie low?
Ashkhen considered his idea for a moment, then shook her head. "They won't find me here. You need to hide, too!"
"I won't fit in there, love, but I know a safer spot. Will you climb out for me?" He shimmied closer and, with a grunt, reached one hand under the crate.
Instincts battled against reason, but the latter prevailed. Ashkhen held out her right. Warm fingers closed around hers, and she choked on a sob.
"I… I thought you were dead!"
A glint in Fong's eyes bespoke the witty remark on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. He helped Ashkhen out from under the crate. "I'm not. I'm here."
The omnipresent smell of garbage in the stuffy air, the buildings crowded together, the incessant thrum of traffic—everything fit into the Underworld normal, far, far beneath the Jedi Temple. Ashkhen couldn't stop the shaking. She let Fong pull her to her feet.
"How d'you find me?"
"That's my job, finding people who are hard to find," Fong muttered, brows furrowed. "Look at me. What are you on?"
"Nothing!"
"Ssh, ssh, it's okay." He gently pulled her arms to the front to examine the insides of wrists and elbows. "Maybe you don't remember. Did anyone buy you a drink?"
Blood rushed to her head, and she jerked her arms away. Embarrasment and shame burned behind her eyes. To get roofied and wake up somewhere she had no recollection of arriving at, twice in such quick succession, had her profoundly second-guess her own intelligence.
"How kriffing stupid do you think I am!? Of course I didn't drink it!"
"I know, I know." Fong held her face in both hands and looked at her nose, then pulled down both eyelids one by one, wiping away the tears with his thumb. "Hold on."
He turned Ashkhen's head to the side and expressed his outrage as a string of expletives.
"You're swearing right into my ear."
"It wasn't in the drink, you've been misted up." Fong swore some more, then exhaled through his nose.
Ashkhen struggled to recall anything that wasn't the bodies of slain Jedi. "I don't know… Could have been anyone at the Ink. Maybe the Tognath dude, when I was sitting at the Sabacc table."
"Did he do that?" He was looking at her mouth.
Ashkhen shook her head. "Weekquay followed me into the restroom. I think they might be dead, though."
"If they're not, they will be soon."
It was neither red mist descending nor his usual boasting—Fong's aura took on a cold and ruthless edge Ashkhen had never sensed around him before. He meant what he said.
"I've an idea of what you're tripping on, love. Let's get you out of here first."
Fong took her hand. Ashkhen stood rooted to the spot, eyes going wide.
"I think I saw the future."
Fong gently tugged Ashkhen's hand and led her towards a group of swoop bikes parked nearby. The thoughts swirling around in her head threatened with bringing on a second panic attack.
"It didn't make sense!"
"Seldom ever does the present or the past, either," Fong said. "I know it's unpleasant, but we'll find you a bubble to ride it out, okay?"
"It was a vision! I wasn't hallucinating!"
"Eh, meiloorun, meilowrun". He squatted down next to a sleek, white swoop and reached under the steering vanes. The Javelin-890 roared to life in a second.
"What are you doing?" Ashkhen frowned, hugging herself tight.
"We parked very far, remember?" Fong swung his leg over the seat. "We'll just borrow this from my friend."
Ashkhen clambered up behind him and wrapped her arms tight around his waist. The Javelin shot forward—the surroundings blurred together, the noise of the traffic became unbearable, and every bright and colorful streak of neon light was a scalpel slicing into her brain. Ashkhen buried her face into the back of his jacket, taking slow, deep breaths through her nose.
"Slow down!" The reproachful tone she meant to hit came out as an undignified whine.
"Taste of your own medicine?" Fong looked over his shoulder. "Your perception is skewed, I'm going way below the limit. Won't risk getting pulled over on a stolen speeder."
"You said you were borrowing it from your friend!"
"I use the term 'friend' in a very broad sense, love." He brought the bike up into a steep climb. "And 'borrow', too."
••• ••• •••
"You can open your eyes now."
Ashkhen slowly lifted her face from the back of his jacket. "Where are we?"
"Nearest safe house."
The neighbourhood seemed familiar, the uniform landing platform not so much. Ashkhen followed Fong into the adjacent building, down the hall, and into the elevator. Then it clicked.
"Is this…?"
Fong nodded. "A relaxed environment is the best when you're having a bad trip."
Ashkhen had the odd feeling that he walked with the surety of someone who had taken this route many times before, but was too miserable to address her concerns. She only spoke when Fong's hand reached for the access panel by the door.
"Shouldn't we knock first?"
"No one's home," Fong said as he typed the digits.
"You know the entrance code to Tilla's apartment?" Ashkhen's brows furrowed. "Wait, how do you know the entrance code to Tilla's apartment?"
Fong shrugged. "Nine times out of ten, it's going to be a birthday."
The door slid open. Fong walked inside and flicked the lightswitch on without looking.
"How do you know Tilla's birthday?"
"Is this really the best time to play twenty kriffing questions?" Fong sighed. "I know things seem strange when you're hopped up, but trust me, everything's going to be taken care of."
He led Ashkhen to Tilla's armchair, then walked across to the couch. Instead of taking a seat, he flipped over the seat cushion and unzipped the cover. His hand disappeared inside the cushion up to the elbow, then reappeared gripping the handle of a flat case.
"It's been a while." He took out a slugthrower from the case, checked the chamber, slid a magazine into the well, then screwed a suppressor on.
Ashkhen watched in silence as he loosened his belt, tucked the waistband holster into his trousers then pulled out his shirt to cover it all up.
"At this point, I have about a hundred and twenty questions," Ashkhen said. "Why would Tilla have hitman gear stashed in her couch?"
"It's not hers." Fong walked over to the small plant display under the window. He grabbed the sad Rominaria by its stem and gently eased it out from the pot. The entire lower half of its root ball had been sawed off. Fong took two unmarked auto injector pens from the pot and shoved them into his back pocket. He turned around grinning ear to ear, then grabbed a blanket from a chair nearby. "Good thing she didn't throw out all my stuff, eh?"
Ashkhen's jaw dropped. Why the ever-loving kriff would Tilla forget to drop a kriffing hint about the identity of her quote-unquote Nautolan ex-boyfriend!? She hugged her knees tight against her chest. Nothing seemed real anymore.
"Are you a… bad guy?" she asked in a small voice.
Fong shook out the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"I'm the best there is," he said, chucking her under the chin. "Now, there's someone I need to bodybag first, but I'll check in with you first thing in the morning, I promise. Noonish works for you?"
Ashkhen pulled the blanket tight. "What are you going to do?"
"They sent me a message, love. It would be awfully rude not to answer."
"Don't go back there," she said quietly. "Not tonight."
Fong perked up a bit. "You want me to keep you company?"
"No!" She shook her head. "I have a lot on my mind to sort through, and I'm better at thinking when I'm alone."
Fong raised an amused eyebrow. "You know, 'kriff off, you're a nuisance' is exactly what every man wants to hear from the girl they've just rescued."
"I didn't mean it like that." Ashkhen struggled to keep her eyes open against the fatigue and the pounding headache. "Look, I'm not… ungrateful."
"Still a shitty 'thank you'," he called over his shoulder, going into the kitchen. "But I'll take what I can get."
Ashkhen listened to the sound of cabinet doors and drawers opening and closing, then slowly drifted into an altered state of consciousness.
"…if they're trying to bounce, stall them…"
"…call me when you got this."
"…Ash?"
Ceraplast knocked softly on the low table. Ashkhen's nose registered the ridiculous blend of slimming tea Tilla and Buyan drank religiously to lose belly fat—Fong must have grabbed the first teabag he found and chucked it in a mug of hot water.
"…soften those edges a little, whenever you feel like it," he said.
No response. Ashkhen sat cross-legged on the couch, eyes closed, still huddled in the blanket.
"Are you going to sleep like that, love?"
Still no reaction. Fong snapped his fingers in front of her face. Nothing.
"You're a real case, you know that?" he muttered under his breath, getting ready to head out.
"I'll take you someplace really nice when this blows over, okay?" He shrugged into his jacket. "Off-planet, preferably," he added as an afterthought.
••• ••• •••
The first thing Ashkhen saw when she opened her eyes was a pitcher of water and a tall glass on the table. She melted a little inside.
Wow. He… gets me.
A faint whiff of churned up earth, pine woods and sun dried herbs caught her attention. On the second sniff, she zeroed in on the source—amidst the heaps of Tilla's holozines, make-up items and half-finished snacks lay a discreet little spliff. Next to it, Fong had left a promotional lighter for G. A. Tours. The ad featured a minuscule Nautolan girl in a lavender bikini sunbathing on a tropical beach, furthering the good cause of the Anselmian tourism industry by putting both her inviting smile and buxom figure to good use. Ashkhen pulled the blanket over her head with a heavy sigh.
No, he really doesn't.
She sat up with a jolt, frantically lifting the blanket, looking under the couch, then tossing the pillows to the ground. Her comm was wedged in between two seat cushions. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what else she might have been sitting on—bricks of uncut glitterstim? Aurodium ingots? Unmarked credit chits? A body? She shuddered and glanced at the screen.
Oh, boy.
‣‣‣ Lt. Douche 21 missed calls ‣‣‣
The comm started buzzing in her hand.
‣‣‣ Incoming call Lt. Douche ‣‣‣