"Three months. I'm sorry."

Confused silence settled on the restaurant. Drosili raised her head and looked over her entire staff of twenty-something people. Despite the short notice, everyone from all three shifts showed up, even the two delivery drivers she hired not long after Ashkhen had joined her team.

The waitresses and kitchen hands glanced at each other, some of them with a twinkle in their eyes or half a smile playing around their mouths. In their defence, the restaurant manager had a penchant for hairpin jokes—maybe the 'I'm sorry' was the funny setup. Drosili had decided to switch out the white-and-aqua-blue uniforms, but the new set would only arrive in three months, since all shipments coming Corewards on the Corellian Run had to take a long detour now.

Tilla gave her friend a little elbow-nudge.

"She's serious, right?" she whispered.

Ashkhen nodded. With most unfortunate timing, Drosili had arrived back from the Outer Rim with her parents, two aunts and the three surviving, newly-orphaned nieces when the Senate had levied a tax on meat and meat products. The act lead to a massive demonstration. Food service providers and carnivorous species stood shoulder to shoulder, voicing their outrage. The Interspecies Advisory Committee whipped up a government site where families of prey could register for a monthly care package. They even started broadcasting a feel-good holomontage with clone troopers carrying nondescript plasteel containers and cute little Togruta kids munching on bantha jerky. They also promised a yearly tax-refund for restaurant owners who would agree to provide half-price for life services to members of the Army, then promptly swept the issue under the rug.

Fuel prices skyrocketed next, causing a steep increase in shipping fees, and consequently, putting even more strain on the restaurant and food retail industry. At first, Drosili tried to counter the heavy blow with switching suppliers, then removing a few dishes from her menu, but as both the resources and their procurement grew more and more costly, she had no choice but to gradually increase her prices, too.

Return customers soon stopped returning. Due to its location, original price range and milieu, the diner mostly catered to people of the lower middle and the working classes; the very same billions upon billions of residents who were hit hardest by the struggling economy. The simple act of choosing comfort food for lunch became an unaffordable luxury—people now took their own meatless sandwiches in plastoid bags to work and ate at their desks to optimize productivity.

Drosili's Diner was in the red, and not just light coral or high fashion salmon, but full-on Old Republic style synth-crystal red.

"Even if some of you offered a kidney or half a liver, it probably wouldn't have saved this restaurant in the long term, so don't kick yourselves too much for hogging your spare organs," Drosili continued. "I signed it. We're closing down in ninety rotations."

"You're… throwing us out? In three months?" someone from the morning shift asked.

"In so many words, yes." Drosili spread her long arms. "Also, I'm throwing everything I've worked for in the past fifteen years, and the future I tried to build for myself and my family out. Also considering throwing myself out that window right beside you, but I'm not Toydarian, so flying away from all my problems is not an option."

"What are you going to do?" Tilla asked.

Drosili slowly shook her head. "Head for the Colonies. I have my eyes set on an industrial world that's stable, prospering, and most importantly, neutral. I can only hope they can afford food."

"You're leaving the Republic?"

"It's either that or the funeral industry, the only sector that's going strong around these parts," Drosili said. "But while I do know my way around meat processing and freezers, I'd rather let the Chancellor, the Senate, the Clone Army and the Jedi deal with their corpses."

"Don't blame the Jedi, Drosili, they didn't do anything," Ashkhen's voice carried over the low murmur.

The soon-to-be-former restaurant owner gave her a sideways glance. "Exactly."

The staff broke up into groups of threes and fours, the low murmur of conversation filled the restaurant. Members of the afternoon and night shifts soon headed for the door, shaking their heads in disbelief.

"Grab brunch with me?" Tilla turned to Ashkhen, cheerful as ever. "There's a new place Yanni's told me about, right by the Solidarity Square."

"Wouldn't that be a little hypocritical?" Ashkhen looked after Drosili as she trailed out the front door with weary steps. "Hitting up the competition the minute our boss announces her bankruptcy?"

"They have this mean crabcake on a scone with poached eggs and sa—"

Ashkhen's hand shot forward, grabbing Tilla by the wrist. She dragged her friend towards the door, determination burning in her eyes. "Quit dallying! It's our duty to consume and save the restaurant industry!"

••• ••• •••

"What about the Jedi Temple?"

Tilla was halfway through her second Morning Mimban, both of them compliments of the shift manager. At first, Ashkhen didn't understand why would Tilla make a point of mentioning to the waitstaff that it was her friend, Buyan the Beauty, who had recommended the restaurant. She soon found out.

The shift manager's compliments kept piling on—both verbal and ingestible, for the guy would use small plates of assorted nibbles as an excuse to gravitate towards their table every five minutes and ask if Buyan had ever mentioned gracing the establishment with her lovely presence anytime soon. His bubbling enthusiasm, tinged with hint of desperation, made Ashkhen wonder exactly who had been whose customer the last time Buyan was here.

"What about it?"

"I thought we were still spitballing job ideas here," Tilla said.

Ashkhen set her cup down with a scoff. "Hardly an option. I've missed my shot, you're too old and not even Force-sensitive!"

"No, but they must have a massive kitchen!" Drinks only ever fueled Tilla's practical way of thinking. "You wouldn't need a letter of reference because they already know you, and I can handle all kinds of customers, young and old and a little cuckoo, too."

"Tills, I didn't leave the Temple to broaden my horizons and find other opportunities for self-improvement, they literally chucked me out for not meeting their standards."

Tilla swept her objections away with a shrug. "Standards for nunhood, maybe, but you're a great cook!"

"Well, thanks, but…" Ashkhen sighed. "Look, there are all kinds of tiers and subdivisions in the Jedi hierarchy. Not everyone is ranking member of the Order, like the ones you see on the news. But the people who worked in the refectory were Jedi too."

"Okay, so Jedi won't let heathens handle their food, that's understandable." Tilla examined the bite on her fork closely. For its weird colour, it was surprisingly tasty. "There must be other jobs, then."

"Jedi serve the people, Tills, not the other way around."

"One word: hangar maintenance," she said, stifling a small hiccup.

"That's… two words. I'm pretty sure it's not hyphenated."

Tilla went on to make her point, unfazed.

"Who updated your transponder codes, so Jedi could park their aircars anywhere and disregard traffic rules whenever the voices told them to, and not get pulled over?" She raised a challenging eyebrow. "What about the busted starfighters we see on the news? Jedi Generals pop out the dents themselves?"

"No, there were… engineers and mechanics working in the hangars," Ashkhen acceded. "Still, vastly underqualified. Tightening a few screws when my wrist goes out of whack is nowhere near spacecraft engineering."

The second glass of Morning Mimban disappeared in three gulps—Tilla was on a roll.

"Who paid your bills?"

Ashkhen scratched her head. "Uh… t-taxpayers, I guess."

"An army of accountants, I'd wager," Tilla countered. "Do many Jedi get a divine calling towards finance?"

"No, they must have been from a… firm, or something." Ashkhen, now an outsider, took a moment to ponder the extremely sheltered and privileged path of selflessness that the Jedi walked. "But need I remind you that I'm not particularly shrewd about money?"

"You yourself said the Temple was a big place," Tilla continued. "Imagine ten thousand people taking a shit every day."

Ashkhen nearly choked on her tea. "I'm eating, for stars' sake, I'd really rather not!"

Tilla's own unique duality was a marvel to behold—the discreet, floral perfume she wore, how she colour coordinated her lipstick and her nail polish; and the extremes her way of practical thinking sometimes led to.

"And you're telling me you didn't have an on-site plumber?" Tilla accepted her Screwdriver with a smile that lit up the entire quadrant. The shift manager definitely had a thing for uninhibited Twi'leks—the amount of vodka Ashkhen could sniff out from across the table made the cocktail in Tilla's hand the liquid equivalent of a heavy-duty power tool. "Or at least one dude you could call to send his maintenance droids over?"

"All right, all right, point taken!" Ashkhen threw her hands up in defeat. "I see what you're getting at. Yes, there are plenty of civilians working in the Temple, but I've really no intention of going back to sweep the corridors I was once proud to call home."

"No, I get it," Tilla said, mouth half full of hors d'oeuvres. "You're done dealing with their shit."

"You have such a way with words."

Tilla's extreme short period comet made a perihelion passage once again, asking if he could interest his favourite ladies in the restaurant's own secret specialty sundae. Unwilling to risk a slow and agonizing death of lactose overdose, Ashkhen politely declined. The shift manager showed up again a few minutes later, hefting Tilla's elaborate dessert in one hand, and a fruit platter in the other. Judging by its size and exotic contents, Ashkhen estimated the restaurant's suppliers had plundered orchards on at least four different worlds.

"What about your original idea of opening your own restaurant?" she asked, trying to gently steer the conversation away from the Jedi. "I'd come work for you in an instant."

Tilla shook her head with a sigh. "All I see around is people going out of business. I'm really not sure if this is the right time to start one. Soon, the only type of people who will be able to afford eating out are the people I have no intention to cater to."

"When the war is over—"

"And is the Force telling you there's a Republic victory coming?" Tilla interrupted. "Separatists take one world, the Republic takes it back, then in a few months, it's under Separatist rule again."

Tilla had long grown disenchanted with the Grand Army's power and might. The updates she got from her friends and family on Ryloth did not always overlap with the official reports shown in Republic media. To avoid the touchy subject of wartime politics, Ashkhen circled back to the slightly less uncomfortable topic of looking for a new job.

"How about trying something temporary?" she asked. "Giving it a test run before committing?"

"I've a nannying gig lined up," Tilla said. "Yanni's met a guy who wants to, you know, get his marriage back on track."

Ashkhen's tea went up her nose with a snort. What sort of twisted, backwards logic could have led someone to the conclusion that meeting Buyan was the key to saving a committed relationship?

"…setting up regular date nights, letting his wife have a little time to herself without the kids," Tilla continued. "That would mean four shifts at Irigo's, two nights of making sure everyone's brushed their fangs, and I'd still have a free night."

"I thought you weren't too enthusiastic about raising kids."

"You're only not getting paid when it's your own children." The rest of the Screwdriver disappeared in Tilla's mouth and reappeared as an odd gleam behind her eyes. "We're talking twenty-nine creds an hour to press a button on the holoscreen."

Her compromised hand-to-eye coordination had her misjudge the distance and the base of her glass clinked against the edge of a plate. Ashkhen caught it with the Force before it toppled over.

"You could do kids' parties!" Tilla looked at her glass levitating above the table, then raised her eyes to Ashkhen with an exuberant smile. "You know, make them believe magic is real!"

"The Force is real, Tills, magic is not." Ashkhen set down the glass, shaking her head. "I'll think of something with a little more perspective."

"Pool parties then, for a more mature audience?"

"…and dignity." Ashkhen stood with a sigh. "I'll go get the bill."

••• ••• •••

The remaining eighty-nine and a half rotations were plenty for Ashkhen to push the thought of job hunting out of her mind. There were still too many next weeks left to start taking the problem seriously, and to her delight, the air conditioning unit filled up with credits, almost enough to start looking at used speeders. Her shifts at Irigo's were as busy as ever—if anything, coming up on the second year of the Clone Wars only fuelled the general population's willingness to wind down.

The dapple fellow showed up a few days later, taking a seat with an air of surety as though his name was written on the barstool.

"You again."

Fong made a show of looking around to see if anyone could be listening in to their conversation, then leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "It's not just a fable, it's the real deal."

"What is?"

"Your magic goldfish." He gave Ashkhen a meaningful look. "I'm back here, and now I'm dying to find out whether your other two wishes also concern me."

Ashkhen tried to recall if she had met anyone during her time as a Jedi-diplomat-in-training who warranted a twenty second bout of box breathing within ten seconds into the conversation.

"What can I get you?"

"Depends." He leaned back, arms folded across his chest. "Is it on the house?"

"No! Why would it be?"

A triumphant grin split Fong's face. "So that worked, too."

Ashkhen exhaled through her nose. Fong toned down the obnoxiousness and eased back into his laidback character at once.

"Gan Moradir single malt, neat. What can I get you?" he asked without missing a beat, so smooth and earnest, he caught Ashkhen momentarily off-balance.

"I'm not… look, I appreciate it, but I don't drink. Especially not when I'm working," she said, setting a lowball glass in front of him.

As she looked up, she noticed Fong sitting with his eyes closed, brows drawn together. Ashkhen, bottle in hand, paused for a second. Did he take offence? His soft sigh brought her attention to the fact she had overlooked: they shared the same articulate nose. Fong was just appreciating the woody, husky scent of the whiskey already, long before she had poured it into his glass.

"Well, what do you drink when you're not working?" he asked, gently tapping his fingers on the bartop to show gratitude.

Ashkhen tightened the cap with her cybernetic hand—Angels had had their fair share already. "Tea, mostly."

"In that case, how about…" Fong scrolled further down on the holomenu, then back to the top, then jumped to the middle of the list at random. "Oh, exquisite! A sweetly sophisticated cup of marble-berry and bergamot tea for you, please."

Ashkhen raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I know kriff all about tea." Two dimples debuted on either side of his ludic smile. "Is that one any good?"

"Flavour's a little exotic," Ashkhen said. "It's a type of green tea."

"Are there many colours?" Fong leaned on the bartop, propping his chin in his hand. "Teach me!"

"Tea is quite the extensive topic," Ashkhen said, choosing her words with care. "Your friends at your table would start wondering where you are."

"Oh, they're fine. They'll text me when they need me," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"That's a relief," Ashkhen said, accepting her fate with grace and humbleness. She pulled up the incoming orders on her terminal and started working through the backlog.

"Look, if you feel like I'm crowding you, say the word. I'll turn around and walk away," Fong said. His words were genuine, but his relaxed sprawl suggested the opposite. Strangely enough, Ashkhen wasn't sure if she would want him to leave.

"You see, I've been away from the Capital for a while," he continued. "But before that, I used to come here a lot. What can I say, I everyheartedly endorse the upgrade. You're nicer than Grazz."

A waitress picked up the tray full of drinks, Ashkhen immediately set out another two. At one in the morning, the club was starting to get gingered up.

"I hope you realize that's clearing an extremely low bar," she said.

While flair had entirely given way to speed and efficiency, Fong still followed Ashkhen's movements with an amused look on his face.

"Say, I didn't catch your name last time," he said when she reappeared from beneath the soda fountain, holding four bottles of cider in one hand.

"I'm Ash."

"Just Ash?"

"For now." Ashkhen put a copper-coloured drinking straw in each of the four glasses, then turned back to the terminal. "That was a nifty trick, making me make myself a drink, but it won't unlock the other three syllables just yet."

"Oh Gods below, these quadruple-quirky name trends!" Fong swirled his drink around. "One vowel per name should be plenty. Take mine, for instance: it's nice and short"—he raised his drink to Ashkhen—"and easy to whisper," he muttered into the tumbler.

Ashkhen pretended she didn't catch the last part, lest she should fuel his raillery with a reaction.

"Do you want to know why forn is the most salacious letter of the alphabet?" he asked, rotating the glass between his fingers.

"Not really, but I doubt that'll stop you."

Ashkhen set out a dual bottle champagne cooler and filled it up with ice. She checked the terminal again—was it sweet rosé champagne and dry sparkling wine, or the other way around? It was challenging to focus through Fong's circumlocution.

"You have to bite down on your lower lip to properly articulate it. Calling my name makes everyone look so fffoxy."

The hazy bedroom eyes and bitten lip face he pulled looked so absurd, Ashkhen burst out laughing despite herself.

"Come on, you try it!"

"You have all the subtlety of a seismic charge," she said, leaning on the bartop.

"I've learned a long time ago it's better to shoot straight from the shoulder." Fong raised his glass again. "Life's too short, Just Ash."

"You are a bold one," Ashkhen said. "What makes you think I'm not spoken for?

"Body language."

Ashkhen quickly straightened back up, crossing her arms. It had been a while since she got this confused—feeling the tug on the line, unsure which end she was on.

Fong's grin outshone his eyes. "Okay, for real, do you have a boyfriend?"

Lying didn't come naturally, but who knew what barrier would the truth remove? Fong seemed plenty outcome oriented already.

"Well… no."

Fong threw his arms up. "Then you should get one!"

"What would I need one for?" Ashkhen leaned over the bar and took the tray from the waitress. She hurried back to put it next to the sink, calling over her shoulder, "To be underfoot all the time?"

"Oh, it's so not your feet he'd be under all the time," he murmured.

Ashkhen twirled around—she must have heard it wrong. Fong's expression convinced her otherwise.

"Okay, that's it! You're cut off!"

"Shit, did I say that out loud?"

"Last chance to leave on your own two feet." Ashkhen leaned over the bar to take his glass.

Fong snatched up the remainder of his whiskey, leaning far back to keep it out of her reach. "Let me just finish my drink, then I promise I'll get out of your headtails."

Ashkhen's fingers twitched—ah, to simply summon his glass with the Force and send him tumbling backwards! She leaned against the backbar instead, running both hands over her face.

"Patrons like you make coming to work such a delight."

"Look, I'm knocking it off, okay?" His apologetic tone sounded genuine this time. "I swear to the Gods I don't want to cross the line."

Ashkhen looked at him through her fingers. "Are you talking about the line you crossed some twenty minutes ago?"

"The twenty-minute timer is up already?" Fong's shoulders slumped. "Does that mean I failed phase one and now we'll have to start talking about the bloody Seps and droids and Dooku and shit?"

Ashkhen hopped on her soapbox and launched into the first of her four favourite topics concerning the Clone Wars.

"If all the Core Worlds stood and worked together to mitigate the migration crisis, no refugee family would have to live in squalor, waiting in migrant camps only to be turned away without any help offered. But the Senate is now only preoccupied with—"

Fong downed the rest his drink and slithered out of his seat. "Nice talking to you, Just Ash."

He was still just a few steps away, when Ashkhen's resolve wavered.

"It's Ashkhen."

Fong spun around. Delight, roguery and a sense of achievement whirled in his eyes. "Does that mean I'm off your shitlist?"

"You still here?" she asked, but the crowd had already swallowed him up.

Dottie appeared through the staff door, carrying a case of wine in her hands. She ripped the box open and raised every bottle to eye-level to scan the barcodes before she placed them into the wine cooler.

"I'm detecting a slightly elevated heart and respiratory rate, but there is no pattern to your thermogram. You're the exact same temperature as the background." she said. "I can't tell if it's a symptom of fear, anger or arousal."

Ashkhen nearly dropped the empty whiskey glass.

"Set unsolicited medical evaluation to once every five years. Confirm. Go upstairs, plug into the jukebox and manually upload the remastered, lossless version of the Little Bith of Midnight Jatz double album. Confirm. Go back into the storage and check again how many bottles of Arkanian Diamond Moss Mead we have left. Confirm. Teach Rix how to play Dejarik. Confirm!"

"Understood." Dottie's left photoreceptor brightened up shortly. She left Ashkhen alone with her whirlpool of emotions behind the bar and set out to complete her entirely pointless to-do list.

Ashkhen stood, mouth agape, still holding Fong's glass in her hand.

Droids can… wink!?

••• ••• •••

"The kriff is wrong with this piece of shit?"

The particularly grating glimmik music got cut for the third time, much to the passengers' silent relief. As a general rule of thumb, the risk of a vibroshiv sliding in between ribs doubled with every level descending from the surface levels—at three and a half thousand levels below Topside, only those with a profound death wish dared to openly confront rowdy behaviour on a public hovertrain.

The punk raised his speaker above his head and hurled it under the opposite seat, shattering it into a hundred pieces.

"Next time I see Taral I'll bash 'is kriffing head in, selling me broken shit like that!"

An elderly Ithorian couple stood and approached the door with slow and cautious steps. Waiting another twenty-five minutes for the next train in exchange for a marginally safer journey home wasn't such a bad trade off, after all.

Ashkhen took hold of her datapad with both hands again for the third time, enjoying the much welcome silence. Whoever the grief Taral was, he most likely deserved that broken nose. As the punks got off at the next station with much unnecessary pushing, shoving and swearing, she let her head drop back and gazed into the flickering overhead neon light.

Her train of thoughts soon adopted the same erratic rhythm as the fixture nearing the end of its life. Could Nahdar have run into any trouble out there on Bakura? The independent system had shown no signs of willingness to join either side of the conflict up to this point. Still, it wouldn't be long before the CIS turned its attention to the prospering commercial hub on the border of the Wild Space. She briefly checked it on the HoloNet—so far, no word on any occupying forces that far out in the Outer Rim. Fong's visage crept around the edge of her awareness; she jumped back to the war and its long-lasting consequences for the millionth time.

Was it indifference? Complacency? Two years had gone by already, still she hadn't found her true calling on Coruscant. Did it lay elsewhere? Would joining a relief mission make any difference? How much she missed journeying across the galaxy alongside Master Balian! Twinge of envy—not his charge anymore. Double whammy—Jedi travelled for free. At present, Ashkhen could hardly budget for a cup of caf at the Coruscant Central Spaceport.

Those looked like tiny houses on the inside of his wrist. Forearm ink or full sleeve? Was it okay to ask? Maybe some people didn't like to share their stories. Ashkhen barely held back a chuckle—when it came to Fong, it was a challenge to make him stop talking.

She spent the next three stops half-forming lackadaisical plans for another round of job hunting. Switching her perspective, Drosili's Diner closing down could be just the wake up call to finally start moving forward with her life.

Yes, moving forward. A clear vision, a plan for the future with absolutely no distractions. Which is why she ruled exchanging numbers was off the table. Well, not that Fong asked so far, but even if he did she wouldn't. Not a chance.

She circled back to the prospect of an off-world relief mission. On further thought, the idea somewhat lost its appeal. Not so hasty! Terminating her tenancy agreement out of the blue? That would be unfair and unkind to Mrs. Thrirbod. It would also give Imos unnecessary trouble to look for her replacement. Also, she kind of liked working at Irigo's. Not a dull shift had gone by—the anticipation of intriguing people popping up made it all the more fun.

She curled and flexed her toes inside her wornout boots and, on a completely tangential note, pondered the eventual replacement. Maybe it was time to give up a bit of functionality for the sake of having nicer shoes. Nothing as impractical as Tilla's or Buyan's style, but maybe something that didn't look like it came straight from an active war zone or could be briefly worn in the cold vacuum of space.

Ashkhen jerked awake and sprang for the closing doors, giving herself a mental kick for dozing off and nearly missing her stop.

She made a small detour to pick up dinner, then took a public turbolift some forty floors up to reach her apartment complex. The corridors were eerily silent at this time of the night, very much in contrast with Irigo's where the party was still going hard when her shift had ended.

As she stepped in, she gave the renitent front door a donkey kick to shut it, then settled down to the table for her customary daybreak dinner with a side of doomscrolling war-related media.

Why have table if nobody sit around?

She finished the daily Set Menu Dorn with a despondent sigh, tossing the empty box into the trash with a flick of her hand.

No matter how drained she was, the lifelong habit of sorting out thoughts through meditation compelled Ashkhen to settle cross-legged on the floor. She set the tiny holocron in front of her and closed her eyes. She breathed in, acknowledging all the distractions—music through the wall, footsteps clomping above, the hum of electronics, traffic outside, water rushing in the pipes—then breathed out and let go of them.

The silent void embraced Ashkhen and she welcomed it. Time, space and matter remained outside, relaxed breathing lulled her mind to serenity.

A resounding thud jolted her alert from a deeper level of consciousness. Ashkhen sprang into an unarmed fighting stance. A moment later, much to her embarrassment, she registered that the living room was completely devoid of life forms, hostile or otherwise.

She checked the door—still locked. Checked the vent covers—intact. Checked for traces of droids through the Force—nothing. If not an intruder, what had caused the loud crash? She raised a hand to crank up the ligths to the max.

Huh.

The air conditioning unit, mounted on the wall above the kitchenette up until recently, disappeared along with a big chunk of plaster.

Great. That's gonna cost a—

The frantic jackhammering of her hearts had Ashkhen stagger back against the wall for support. Holy kriffing black magic burglery! The entire savings account was gone!

As the adrenaline rush subsided a bit, the phantasmagoria dissipated, and reason took hold of Ashkhen. She peeked over the edge of the dining table and let out a weary sigh.

Gravity.

Rolling hills of change covered the floor between the bathroom door and the storage container she kept most of her wardobe in. The indoors unit lay on its side, in a puddle of credit chits that had spilled from its mouth. The drunkards she sometimes had to step over while exiting through Irigo's back door sprang to mind.

No more putting off the inevitable. Ashkhen collapsed onto her sleeping mattress and buried her face into the pillow. She only had a short while until opening hours to figure out how to show up at the bank with a duffel bag of cash and not raise too many questions.