Ironically, getting rid of a grenade launcher with a military grade EMP charge jammed inside turned out to be a bigger challenge than acquiring one in the first place had been. There was only so much technical information about safe disassembly available on the HoloNet, and Ashkhen didn't dare log on to the Shadowfeed lest she should bring the CSF cybersecurity down on her head.

She took another approach—poorly constructed lightsabers had the tendency to explode in their owners' hands, too. She spent two nights deep in meditation with the heavy gun hovering in front of her, slowly taking it apart screw by screw. The exercise doubled as a much needed distraction—Ashkhen's mind simply refused to grapple with the turmoil of unfathomable proportions that Fong had left in his wake.

Castas, in his summary style, had confirmed the success of the busting out—or rescue mission, depending on one's point of view—by a single thumbs up message.

A strange mood settled on Ashkhen. She had done the wrong thing to right another wrong, and now Fong was gone, from Coruscant, from her life, for ever. She struggled with this alien sense of grief—the manner in which she missed Fong was far apart from how she had felt after saying goodbye to Master Balian or losing Nahdar. A new void had joined the other holes in her soul in the shape of people; less defined, but just as deep.

Over the course of the next day, she took her bag of bolts and coils and bits and bobs of the grenade launcher to scatter them across several disposal areas—she didn't want to risk any scavenger putting it back together and use it for an even worse cause.

The dumping was completed hours before her shift at Irigo's, Ashkhen had plenty of time to head home. She got in the elevator behind two arguing Theelins who lived about twenty floors below her. An Iridonian kid with an asymmetrical face tattoo moved imperceptibly to the side to make room for them. He turned up the music blasting in his headphones as compensation for his inconvenience.

Ashkhen pushed the button to her floor and leaned against the wall, trying to shut out the argument behind.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Holos or it didn't happen!"

"You're only salty because you missed out!"

An old lady hurried towards the elevator, lugging her grocery bag with one hand. The closer she got the heavier she leaned on her walking stick.

"Hold the door, please!" she called out.

Ashkhen put one foot in the closing door, much to the other occupants' annoyance.

"Thank you, my dear." Once inside, the lady eased the heavy bag onto the floor and grabbed the rail to steady herself. The smell of ripe meilooruns filled the elevator.

"Oh, to be young!" she said with a big sigh, dabbing a handkerchief against her temples.

"Mm-hmm," Ashkhen replied, leaning back against the wall, comlink in one hand. A compulsion started to form—she checked the incoming messages for the hundredth time. Still no word. Why would there be?

The arguing frenemies got off next. Three floors up, the Iridonian kid swaggered off, taking the thud of his bass with him. Ashkhen looked at her comm again. Nothing.

Of course, duh! He's on the run. Must be in the Outer Rim by now.

"Or dead, more likely. Either way, you're never going to see him again."

The elevator stopped with a lurch. Ashkhen glanced up. The old lady disappeared—Morrdul stood over his bag of meilooruns and gave his cane a casual twirl.

"I don't care what you think," Ashkhen spoke before her conscious mind had the chance to register the block of ice that dropped into her stomach and cower accordingly. "He doesn't belong in prison."

Morrdul let out a small, mirthless chuckle. "No, he belongs in an unmarked grave. Why waste taxpayer credits to keep such a cocksure and swollen-headed ratfink warm and fed?"

"Some say the same about the Jedi!" Ashkhen spat.

Morrdul's face set into a look of pure disdain.

"Besmeared with pigswill, eaten by swine."

In a sudden rush of blood to the head, Ashkhen thirsted to wreak violence. Morrdul's cane sprang into her hands, and she aimed at his temple, right below where his horns sprouted.

Walking sticks, however, worked on a different principle than lightsabers. Instead of leaving a molten gash on the ceiling and decapitating the Sentinel, the ferrule busted a lighting fixture by Morrdul's head and got stuck in the broken socket. Morrdul reached up and wrapped his fingers around the other end.

Sh—!

Faster than the eyes could follow, the Chagrian Jedi brought the cane up crosswise. Panic switched places with Ashkhen's fury as her back slammed into the elevator's wall, and for the first time, she faced Morrdul at eye-level.

"You forget your place."

There existed few ways more effective to grab one's full and undivided attention than cutting off their air. Ashkhen held onto the cane with both hands to take some of her weight off and relieve the pressure on her larynx; her feet danced above the floor, heels trying to find purchase on the wall.

"Pull something like that again, and I won't knock first."

Ashkhen's attempt to convey submission and compliance manifested in a few involuntary gurgle-cough noises and a throaty 'nngh'. A five-second hard stare later Morrdul let go. Ashkhen dropped to the floor on all fours and followed the idle pendulum swing of the walking stick so intently, she didn't notice when the elevator started running again.

When it reached the level below Ashkhen's, they stopped again. The old lady pulled her moth-eaten shawl tight around her shoulders and tottered out, leaving a peculiar blend of stale body odour, lavender, cough drops and extreme duress hovering in the air.

••• ••• •••

'12@M. C.'

It took Ashkhen a moment or ten to decode the message. Castas sure didn't waste any breath—or characters—on overspecification.

'My shift ends at 3, Castas. Any chance that weekdays work for you?'

He kept typing for a solid forty-five seconds.

'ttyl'

Ashkhen pinched the bridge of her nose.

'Alright. We'll cirlcle back to scheduling a midnight meeting at Moshi's sometimes next week.'

He left her on read.

Ashkhen chucked the comlink under the bar and continued preparing the single ladies' Mimosas for the first Pentaday of the month.

"If my photoreceptors serve me right, you've accidentally made a hundred and fifty-one glasses," Dottie said.

"It wasn't an accident." Ashkhen grabbed a light bubbly pink drink and threw it back. "Cheers."

Dottie's servos accentuated her headshake with a soft shchik-shchik. "It started with Grazz the same—"

"Set to mute, confirm."

Rix gnawed on her straw with apparent delight. It was one of the rare occasions she reverted to her true form to let her skin cells rest before guests would arrive. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, then leaned on the bartop with a suggestive smile.

"Let's get shitfaced, flash me a holo and I'll turn into your ex for one last night. Two hundred, whatcha say?"

"No, thank you."

"Two hundred and fifty, and you can tailor any shortcomings he might have had."

Ashkhen's eyes slowly turned heavenward. "Can't I just… disappear, too?"

"That takes a day and a half to arrange," Rix said, switching to a different tone. "And one thousand, up front."

So unexpected and unsettling, Ashkhen momentarily forgot to close her mouth.

"Need a suicide note in your handwriting", Rix explained. "You go to ground, I turn into you, my fixer loads me up, our coroner pronounces me dead, I'm taken to the morgue, our mortician smuggles me out and I wake up. Done and done." She finished her drink with a loud slurp.

"Our?" Ashkhen raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah… well, my guy who sets these gigs up hasn't been answering my texts for a couple of days now." She chased around the cherry in her glass with the straw, then looked up at Ashkhen. "Hey, maybe you know him? He's also Nautolan, green all over, brown spots on his lovely cheeks"—she ran her tongue over her lips—"and his face, too?"

An unintelligible blend of ack, gah and ew escaped Ashkhen. She shook her head to disperse any lingering images of individual cryptic coloration patterns on any various body parts.

…why am I not surprised?

"Ash is dealing with her emotions the proper way," Tilla chipped in, grabbing a tray full of Mimosas then gave Ashkhen a meaningful look. The tray lit up with a neutral white light. "She's going to do some meditation, no?"

"Is that some designer stuff?" Rix pushed her empty glass across the bartop in hopes of a quick refill. She tilted her head to the side pensively. "Lick, poke or snort?"

Ashkhen met Tilla's eyes. She took the glass without any intention to return it. "Gates are opening, Rix. Time to get ready."

••• ••• •••

Gusting winds tore at Ashkhen's jacket, she pulled the zipper up to keep herself from losing any more body heat. Hands thrust into her pockets, she headed for the lone figure standing at the edge of the landing platform.

"Okay, so, tell me again. What am I doing out here?"

Ashkhen walked up to the Lieutenant and leaned against the handrail next to him. A thick white cloud of t'bac obscured his expression; his mood was just as unreadable. Further away, a cargo speeder was parked, its license plate conveniently smudged by mud. Ashkhen wondered what lengths had the Lieutenant had to go to acquire mud on Coruscant—in the concrete-covered capital city of the Republic, all-purpose garden soil was more expensive per gram than any of the party drugs she had seen licked, poked or snorted at Irigo's.

"Found another one," Doushan said.

Ashkhen glanced at the van again, brows furrowed. "And we're not doing this at HQ, because…?"

"This one stays off record," he said.

Okay, whatever.

Ashkhen stifled a yawn and rolled her neck. After a weekend night shift at Irigo's, nothing other than aligning her spine with the x-axis and closing her eyes sparked any interest for her.

Doushan flicked the butt of his t'bac away and ran a hand over his mouth. Reaching into his inner pocket, he pulled a pair of stuncuffs.

She raised an eyebrow. "What happened to spiritual counselling?"

"I want to try something else," Doushan said. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."

Ashkhen opened her mouth for a quip remark, but the moment the binders clicked into place, shock sucked the breath out of her. The pain of hitting the duracrete registered, but only as background data—the sudden headache of otherworldly intensity shut down all five of her senses.

"What is this?" she meant to ask, but threw up on the sidewalk instead. A short bout of wheezing later she gave up on talking.

"Can't believe you did not see that coming."

Doushan's voice came from high above, the low hum of his heavy blaster came from a little lower.

"Now stop flopping around like beached fish and get in the van."

Ashkhen's nervous system lost contact with her muscles—these must have been the last flickers of sensations that her brain registered after getting shot in the head. Eyes turned vaguely in the direction from where Doushan's voice came, she strained to distinguish the detective's silhouette from the dark backdrop. The deepening hum of the blaster pistol drew closer.

"Get in the kriffing van."

Ashkhen grasped for the Force with the desperation of a mute trying to scream for help—nothing. Dead all around.

"Oh, for kriff's sake."

A hand grabbed a fistful of headtails. Her upper body lifted from the ground, feet dragged across the duracrete. A tug on her belt, a heave, a swing, a toss, and a thud. Cold durasteel tread plate pattern pressed into her face as Doushan closed the speeder's doors somewhere behind. Engines revved up, and the speeder turned sharply to the right—at least that's what Ashkhen assumed based on her rolling inertly to the left.

Control the panic. Control the panic. Control the panic.

Air came in through her nose—four counts. She held it for two. Exhaled through the mouth—six counts. The rhythmic changes in the direction of the airflow helped her to regain focus. Her upstairs brain gradually took over governance again.

Okay, now assess the situation. Find a way to get the kriff out of it.

She rolled off her stomach, pinning her arms awkwardly under her back, blinking up at the high roof. Smell, sound and sight all came back.

The Force did not.

Not good. Not good!

Trapped in the constriction coils of complete isolation, a second wave of swivet washed over Ashkhen. How bleak the world was without the Force! How muted, empty and grey! How devoid of texture and richness! A short bout of frantic shimmying later, she got her hands under her butt, then brought the handcuffs to the front, pulling it under one foot at a time.

She pushed herself into a sitting position and took a closer look at the handcuffs. They seemed fairly standard, based upon her embarrassingly extensive experience with police restraints. Was it some sort of Force suppression device? A tranquilizer? She tried removing them both with the Force and by force—nothing.

Oh, boy.

The transport pitched into a steady descent—wherever Doushan was headed, it lay at lower level than the meet-up point had. And whatever he had planned to accomplish, Ashkhen was sure the abysmal air quality torture would make it a hundred times worse.

Almost a week had gone by. Ashkhen, blissfully ignorant and lulled into a false sense of safety, had convinced herself that the Lieutenant was simply too busy to put two and two together and exact retribution. Self-delusion only stretched so far—getting jostled around in a cargo speeder in enhanced stuncuffs left no doubts about the nature of the situation. The following few hours of transit was plenty to stew in it.

The speeder came to a halt at last. As the engine powered down, Ashkhen stood and firmly planted her feet, ready to land a kick to his head and bolt as soon as the cargo hold doors opened. The lock whirred on the outside—she shifted her back leg to adjust the balance. The smell that hit her from the outside made her flinch.

Doushan stood under a street lamp's flickering light, holding a zap rod at eye level. Huge columns of smoke curled above the area behind him, the air hung heavy with the moist, metallic scent of decay.

Without the Force and the functional use of her hands, Ashkhen reconsidered. The physical advantage Doushan had could not be denied—the prospect of meeting the wrong and very painful end of the Detective's weapon made her assume a more neutral posture.

"Now what? Dig my own grave then kneel next to it?"

"This is the last time I'll ever waste my breath talking to you. For the love of all things holy, just this once, shut. The. Kriff. Up." He pointed the zap rod at the ground. "Get out."

Ashkhen hopped down and took a look around. They stood on a long overpass stretching above Coruscant Galactic City Municipal Landfill. The crunch-rumble of the automatic trash compactor came from down below.

"Lieutenant, I—"

The prongs on the end of the zap rod crackled. Ashkhen's heart rate jumped into the anaerobic zone despite standing perfectly still. "If this is about—"

"That shifty prick is as good as dead. The Cartel will have him hanged with his own intestines before he makes it to the Mid Rim." Doushan jerked his head towards the maintenance elevator. His voice hardened. "Walk."

Ashkhen wanted to dig her heels in and shake her head defiantly, but the black holes of his gaze soon sucked her confidence away. Doushan took the zap rod into his left hand and crossdrew his blaster.

Ashkhen slowly backed up into the cage lift, only her eyes flicked up, left and right, at the surveillance cameras.

"I had those disconnected ages ago."

The elevator croaked to a halt and the opposite door of the through-car opened onto a heavy duty wire mesh platform. Ashkhen noticed the large patches of reddish-brown corrosion with growing apprehension. Off records, Doushan's previous words echoed in her mind. Had it been about the springing, she would be pacing around in a square-meter cell, wearing an orange jumpsuit. That she was inching toward the Lieutenant's personal disposal area made his intentions abundantly clear.

"The Captain's a good man," Doushan continued. "Big heart."

With the help of his blaster and the zap rod, he ushered Ashkhen towards the rust-eaten balustrade at the edge of the platform. Ashkhen realized with sinking hearts that she was being backed towards a nook where a large chunk of the parapet structure was missing. She opened her mouth, but the words were drowned out by the ear-splitting creak coming from below. The trash compactor rendered a decommissioned industrial cooling tower into a cube smaller than a handheld fan.

"You and kriffing main character syndrome," Doushan sneered. "Thought I wouldn't catch on?"

Ashkhen snapped back from gauging whether the five-story fall would kill her first, or would she still be alive to experience getting pressed into fish paste.

"Wh-what are you talking about?" she asked. Surely her intonation had landed her in the top ten of the Worst Actresses Across The Galaxy of All Times.

"The inconsistency."

Ashkhen swallowed, being forced to face the consequence of her mistake. She had gravely underestimated the Lieutenant, insulted his intelligence, and rightfully so, incurred his rage.

"Half of your Weequay gunrunners croaked at the Ink," Ashkhen said. "The other half is behind force fields. Isn't this a little too dramatic?"

"Not when the integrity of our force is compromised." Doushan switched to a warning tone. "That is why I'm cutting off the dribble of intel right here, right now."

Ashkhen took an involuntary step back—she was now standing at the very edge of the platform. Doushan, face set in stone, took the safety off. Their eyes met right through the front and rear sights of the Lieutenant's blaster.

"I have no further use for you."

And right then, between the crunching of the trash compactor behind her and the Lieutenant's blaster in front, a vague sense of calm settled on Ashkhen. There would be no explaining, no bantashitting, no imploring. She nearly laughed at the thought of trying to track down Morrdul to ask him to vouch for her.

Her gaze briefly fell upon the handcuffs. These few hours had been the first time she had ever experienced losing her connection to the Force. In those last few moments before the Lieutenant's blaster released the plasma bolt, Ashkhen stood in awe of its terrifying might. There was them, two insignificant specks facing off on a tiny, spinning pebble that was the capital of an ideology—and there was the roaring torrent of the Force spilling beyond the bounds of the Galaxy. A vastitude of incomparable scale. And in that most paradoxical epiphany, Ashkhen welcomed becoming one with it. She squared her shoulders—if this was it, she would go with her head held high.

Then Doushan's comlink rang.

An eternity and two more rings later, he hooked the zap rod onto his belt and took the comlink from his inner pocket. The gun in his other hand didn't waver.

"Yes?"

The resolve to meet death with as much dignity as one could while standing handcuffed in a landfill broke down in a blink. All of Ashkhen's hearts jumped up into her throat, making it very hard to stand still.

"Yes."

Ashkhen noted the subtle shift in the Lieutenant's mood. If it was even possible, his aggravation went up a notch or three.

"Yes."

Doushan hung up, then slowly lowered his blaster.

"The day you show your face around HQ again will be your last. Now get the kriff out of my sight."

••• ••• •••

Significant improvements happened on the discipline front in the following days. Due to her shifts at Irigo's, Ashkhen's sleep schedule was still all over the place, but regardless of when she woke up or went to bed, meditation was the first and last thing in her day. She also implemented immediate measures to kick her caf addiction, and stuck to drinking tea exclusively.

Clearing her mind of distractions helped to keep the lingering images of her Temple vision from intruding during the day, but not so much at night. Master Balian's holocron was consulted on many an occasion to find a way to stop the nightmares, but none of the techniques presented were effective in keeping the burning Jedi out of her dreams.

Total radio silence followed, both from Obrim and Morrdul. Ashkhen often wondered if the hit on the Ink had truly made a dent in the stream of illegal arms coming to the Capital, but had no way of confirming it as her involvement in both the CSF's and the Sentinels' activities seemed to have come to an abrupt end. She could only assume that the swashbuckler tendencies she had exhibited got her written off as an untrustworthy asset.

The cosmic abandoning streak continued. Mrs. Thrirbod, completely out of the blue, initiated an in-person meeting with Ashkhen. The unfortunate news of her husband's passing from undisclosed causes came both as a shock and a relief to her—Mrs. Thrirbod decided to fold up her life on Coruscant and move home to take care of her aging father. However profusely she apologised, she still wouldn't give Ashkhen more than ten rotations to find another place to live.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view—the man who's kids Tilla babysat was going through a midlife crisis of epic proportions. In a blood rush to the wrong head, he decided to ditch his family, liquidate his assets and take Buyan on a year long trip around the galaxy.

Renting a room in the Twi'leks' much nicer neighbourhood costed only marginally more than an apartment where Ashkhen originally lived—she jumped at the opportunity without a second thought. Tilla also welcomed the idea, albeit with the immediate implementation of a strict bathroom schedule. Life soon settled into a new routine of mixing drinks through the night, and occasional brooding about the lack of objectives and a general sense of being left behind during the day.

••• ••• •••

Castas was a creature of habit. He sat in the same booth at Moshi's and drank the same beer he had when Ashkhen met him for the first time. Ashkhen slid into the seat opposite of him, and greeted the Klatooinian with a friendly hi.

Castas was also a man of few words. He returned the gesture with an upward nod, then drained his glass. Ashkhen waited patiently, wondering how in the Force's name could a character like Castas have befriended a character like Fong.

Castas pulled his comm from the inner pocket of his jacket, and set it down on the table so Ashkhen could see the display.

'To my uttermost surprise, not one kriffing soul here knows what a Bassa Hound is.'

Sudden arrhythmia was no joke with multiple hearts. Fong made it to Onderon! However strong the urge was to dash to the closest spaceport, Ashkhen remained perfectly still.

"I've no idea what that means," she said, looking up at Castas.

"Good." He balled his hand into a fist and smote the device into fine dust, making Ashkhen flinch. Castas swiped it off the table and nodded at the bartender.

"So you a Jedi," he said, more of a statement than a question.

"No, not really," Ashkhen said. "I was, I left, I'm just me now."

Castas covered his lower teeth with his lip, then pulled it back, his expression of being lost in thought. Ashkhen didn't want to disturb him while forming another sentence in case he would start all over.

"You're powerful?"

Ashkhen gave a half shrug.

"Well, that really depends on your definition of power," she said. "I can do cool stuff with the Force, got quick reflexes, am a decent pilot and duelist, but I wouldn't take you on in hand-to-hand combat."

Castas followed the server droid with his good eye as it made its way through the tavern. "You're smart."

"Aw, why, thank you!" Ashkhen's patience ran out. "Look, Cas—is it okay if I call you Cas?—I really appreciate your help with… you know, but I don't see why you would want to hang out with me. Did… did he say anything? Like, leave a message?" Ashkhen briefly imagined how Fong's loquaciousness would present in Castas's rendition, and hastened to add, "You can abridge it for me."

Having successfully circumnavigated the last gyrating Twi'lek dancer, the droid rolled up to their table with two glasses balanced atop its head. Castas took them both and set one in front of Ashkhen.

"You drink beer?" he asked. Ashkhen detected a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.

"Well, I guess I do now."

They raised their glasses without another word. Ashkhen wondered if she would ever find out the reason for their meeting before the wheel of time spun off its axle. She let go of the thought and anchored her mind in the present moment—the music was tolerable, the beer wasn't any worse than what she drew at Irigo's, and the pub was just the right place to blend into the crowd for a short while. Moshi's clientele was transparent—bounty hunters, slicers, thugs and hookers all operated as they advertised.

"I need a driver. The money's good."

Ashkhen's brows shot up—Castas had just doubled the total number of sentences he had ever strung together in her presence. Then it occurred to her whose friend Castas was.

"Does it involve any, uh… convicted felons?" she asked in a hushed voice. "'Cause me being unaffiliated doesn't mean I don't have principles."

The huff of air Castas expelled through his nose sounded oddly like a one-syllable first name. "She's not a criminal."

"Why the rush to disappear?"

"For forty-five hundred, does it matter?"

Ashkhen coughed into her glass. "For a ride!?"

"We'll split. Interested?"

"What's the catch?" Ashkhen folded her arms.

Castas's underbite evened out for a moment—a smile flashed across his face. "The bounty on her head."

Castas's agent had dropped a line about the gig, one that was on the opposite end of the bounty hunting spectrum for a change. The original pitch had been four grand, alive and unharmed—the client had offered five, for getting them off planet in the very same condition.

The job was fairly straightforward. Ashkhen's task was to pick up a certain Reesa Gorell—not that the name rang any bells—from the motel she hid in and drive her to the spot from where Castas would shuttle her to the ship waiting in orbit. They went over the three hour route street by street, turn by turn, down to the last traffic light. Castas then logged on to the Hunter's Net to show Ashkhen the list of hunters who had checked in for the mark, and nod or shake his head at her elaborate questions.

Then Fong came online.

The rest of Ashkhen's second glass of beer went up her nose. She blinked away the tears and stared at the lower right corner of Castas's screen, where his avatar showed. His location was set to N/A, his current operation was set to N/A, and his next availability was set to N/A.

The mission recap wrapped up without Ashkhen paying much attention. Trying to calculate what time it was on Onderon and guessing which way Fong was headed next occupied her thoughts. Castas had settled into companionable silence, at least so far as Ashkhen could tell apart from his general uncommunicativeness.

"Cas, can I ask you something?"

Castas's mandible shifted to the right in an I'm-listening way.

"How did you guys meet?"

"Long time ago," Castas said. "He got on my nerves. I tried to kill him."

He drained his second glass and set it back on the table. Ashkhen waited for the rest of the anecdote, but Castas didn't show any signs of disclosing anything else.

"…and?" she prompted.

"He didn't die. Came after me." Castas settled into another bout of pensive silence.

"Cas, I really can't see how any of this would make you best buds for life."

"I didn't die. I guess we bonded."

Ah, the unfathomable male soul!

To Ashkhen's surprise, Castas continued of his own volition. "He was different back then. Used to talk a lot."

"I'd be hard pressed to believe present-day Fong is the taciturn and introspective one."

Castas hmphed. "Used to talk more."

It was Ashkhen's turn to stay silent for a while.

"…sweet sand moss."

Reesa Gorell's transport went without a hitch. Ashkhen was considerate enough to pretend she didn't recognize the Trade Federation financial officer's Neimoidian girlfriend with the expensive taste in liquor. Three long hours were spent contemplating how sound of an idea it was to agree to aid someone in such a hurry to bounce from Coruscant, so soon after such a galvanic firsthand experience of both Morrdul's and Doushan's strong arm tactics. Fortunately, paths weren't crossed with either the Sentinels, the police, or any of the bounty hunters on Gorell's tail.

A few weeks down the line, Castas turned up with a similar pitch. Then a third. People of certain circles, businessmen with questionable backgrounds and immigrants on long expired visas all flocked away from the capital in growing numbers. Ashkhen didn't ask any questions and didn't mind the extra cash flowing her way—everyday expenses skyrocketed then left orbit as the war neared its third anniversary.

••• ••• •••

In the midst of the raging inferno, ice cold water slapped across Ashkhen's face. She blinked up with a start—Tilla stood by her bed, empty glass in one hand.

"Sorry!" she said. "But you just wouldn't snap out of it."

Ashkhen looked for a dry spot on her blanket and wiped down her face. A few calming breaths brought down her heart rate to moderately elevated.

"For future reference, carbonated water makes my gills itch," she said, voice still a little hoarse from screaming in her sleep.

Tilla sat down on the edge of her bed. An apologetic half-smile played around her lips. "Still water makes me feel like I'm drinking from a puddle." The moment she said it out loud, her eyes widened in horror. "Oh my stars, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean—like, you were born in one!"

"Hatched, technically, but never mind," Ashkhen said. "Thanks for pulling me out of it."

Tilla looked closely at her friend, brows pulling into a concerned frown.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

The every-once-in-a-while echoes had been steadily increasing in both frequency and detail. Soon, what Ashkhen denominated Forceful Panic Attacks became a weekly recurrence. Tonight had been the second night in a row she had dreamt about being burned alive in the Jedi Temple.

"Yeah, we're gonna have to figure out how to make earplugs work for you," Ashkhen said. "Trust me, if I knew how to make this stop, I would have, a long time ago."

"It's not about me, Ash, this isn't healthy!"

Ashkhen swung all her headtails over one shoulder to work on untangling them. "As you cursorials would say, I'm out of my depth here. Little brown pills are the only thing that come to mind."

"Downers won't help you." Tilla grabbed Ashkhen's comlink from the nightstand and held it out. "You know who will."

Ashkhen swallowed. "It's been far too long."

"You miss him, don't you?"

"Tills, part of me died the day we parted."

Tilla grabbed her hand and put the comlink in it. Without another word, she tactfully retreated to her own room.

Ashkhen then hit send on the message draft she had written three years, eight months and twenty-one days ago.

'Master, I need your help.'