The planning discussion thread can be found here.


Corbin Starlight was more tired than ever. He hated people more than ever, he hated life more than ever. Most importantly, he hated Imperials more than ever. Sitting at the Pandora’s Officer’s Club bar he let his drink simmer in his hand. It wasn’t like it was back in the old days, where he would fly out and ‘destroy’ the ‘enemy’, then come back and enjoy in some banter and livelihood that was the daily pilot’s life here at the Officer’s Club. He hated to see himself here, like now. Alone.
   
If it was anything that rubbed under Corbin’s skin, it was being alone like this. He looked back down at his drink, a solemn look on his face as he let his mind wander yet again. He thought of a few people he’d rather drink with: Jack, who was sleeping; Blue, who was out somewhere in the Galaxy fighting the Empire; His father, who is back on Teyr; and maybe even the heart-breaking wench. Maybe. And for Corbin, that was stretching.
   
He couldn’t connect with the people here. Too uptight, too slow.
   
He took a hard, long sip from his drink, his face wincing at the taste. That was another thing, the whiskey and the ale here on the Pandora was terrible. Hell, almost every damn thing on the Pandora was terrible. Everything.
   
Except for his new squadron.
   
He figured worst squadron equaled new pilots who are very much into the regular uniformed New Republic, not the romantic Rebel pilots who are around in some squadrons. The ones like him, even the ones who joined up after Yavin, they were the best to hang around with and drank and fly. But, it hurts more than it normally does when one of the old pilots gets unlucky and is brought down. Those were the ones that stabbed his heart with sadness, alright. He motioned the bartender for another refill, his disgusting drink alright down his stomach.
   
His new squadron, the Womprats, was different. They had a roguish thing to them, as if all of them were Rebels. Even some of the newer pilots got a chip on their shoulder. It reminded him a lot of Green Squadron, too. Too much. As the bartender slid another faux Corellian Ale he bit down on his lip hard. It hurt him too much to think about his former comrades, the ones who he abandoned due to a drinking problem.
   
It didn’t matter now. Andrera was probably cold as always, Patriot probably being outstandingly patriotic, and then Strigine helping Fal lead the squadron to new heights. He hoped, at least. The taste of this drink, as it went down Corbin’s throat, was definitely better than the other one he had moments before. He was confused, he had ordered another round of the Ale, but this was very different.
   
Sweet, like a brandy. The slight little taste of grain made him think it was from some farming world, probably some fake Tarisian Ale or something, but the overlingering fact of the taste was different. It wasn’t that sweet, but a hard undertone. The aftertaste sealed the deal: Onderon Brandy. It wasn’t what he ordered, definitely what wasn’t he ordered. His tastes were inclined to more hard gained tastes, not sophisticated and refined alcohol that is the Onderon Brandy.
   
“Hey, bartender, wrong drink.”
   
“Huh?”
   
“I said, wrong drink.”
   
“What did you want?”
   
“Corellian Ale. You gave me Onderon Brandy.”
   
“Sorry to hear that.”
   
Corbin bit his lip.
   
“Just give me the Ale?”
   
“Yeah, sure.” The bartender said, pouring another glass with the Ale he so loathed with a tender touch, as if he had been doing this for years. He slid the drink over to Corbin with a bit of a push, before he went back to cleaning the bar. Corbin looked down at both of the drinks, sighing with a heavy chest. His breath was coming in slower and slower, his eyes closing shut.
   
He was thinking about them again.
   
Jex. Dack. Veekus. Barus. Altsth. Isaiah. Andrera…
   
“Hey, bartender, nevermind. I’m going to my bunk. Mind if I carry my glass to there?”
   
“’slong as Cole don’t see you.”
   
“I’ll try to keep myself a specter.”

   
He entered his bunk, and he was surprised.
   
Jack was already adrift in dreamland, probably only wearing his shorts again into sleep as he looked even haggered into his nightly mind thoughts, his mouth open and a slight snore. Corbin rolled his eyes with a small smile, walking over to his bunk and laying down in it, bringing the glass of Corellian Ale to his lips. He winced.
   
Goddamn Ale…
   
He looked over at the small dresser that was kept for uniforms and other personal effects, another forlorn look on his face. From this angle he could see his old green dress uniform, the ones all Rebel Alliance personnel wore before the New Republic, but it wasn’t just the uniform. Corbin really couldn’t care less for a piece of fabric that meant nothing in the particular, nothing of any sort.
   
It was what it represented.
   
Corbin, as he knew, was from a dying breed of pilot, those of the old threads. Those who flew against the Empire before the Death Star, and some who joined after that, those were the men and women and non-humans who Corbin respected more than any other member in the New Republic. He respected the yolk of the infamous Rogue Squadron of old, and those who trained him.
   
But all of them, save a precarious few, were dead.
   
Gone.
   
Corbin shook his head and let the glass come to his lips once more, where the liquid pursed down his throat. He winced again, forgetting how bad the drink itself was, but he kept his voice down as he cursed.
   
Not only did the drink hurt, but the fact that he was spending hard-earned downtime here at this ship. He wasn’t going to go out to celebrate it, nor was he going to sit in here all the time.
   
But he did realize that he was magnanimously lonely, even with Jack here.
   
Ale went into his mouth, but a tear escaped his eye.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

<I>I thought I was supposed to be on shoreleave… so what the frell am I doing here?</i>

The burly pilot had to admit that the formchair was comfortable. Ergonomically speaking, it did exactly what it was supposed to do: relax him somewhat, but not enough to make him drowsy. He had heard the chair was equipped with biosensors that monitored heart rate, pulse, beta and theta wave activity, and so on, and relay the information to the psychologist, to better help him help those sitting there. Jon'son doubted it. Not that it couldn't be done, but he really didn't think the Gotal needed it. Mahk'khar seemed always to know the right words to say, the right questions to ask, and the right times to be silent. His head cones were sensitive enough to pick up subtle changes in another being's electromagnetic emissions from emotional changes, making Gotals natural empaths.

Jon'son had been staring at the floor; now he looked up and met the Gotal's eyes again. They were large for the fur-covered face, pale brown in color; a Gotal's eye pigmentation always matched his fur. And right now, they were fixed on him.

"Explore, for a minute, your feelings about your state in being in the squadron and your wingmates," he said gently.

The burly pilot leaned back, and the formchair obediently flowed into a new configuration to accomodate him.

"Jon'son?" Mahk'khar inquired. His voice was quiet, but somehow it penetrated the pilot's thoughts like a particle beam. "You're not trying very hard," the Gotal continued.

"You're right. Sorry."

"It's your time," Mahk'khar said. "You're allotted one hour a week to get things off your chest. How you spend that time is up to you. You can talk to me– in which case I might be able to help you work through some things– or you can sit there and enjoy the furniture."

Jon'son rose that eyebrow. "All right, Mahk'khar. I guess I'm going to talk about things whether I want to or not."

The Gotal smiled. "It's always hardest to help yourself." He waited a moment, then prodded gently, "About your wingmates… ?"

He sighed. "They're my family. Once you meet them, you get to know their backgrounds to the point that they are easy to have a drink with, easy to confide and easy to complain about this hell of a job we do…"

"And now?"

"Most of them are gone.. some transferred out… some are– dead. Cayenne was the most recent to leave. Before we even let our engine's cool, she already was promoted and transferred to another unit."

"What else?"

"Well, there's also Adok. He's been hurt and doesn't say much, nowadays. Ceryll's been quiet, but that's normal. Same with Maguire. Corbin spends most of his time drinking in the galley, so he's a hard nut to crack. And Jack…" he paused for a bit. "I don't hear from Jack anymore. I feel he may leave soon."

"And the rest?"

"Don't really care for the droid, and I'm barely getting to know the new pilots, Lexa and Jixoc." He shrugged. "I guess the closest family I have here on this ship is Misch and Leto."

"Yet, you still feel alone and still keep having those dreams?"

<I>The dreams never leave…</I> Jon'son opened his mouth, then closed it. He was making an honest effort to find the answer to that question, but his mind was having none of it. He found himself thinking about the formchair again. <I>Wonder how much one costs…</I>

After another fruitless minute, Mahk'khar glanced at the chrono and said, "We have to stop."

Jon'son felt relieved, and then felt irritated at himself for feeling relieved. "I guess I'm still new at this," he stood up and shrugged to the Gotal. "Maybe the next session I'll figure out what's bugging me…"

"All you need to know about yourself is in you," Mahk'khar replied. "You may have to dig a little deeper and a little harder, but it's there."

"Yeah, you're probably right." He told the Gotal at the door. "Next time, then?"

Mahk'khar waved him goodbye. Jon'son exited into the ship's corridor.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

Mischa stood off to one side of the hangar, two small cloth bags packed to the point of barely able to close at her feet, watching the nonstop bustle of activity in the cavernous space as she waited for the shuttle planetside to be prepped and ready for boarding.  

Between mission downtime leave had to be among the most beautiful string of words in any language from any world in the Galaxy in Mischa’s opinion. Especially this latest furlough though compared to just about any others she could remember since first joining the New Republic Starfighter Corps. Maybe there were fewer losses in the last battle, but one was still too many.  And there was still far too much conflict. Not just with the enemy, but aboard the Second Chance and then the Pandora as well, so this time around the leave felt twice as well earned at the very least.

She watched the many bodies, familiar and the many more still not known, going about whatever business they had in the hangar.  The variety of species nearly as diverse as that making up the New Republic Senate.  All in uniform of one sort or another, civvies, and in some cases nothing but their own skin.  Or whatever the equivalent was.  

No one of them from her own squadron though.  Stone had begged off riding the shuttle with her that morning, saying he had a few things he needed to take care of aboard the carrier first.  She’d at least gotten a promise out of him to stop by her place for dinner at least one night during leave while they were all in the mess.   Maggie had mumbled something about waiting to here some confirmation on travel plans of his own.

As for Red, she had mentioned a trip to visit family last time they had discussed things.  A wistful and happy look in her eyes as she spoke about her eagerness to see home again for a little while.  Starlight and Weiss?  Corbin had only said he had no idea what he’d be up to, only that he likely wouldn’t be leaving the ship.  His buddy and partner in crime then would in all probability be hanging out with him.  The two had a long history of service together and were near inseparable from what Vac had observed.  

Dock?  Thankfully they wouldn’t be spending any time in the same vacinity on the same world this time around on leave like the last one.  Less chance of a disaster occurring like the one on Borleais.  Although if not for her hanging out with him in that cantina and get utterly shavitfaced drunk and in that brawl she likely wouldn’t have ended up in the same cell of the brig with Leto and…

She couldn’t help but grin at this, even as she felt a touch of impatience glancing at her wrist chrono before sliding down the bulkhead behind her to sit on one of her bags.  Chin in hand she thought about another missing face among those still alive after the battle.  Cay.  

They had gotten the word last night she had been transferred at her own request.  Apparently one that had been put in for a few weeks ago right after the battle in which Bounder had been killed.  Kept the hurt over it inside and to herself much of the time, she hadn’t really been the same since it happened.  

Mischa couldn’t blame Spice for wanting to get away from the memories at all. But bloody frak she would miss the hell out of the fiesty woman who was always up for a good sabacc game, always had her squadron mates back in a fight, always quick with a snappy line for some frakwit who uttered a darogatory comment their way or a tightass Captain who took life and his job too seriously at times.  Her sense of humor marvelous, even as she was aching on the inside at the losses over time, of one fellow pilot in particular who’d waited so long to let her know how he felt.

A mistake Mischa would have likely kept making herself if fate or whatever the frak it was hadn’t intervened in the oddest way.  And speaking of that same tightass Captain, she sighed glaring in the direction of the shuttle, where the frak was he?  Probably unable to tear himself away from the stacks of paperwork that always seemed to threaten a takeover of his desktop.  Frak, if he missed leave she…

“Hey Misch.” She heard a man’s voice familiar, and slightly winded he casually plopped down on the floor next to her  “This seat taken?”

“What if I’d said yes?” She grinned over at him.


“Then I’d just have to pull rank.” Leto gave her a smile in return, as if such a threat ever worked with her,  settling onto one of his own bags, as stuffed to the seams as hers were, although Misch thought with another grin that everything in his was likely folded regulation perfect, even his sock and underwear.

She could see the question of what she was grinning about forming on his lips when the comm overhead announced the shuttle to Coruscant was ready for boarding.  “I’m just glad to see you actual made it on time to a date for something not duty related for a change.” She said as they walked over to the small craft and up the ramp, stowing what passed as luggage before settling into their respective seats.

“Hey, you still coming over for dinner?” Misch asked, smiling at the memory of the look he and the rest of the Womprats, outside of Stone, had given her when she’d issued the invite to them in the mess the day before, almost nervously, to stop by her place for a get together a few days hence if they were on Coruscant.

Even in all the years she’d been with the squadron, only her wingman really knew about her talent and her love for cooking. Something she loved even more than flying and fighting and pretty much anything else. Okay somewhat. Not that anyone believed it. This downtime, she wanted to share that though with anyone interested and told them they’d just have to trust her on it.

“Sure, Misch” He placed one hand over hers upon the armrest. “I’d like that.”

“Good” she gave him a slow, mischievous grin. “Then I’m going to wrangle you for kitchen duty since you were the first to make a smart ass remark in the mess last night when I invited you.”

He gave her hand a squeeze before moving closer and replying in a low voice. “How about if I spend the night before at your place and we can get an early start?”

This was a big step for her. Even though they had worked together in the same squadron, aboard the same carriers, even though they were…together…she’d never let him, or damn near anyone else for that matter into her “environment”. Silly as it sounded, this was the first time she felt comfortable enough to trust him, or anyone else with seeing that very private side of her she kept to herself on the rare times she was able to get back to her own place.

“I’d like that very much, Leto. But I warn you. The marketplace opens almost right after sunrise and I plan on being there when it does, and I’ll be dragging your behind along with me, Captain.”

“If it means getting to try some of the things Stone was raving about,”  Tariq replied “I’ll manage to go without sleep, Misch.”  

She grew quiet for a few minutes, looking out through the viewport as the shuttles pilot began the preflight startup as their fellow passengers got themselves as comfortably settled as was possible aboard the military transport.  

“Hey, you sure you’re okay with this?” She heard Leto ask her with concern in her eyes as she turned back toward him.  

“Of course I am.  I want you there ” Mischa replied before looking back to the hangar with a expression of sadness, regret, and even a touch of something like anger.  “Just wish she had at least said goodbye before she left.”

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

She almost wished that the trip to Coruscant had not gone so smoothly.  A part of her wished that the hyperdrive had malfunctioned.  Or that pirates had attacked.  Or, better yet, that shoreleave would have been cancelled altogether.

But everything went as planned and Ceryll arrived at her homeworld without any trouble.  The first thing she saw upon entering the planet’s atmosphere was the thunder cloud looming on the horizon, directly over the sector of the city where her family’s apartment was located.  Setting her mouth into a firm line, Ceryll clutched at her small duffle and rested her head against the dirty window of the shuttle.  Within moments, they were speeding through the skylanes of Coruscant, towards home.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her family.  She had missed them so deeply that it had been like a physical pain.  But the circumstances surrounding her visit were anything but pleasant.  She didn’t want to face her mother’s stony fear or her father’s barely concealed emotions.  Jat would be excited to hear all about her recent experiences, but she wouldn’t want to talk about them.  She would be suffocated in her own home.  

All she wanted was to hide away somewhere, alone with her thoughts.  She wanted time.  Time to actually digest what had happened to her.  She didn’t want to spend that time helping everyone else digest it.  

She had to come to terms with the loss of friends.  She had to sort through the sudden awareness of her own mortality.  She had come within inches of her life and survived.  Others had not.  That fact alone was enough to make her head spin.  But Ceryll knew that she’d be forced to bury these furious thoughts, because she had to protect her family.  She had to protect herself.  Her dreams.  Dreams that she still held, regardless of what had happened to her.  Regardless of those she had lost.

A sharp pain started somewhere in her gut, traveling up her spine and into her heart.  She shook herself, blinking away images of flaring explosions and the shriek of her disabled comm unit.  Dreams that refused to be forgotten.  Haunting her.  

She’d hardly known him, really.  He was just another pilot, a fast friend made in a time of tension and stress.  He’d made her feel special when she singled her out.  Made an effort to be nice to her…to tease her in a way that reminded her pleasantly of home.  Of family.  But he had been more than that to Ceryll.  Rell “Jockster” McKay had been the first man to actually steal a piece of her heart with a kiss.  
It sounded childish.  She blinked tears back and bit down hard on the insides of her cheeks, disgusted with these foolish emotions for a man she had barely known.  A man whose character had been a mystery to her.  Caring about him in this way didn’t make any sense.  

Jamming the palm of her hand up into her eyes to block the tears, she breathed in once and settled her nerves.  It would be hard enough explaining what had happened to her, when her X-wing had been disabled and she had been forced to eject.  Her mother would hardly understand that.  Ceryll knew that any mention of dead friends would only make things worse.  

So she forced back the tears.  Tears that she had been crying ever since the day she had found his short, succinct message sent to her datapad.  Because it was not only that he had died.  It wasn’t even that she had dreamed about his death.  It was that his death brought home for her the fact that she might have died.  That she would have to go back into that cockpit again, face the same danger, and face the loss of more friends.  

That was what made her heart ache.

* * * *

Her brother met her at the docking bay, only ten minutes late.  His bushy red curls were grown long and into his green eyes.  He smiled big and pulled the beat-up speeder up beside her, leaping over the side and tackling her in a wild hug.

“Jat!” Ceryll Tana squeaked, dropping her duffle and awkwardly returning the hug.  “You’re late.”
“You’re home!” Jat replied, pulling back and grinning down at her.

Suddenly, she realized that he was taller than her.  Eyes widening, Ceryll looked him up and down in surprise.  “I’m not so sure.  I hardly recognize you,” she said softly.

Jat grabbed her duffle and tossed it into the back of the speeder.  “Is that all of your luggage?”

“I’m only home for a short while, little brother,” Ceryll pointed out, climbing into the passenger’s side of the speeder and raking her fingers through her hair.  The wind was fierce on the upper levels of Coruscant, particularly in the open air of the landing platforms near her family’s apartment.  “Why didn’t dad come with you to pick me up?  I didn’t think he’d trust you with the speeder all alone…”

Jat snorted and sent the vehicle into a sharp turn, swerving into one of the busy skylanes.  “Things have changed a little bit since you left, Red.  I’m not a kid anymore.”

Ceryll eyed her brother, a strange sadness making her throat constrict.  “No.  You’re not.”  Her gaze turned to take in the panorama of Coruscant’s skyline at sunset.  She didn’t dare speak again, for fear that she would start to cry.

* * * *

Uli Tana, Ceryll’s mother, met her at the door of their upper level flat.  There were already tears in the woman’s eyes as she pulled her daughter to her into a fierce embrace.  “Ceryll,” she murmured, stroking once down her daughter’s long braid.  “You’re home.”

“Hi, Mom,” Ceryll murmured, returning the hug.  

Her father brushed past them in the doorway, giving Ceryll’s braid a quick tug before he went to get her duffle.  

“I’ve made some refreshments,” Uli was saying, guiding her daughter further into their home.  “But you can always go to your room and rest if you wish.  I know you must be tired.”

Ceryll nodded quickly.  “I’ll just go and freshen up a bit.  Then I’ll be out to help with dinner.”

Uli smiled.  “Your room is just how you left it, Cerry.  I’ve kept it clean, but we didn’t move anything.”  Her mother leaned conspiringly.  “I didn’t let your father make it into a private office like he wanted to.”  She laughed stiffly and gestured down the hall.  “Take your time, dear.”

Ceryll smiled and started down the hallway, but Jat’s voice made her stop.

“Hey, Cerry!  How long are you gonna be on vacation for?” Jat demanded of her, puffing as he dropped his own backpack on the table by the door.  

She shook her head.  “I don’t know.  A week or so.”

Jat shrugged back, looking slightly disappointed.  He lifted his pack again and headed for his room on the upper level of the flat.  

Uli Tana’s face had gone stark white.  Ceryll’s brow furrowed.  “Mom, are you okay?  You look sick…”
“I’m fine,” her mother snapped, avoiding Ceryll’s eyes.  She turned around and went to the kitchen without another word.  

Ceryll’s father, Denze, had already started to carry her duffle to her room down the hall, so she followed him.  “Dad,” she began, glancing back to where her mother had disappeared to, “what’s wrong with mom?  Is she alright?”  At her father’s silence, her heart flipped.  “Is she sick?  Are you not telling me something?”

Denze set her bag down and turned, engulfing her in a tight hug that surprised her.  “Welcome home, Cerry.  We’ve…we’ve missed you.”  

He made to leave, but Ceryll stopped him with a firm hand on his wrist.

“What’s going on, Dad?”

Denze met her gaze sadly, then returned his eyes to the floor.  “Your mother hoped that…after…after what happened…” he trailed off, struggling to compose the sentence.  “Ceryll, I understand.  Know that.  It’s just, your mother…” he gave her an apologetic smile, “Your mother thought you would be quitting the Womprats after what happened to you up there.”

Ceryll was frozen with shock.  Certainly she had expected her mother to be upset about Ceryll’s near death experience.  But never this.  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away.  “Dad…”

“Look, Cerry, I’m on your side, alright?  I know that this flying thing…it’s a part of you.  But your mother…she had to have something to hold on to.  Some hope.  And she found it when you were nearly killed…because she hoped that you would give up.  She wants you to give up.”  Denze sighed and squeezed Ceryll’s shoulder solemnly.  “Jat and I have tried to make her see sense, but she wouldn’t hear it.  But don’t you worry, Ceryll.  You have to do what you know is right.  It’s all you can do.”

“Dad…”

Denze started to leave the room.  “I have a new engine prototype I’m working on at the shop, if you want to stop by and have a look at it with me sometime this week.”  He paused.  “I’ll see you at dinner.”  He left.

Ceryll stood in the middle of her old bedroom, feeling empty and lost.  Angry, but not sure what to be angry with.  Not sure if she should be angry at all.  She just wanted to sleep for a long time, because when she was asleep she didn’t have to think.  

Falling back onto her old bed, Ceryll closed her eyes and composed herself.  In a few minutes, she would head down and spend the evening with her family as if nothing had changed.

But it had.  Everything had changed.  And the hardest part would be that they all knew it.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

The shuttle ramp whined down, and he stepped out, inhaling the metallic tang of the atmosphere of his home planet. The orange clouds of his home comforted him. Adok walked down the ramp of the shuttle, breathing a sigh of relief, feeling the burden of his military duties fall away.

His heels clicked on the blacked docking bay and he strode off toward the underside of the city that had been his home in his youth.

Gradually the gleaming upper class of the city faded into the slums, slums where they’d come to peddle the Tibanna gas they’d mined, and managed to eke out a living. He’d long since deposited his meager baggage luggage at one of the better hotels—one known for being fairly safe—in the neighborhood. Now it was time to find one of his favorite bars.

Adok shuddered remembering what had happened last time he’d been in a bar though his native cunning had saved him from serious consequences.

He flexed his hand, looking down at some of the still healing patches of skin, flashing back to the explosion that had done that and worse, nearly leaving him paralyzed. His injuries had thrown his mortality in his face.

He found the bar he’d been hunting for, and walked inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Adok glanced around, then walked over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools, ordering a cheap brand of harsh whiskey from the serving droid, and slapping a coin down onto the scarred surface. At the sound of the coin hitting the duraplast bar, the human owner glanced over and favored briefly with a harsh glare, then walked over.

Dock swallowed his shot of whiskey as the bartender stopped in front of him.

“You new around here,” the bartender demanded. “Ain’t seen you ‘round these parts.”

Dock glanced at him, using another shot of whiskey to avoid a response.

“Wait. I know you,” the bartender continued,” Yeah. You’re that hotshot pilot that came in today.”

“Yeah. I’m that hotshot pilot,” Adok replied mockingly. “I’m a hotshot flyboy and I’m slumming in your bar. Your taxes at work.” Bitterness tinged his laugh. “I am one of the New Republic’s finest.”

“Some kinda hero?”

“Yeah. I’m a hero. A real genuine hero.” Adok reached into a pocket and pulled out two colored bars and dropped them onto the bar. “See, these say so.”

“Son,” the bartender replied,” You did something for those.”

“Yeah. I survived,” Adok toyed with the ribbons on the bar. “But you know what? I’m a screwup. I leave comrades behind in bars, to face the music alone. Oh yeah. I’ll get in trouble, but I’m cunning enough to weasel out and leave someone else to face the music. But I survive. Somehow. And everyone else around me dies.” He swallowed another shot of the harsh whiskey and waited for the bartender to pour him another.

The bartended reached over and grabbed Adok by the nerfhide jacket he was wearing. Adok tried to break his grip but it proved surprisingly strong. “Son, I’ve had enough of your self-pity,” he paused to gesture around to the people in the bar, “You’ve got a helluva better chance than these people. You got out of here. You know what? Use it!” Then he stormed off in disgust.

Adok scooped up his medals and dropped them into the inside pocket of his jacket. He stood up and staggered out of the bar that had grown smoky since he’d been drinking, walked out into the Bespin twilight a slight stagger in his step, not noticing the two men that had followed him.

Paying little attention to his surroundings he found himself wandering through the rapidly darkening streets of the city, when he reached the edge of the platform. He paused and leaned against the rail, looking down into the Abyss of Bespin’s clouds.

He stared down into it, feeling as if something was looking into him. Trying to devour him. He felt drawn toward it, knowing that it could end his struggles. Then the words the bartended had spoken flashed back to him and something snapped him out of the introspective reverie.

“Yes, we’ll take those bits of pretty precious we saw you waving at the bar down there.”

Hands on Adok’s jacket spun him around to be greeted by a man with a knife.

“No funny tricks,” he hissed. “We just want your valuables.”

Adok nodded a hand reaching into his jacket. His hand emerged, holding a slugthrower and he swung it as hard as he could against the side of the knife wielding man’s head. The man shook his head, and Adok jumped back, easily breaking his grip. A blaster bolt seared out the darkness narrowly missing him, and Adok fired a string of shots at the souce, hearing the thud and the clatter of the man’s blaster as he fell to the pavement. The knife-wielder gaped at him, blinked rapidly and ran away into the darkness. Adok slipped the still warm weapon back into its holster.

“Is that how I want to end up,” he asked himself, shot dead in the dark. His thoughts flashed to the notoriously corrupt security forces of the city.And that’s what you are.

He kicked a loose piece of debris on the pavement and wandered back toward the hotel.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

Corbin wished he had taken the trip to Teyr.
   
Each rep he forced himself to do made the sweat drop out of his body, a reliving experience after each dogfight. They almost lost Flight Officer Tana, and Corbin knew how well she fought in that battle. Hell, even he almost bought it, and that fraking confused him more than anything else. The shoulder press machine clanked each time he brought the weight down on the bar, lifting it back up in a fast process.
   
Why was he suddenly breaking down? He’d never been on a mission in almost fifteen years when he felt fear, not since his first few sorties. He had never felt that emotion in the cockpit on that level of intensity in his entire life. His hands almost clenched down on the flight stick! Why?
   
The question was burning into his mind as he stood up from the machine, pain in his back flaming up his spine as the mechanical vertebrae shifted to accompany the spine in movement. It dug into his muscles, a deep pain but small in intensity. He moved over to an incline bench, looking over at the dumbbell rows, each in weight progression of ten or fifteen pounds. His eyes locked onto the sixty pounders, black massive weights attached by a rough, silver bar.
   
He grabbed the two, and lying down on the incline, thrusted them up from his shoulders and meeting together above his pectorals with a mild ‘thuump!’.
   
He took down a fair share of pilots, but he wasn’t even thinking during that battle. It was by the seat of his pants, a hot op, but even then Corbin never knew himself to fly like that. He was the calculating type, the one who holds back and waits for the perfect time to throw the enemy into disarray, not the one who throws himself into the thick of it and hopes the enemy isn’t as good as he is.
   
So why did he do that?
   
The question was wrong, it felt horribly wrong that he gave into some sort of bloodlust while he was out there on the fringe. That he, who Corbin felt himself as a cool and calm pilot, went into a carnel lust of rage and death. He couldn’t believe that, so the idea and thought was thrown away as he continued to do dumbbell presses on the incline bench, sweat dripping down his forehead and all in his body. He pumped himself hard, every push and every pull strained his arm muscles after he got up to thirty reps.
   
He dropped the weights, and looked over the list of available weight-lifting exercises that he could do, but then he shook his head at the rest of them as he stood up, his blonde hair tussled around and slightly wet. His body, virtually all of it, ached with the pain of progress, and Corbin relished in it. He stood up and walked forward, grabbing one of the white towels from the nearby desk that was adjacent from the door. He walked out into the corridor leading up to the dormitories and other rooms devoted to administration and supply.
   
“Hey!” A voice called out, low but a tone that caught his attention. It was Jack, his fellow pilot, catching up to him from what seemed like the cafeteria.
   
“Corbino, just on my way back to the room. Showers?”

“Yeah.”
   
Jack sighed.
   
“Sweating out the mission?”
   
They walked together towards the dormitory corridor.
   
“You know me.”
   
“Damn you, man. You take dogfights too seriously.” The former Green Squadron pilot smiled and patted Corbin on his left shoulder, but then immediately pealed it away and winced, but did not say anything.
   
“Well, you don’t take them as serious as they need to be.”
   
Jack shook his head as they came to the pilot dormitories, the two of them walking in unison.
   
“Here we go with the half-hearted insults. Corbin, you get the mail in?”
   
“No, why?”
   
“Blue sent something in, to both of us. Asked us how we were doing and stuff.”
   
Corbin smiled at the memories of Green Squadron’s Operations Officer. Blue was always hard, loyal officer who did what he always thought was right. However, he had a reputation for being easily drunk off-duty, and when he paired himself up with Corbin and Jack they were infamous.
   
“Sounds like him, always worrying. How’s the guy doing?”
   
“Strigine and Spy bought the farm.”
   
Corbin stilled walked, but the look on his face said exactly what was going through his head.
   
“Mal’kav and Landford are dead?”
   
“Yeah, it’s a shame too. She was the only normal Bothan and he was the best XO I’ve ever had.” Jack continued, as they entered their room. It was small for the purpose of four pilots and all of their stuff, but because it was only Corbin and Jack it was spacious and comfortable. Jack didn’t have a lot of baggage, and Corbin had a fair share, so he took up some space in the room. Corbin made a beeline to the refresher, while Jack sat down on his bed and leaned back against the wall.
   
“Patriot’s wounded, but she’ll be flying again in a month or so. Got into an accident on shore leave. But Lanner’s fine. She misses you, by the way. Needs someone to call an asshole.”
   
A laugh exclaimed from the refresher, both knowing how cold Andrera could be.
   
“But, yeah, otherwise they’re in Sullust, pulling simple guard duty or long-range recon missions.” Jack spoke nonchalantly, as if he really didn’t care about it. His hands looked over a datapad addressed from his mother on Teyr, and he carefully began to read it.
   
“Hey, my dad’s won the Harvest Festival this year. Woopie. Like I really give a flying frak…” He spoke his mind, hearing the refresher water still running.
   
“Oh, hey, your dad’s hitching up with my mom.”
   
The water stopped running, with the platter of feet following after. Corbin’s chiseled face peaked around the corner of the refresher doorway.
   
“You’re kidding.”
   
“Yeah, I am. Gods, Corbin, you’re easy.” Jack smiled back, turning his head back to the datapad as he read it, as Corbin scoffed and walked back into the refresher to finish cleaning himself off.
   
“But, uh, yeah, my family’s fine. Great.” He said, yawning, putting his datapad on the nearby dresser.
   
Corbin walked out, dressed in a blue sweater with tan pants, giving him the perfect tourist look. This was not Corbin’s first choice: He would have rather been dressed in something that didn’t look like he came from Naboo or Nubia, but this would have to suffice.
   
“You look like a gay sailor.”
   
“Thanks.”
   
Corbin grabbed his money-cred book.
   
“We should go to the O-Club.”
   
Jack looked up.
   
“Getting drunk tonight, are we?”
   
“That’s the plan.”

With Corbin's affirmation of tonight's events, the two pilots left the room and headed towards the O-Club.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

“She had to go where she needed to go,” Leto replied, and it sounded stupid now that he heard the words.  “I think saying good-bye would have only made things worse.”

“Maybe.”  Misch sighed and plopped her head back against the seat, rolling it to the side to look at him.  “It’s just… we weren’t supposed to lose anyone last mission.”

“And we ended up losing someone anyway,” he finished for her.

“Yeah,” she smiled weakly, but not happily.

“She took Bounders’ death hard.” He thought about that a moment, wondering if maybe he should’ve done more to notice, more to help.  If he should’ve been a better wingman, a better Captain or a better friend.  It’s funny how many times those three statements went through his head.  “I think she just needed to escape.  Find a way to put herself back together, and with how dangerous our life is there’s no way for her to do that without risking getting blown apart again.”

“Or maybe she just needed a change of scenery,” Misch suggested.

“Or maybe she just needed a change in scenery,” Leto agreed.  “Somewhere there aren’t so many reminders and there isn’t so much…”

“Death?” Mischa offered.

“Yeah,” Leto sighed, feeling tired.  “Where there isn’t so much death.”  Mischa gave him a sympathetic look, and he returned it with a grateful curve of his lips.

She turned her head to look out the viewport again, resting her head on her hand.  “I just still wish she’d said good-bye first.”

“I know,” he replied.  “I wish she had, too.”

There was a small mechanical whirr and buzz through the transport as the various systems began start up. Leto shut his eyes and relaxed in is seat, trying to get some rest as their ship prepped itself for the trip down to the planet.

“Tired, Captain?” Misch joked and he smiled.

“Just resting my eyes,” he said while keeping his lids closed. “It’s been a long couple of months. You can wear me out.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” Mischa said and he could almost hear the smirk.

He opened one eye and glared at her, “That’s not what I meant.” The corner of his mouth trailed upward in a grin. “Besides, a few months of that is not the kind of ‘worn out’ I’d complain about.”

The transport shuddered as the ship took off, and Mischa’s head turned to look out the window. Leto shifted to watch her, and felt a small smile on his face. His flygirl loved the sky. He reached with his free hand and moved some her hair behind her ear, tracing slowly down the lobe with his thumb. She shivered and glanced at him with a small smile. “That tickles.”

“Sorry,” he apologised with a warm grin. He was aware of where they were, and there was a deep feeling of disappointment in the knowledge that even making those small gestures of affection between them was taking a risk. Leto sighed and resigned himself to mouthing the words he wanted to show her instead. She smiled, squeezed his hand a little tighter no matter who was watching before returning to watching the stars float by their window. The city-lit globe of Coruscant slowly edged closer into view as the ship near its atmosphere.

Leto settled back into his chair and shut his eyes again.






The shuttle landed with a lurch, and Misch mumbled a curse about the pilot’s ability to land. They both grabbed their bags when the hatchways opened, slipping together into the small crowd that was edging towards the exits. The close quarters crunched them all together, and Leto felt a familiar hand grip his from behind him. He smiled to himself as he led them both out of the shuttle.

“So when should I be there tonight?” he asked once they’d broken through the crowd and headed towards one of the exits in the base.

She thought for a moment. “Six. Give me enough time to prepare.”

They paused at a checkpoint, the guards waiving them through before they took their first steps into their week of freedom from the military.

“Galactic Standard or Coruscant local?” he joked after a few steps.

She rolled her eyes. “Coruscant. Tightass.”

He feigned hurt. “I thought you liked my ass?”

She grabbed him, hard, and Misch smirked at his grunt. “Of course I do. It officially belongs to me now, doesn’t it?”

He glared at her for a second and shook his head. “It’s official?”

“Yep.” He noticed she still hadn’t let him go yet. “Admiral made a broadcast throughout the ship and sent a memo and everything. You must have missed it.”

There were a few turns and streets away from the base when they stopped and Misch decided they were far enough out of eyeshot of anyone in uniform. She put her arms around him, drawing herself close to him while he wrapped his arms around her back and drew in a deep breath of her from her hair. He was content to let her stay like this for as long as they needed, regardless of the passer-by around them, enjoying the contact and warmth from her body and the release of tension it gave them without having to worry about cameras, or crew gossip, or reprisals.

“This feels good,” she mumbled into his shoulder and Leto smiled and kissed the side of her face. Mischa took one more long breath of him and squeezed just a little more tighter before she drew back with a grin on her face. “See you tonight?”

Leto nodded. “Be there at six.” He knew how big of a step this was for her, letting someone alone come into a space reserved just for her. Seeing the eagerness in her face made him love her just a little bit more. He curled his fingers around her arms and kissed her for seconds that felt too short. She broke off and smiled one last time at him before turning around and walking in her direction home. Leto watched her for a few more moments before he turned his back and headed towards the stop for the nearest airbus that stopped near his place.






Leto barely stepped inside the door and paid his fare when someone coughed on him. He scrunched his face up in disgust and pushed past the man ignoring Sick Passenger’s half-hearted apology. The large airspeeder was more crowded inside than it had looked, and Leto found himself having to squeeze through the multitude of beings clogging the small space. If there was any respect for a Republic soldier looking for a seat, no-one was showing it. He eventually found an empty seat for himself after pushing through to the second deck, finding a space behind a snoring elderly couple.

Leto sat his bag down and almost lost his balance as whoever was piloting the craft chose that moment to start moving. He sighed as he braced himself on the roof and seat next to him, the old man snorting once and going back to sleep. He collapsed with a small thud, leaning his head against the backing of the seat and content to spend the rest of the trip looking out the window. Massive Coruscant towers danced by, every once in a while a break in the buildings letting the afternoon sunlight pass through onto his face. Every now and then the repulsorcraft would hover to a stop, and he found himself watching the throng of people walking by, miles above the planet’s actual terrain and all of them completely oblivious to that fact. Then the ship would shudder alive again, and they all turned to faceless figures fading into the horizon.

Familiar buildings slowly floated into view as the airbus came to a halt again, and Leto knew this was his stop. He grabbed his bag and threw it around his shoulder again, pushing through the crowd as he made his way to the exit. He stepped around a tall grey being standing in the middle of the aisle and in a moment of quick thinking made sure to dodge Sick Passenger’s expulsions. He rubbed at tired eyes as he heard the transport doors hissed closed behind him and the craft took off again. His building was only a short distance from here, and Leto could walk the rest of the way.

He found the tower where his apartment building was by memory, and keyed the code to the turbolift that would take him down a few levels to his floor. The system buzzed, the same way it always did, and he quickly punched the extra number that caused it to beep happily and send the lift upward. He rolled his eyes and sighed, wondering if someone was ever going to actually fix the turbolift system.

The ride down was uneventful, floor by floor whooshing past until the lift froze to a stop at his floor. He squeezed through the doors before they finished opening and moved quickly down the hallway happy to have made it this far. There was a note from the landlord on the door, nothing that deserved more than a quick glance before Leto crumpled it up in his hand.

He swiped his apartment’s keycard through its slot and entered the code that would let him through. The door to his place hissed open and Leto practically fell inside with a groan of relief.

It wasn’t much to look at, mostly white walls and empty space. The kitchen didn’t look like it had been used much, and the truth was it rarely was. A couch sat not far from the door, a small table sitting in front of it that served as the dump for the few actual books he was working on and whatever useless bit of mail found itself to his door. There were no pictures on the walls or fancy holo-projectors to spend an evening watching. A window was fit into the wall facing an empty stretch of space between buildings that let the sunlight come through. The bedroom wasn’t far from him, and it was about as bare as the rest of the place.

He dropped his bag down on the couch and moaned as an invisible weight lifted off his shoulders. It was hardly an extravagant penthouse, but he was home.

An unfinished chair was lying on a small sheet of plastic in the space near his bedroom, tools lying around it in a neatly organised mess. He smiled when he saw it, tracing his fingers over smoothed wood. Leto laughed to himself, remembering when he’d started the project so many months back, when he had heard Misch complaining about Stone somehow breaking one of her chairs. He’d been so disappointed when they were called back into service early and he never got the chance to finish it and give it to her.

He felt like he was touching an old memory so much had changed since then. Including the woman the gift was intended for finally admitting and showing her feelings for him after so many years in the most unlikely of places. The memory made him smile, kissing her as they lay together while she laughed at some inner joke in her mind, the look she gave him afterward and that grin he loved so much. Leto brushed his fingers once more over the wood, promising himself he was going to finish the chair this time if only to see the look on her face when he gave it to her.

It wasn’t the largest of places, or the nicest. Even what space it had wasn't fully used, Leto always preferring to get by with little more than he needed. Aside from the few possessions he kept, the apartment was empty. It was empty when he came, and it was empty when he left. It was how Leto liked it. He didn’t want things hanging from the walls, he didn’t want fancy furniture, no expensive or inexpensive hologram projectors to waste mindless hours watching. He wondered if anyone actually saw the place, what they would think of it. If all they would see is the emptiness and completely miss the real reason this place was his home.

What really made it special to him, what made this small, old apartment in the mid-levels of Coruscant home was the calm, quiet, almost serene feeling that had been built within these walls. Most needed to add something to turn their newly acquired walls and space from a residence into a home, whether it was a lifeless metal box on a starship, a small cottage in a rural town of Corellia or the penthouse of one of Coruscant’s highest towers. What had attracted Leto so much to this mundane apartment was the ability to step inside the door and feel home before there was even food in the refrigeration unit.

He didn’t pay for a roof over his head, a place to sleep, somewhere to take his boots off at night. What he’d paid for was peace of mind, the ability to step outside of duty, his doubts and his worries, having to fight everyday for the survival of himself and his squadron, to leave all that behind, collapse on his couch, shut his eyes and for once in what always felt like an eternity, just breathe.

Here he wasn’t a Captain, or a veteran of the Rebellion, or the leader of the Republic’s infamous squadron of rejects. Here he was just a tired man who wanted to get some sleep and make it through to the next day. Some days, after so many months of fighting, of regulations and duty, of watching so many of his friends die, he needed that more than anything.

He pressed his palm flat against the cold white wall, taking a deep breath and trying to let that feeling burn into him. Leto sighed and let his hand drop, feeling a small tired smile at being home again before turning away and beginning to undress. The refresher beckoned to him and his weary legs weren’t in the mood to argue. After that, he had a dinner with the woman who loved him he needed to prepare for.

He smiled, and this time it wasn’t small or tired at all.






Leto took one last look at home and shut the door. By the time he finally left his apartment he still had more than enough time to make it to her place, which worked to his benefit because he had a few stops in mind before he got there. The turbolift ride up felt slower this time, but it wasn’t long before he was standing outside his building on the busy streets of Coruscant again.

It was funny; he knew exactly how to get to her place from where he was standing. What walkways to take and how many buildings he would have to pass, where he could find an air taxi if he needed one, or where the nearest airbus stop was. But in all the years he had known her, he’d never actually stopped by to even say hello.

Almost every moment aboard a starship was spent with someone, in the crowd of crewmen and with their squadron. It was a fact of life they had long gotten used to; privacy was hard to find in such a contained space. It was what made finding time for just the two of them alone so difficult sometimes.

But this was her space, her environment. A starship belonged to everyone aboard it, but her place belonged to her, and whoever stepped inside it was entirely up to her to decide. It was what made this such a big step, not just for her but for both of them. It was her realm of privacy, where she could finally let down her walls and be free to be herself, feel the way she wanted and act the way she wanted, the way she was when they were alone together. To let him inside that, into her space and past her walls… it was a sign of trust that Leto didn’t take lightly. It was a way of showing each other that they were serious about this, about each other, that it was more than just sneaking in supply closets or a moment’s touch in the corridors.

He stopped in his steps, finding what he was looking for. He’d passed the store many times on his morning runs, but he’d never actually stepped inside. He’d never had a reason to before. He stared through the windowed display of the small flower shop that seemed out of place in the urban sprawl around it. Leto smiled at the memory it brought up. It had been a few years since they were stationed in Tralus’ orbit, patrolling both the system and the planet when there had been rumours of heavy pirate activity in the area. He remembered looking in her direction as they were preparing for launch, seeing the flowers she had tied to one of the instruments in her cockpit. The image had stuck with him because it had seemed so unlike her at the time. One of the last ways he’d pictured the brawling, redheaded toughgirl spending her downtime was picking wildflowers. As they become closer, as he learned more and more there was a woman behind the soldier façade, the idea no longer seemed so strange to him.

Leto knew stepping inside the shop that she probably didn’t even remember the flowers, but it was still something he wanted to do for her. He just hoped she didn’t tease him too much for buying flowers and falling into a cliché.

Finding the flowers he wanted had been more of an ordeal than he realised, trying to find the exact matches to the ones in his memory difficult to do when there was a galaxy worth of plant life to search through. But he’d eventually found what he was looking for, paid the unhelpful shopkeeper, left the shop and still had enough time to find a bottle of wine. At the very least, he hoped that would make up for it if she didn’t like the flowers.

Gods, it had been a long time since he had done anything like this.

He hailed an air taxi to take him the rest of the way, not having enough time to make it on foot. He became nervous when they became stuck in traffic only a short distance away from the building, decided that he didn’t have enough time to wait and told the driver to let him down on the walkway a short distance from them. The driver looked back to glare at him, but didn’t hesitate long to shift the craft out of traffic and maneuver it onto the suspended path. Leto grimaced when he noticed the fare go up a few credits more, but paid without protest and hopped out of the vehicle. Her building was only a short distance from him, and he ran the rest of the way, taking care not to drop anything.

She buzzed him into the building and he rode the turbolift up to her floor hoping he wasn’t late. It took him a few moments to find her place in the long hallway and he paused once to glance at the time before taking a breath and rapping his knuckles on the door.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

"Well, here we are!" Jon'son Dethrider shouted to his colleagues. Flight Officer Lexa Intosh turned up to look up at him, barely able to hear him over the noise of the crowd.

"So this is Umgul. You really think our luck will improve here?" Flight Officer Jixoc G'dan questioned, unimpressed. Jixoc was a Falleen, a species some referred as reptilian in nature. Standing nearly over Lexa, he had his hair organized in thick braids and cut short. Whenever he spoke, his Basic was heavily-accented by his native tongue.

Lexa shrugged to her Falleen wingman and turned to face the direction Jon'son had indicated. She brushed her nearly cropped, platinum-blonde hair out of her eyes and cursed herself for not tying her bangs away from her face. But Lexa hated fussing with herself, considering it too feminine a trait. Being feminine, she was learning, was not the most ideal situation being with the Rats, so she made a concerted effort to appear as unfeminine as possible.

So now they found themselves on the relatively busy and noisy planet of Umgul, in front of a large casino, of all things. Not exactly a dream vacation, but it was what the doctor ordered. The Gotal had interviewed all three pilots and suggested they all get away for a while and entertain themselves. Away from dictating officers. Away from the confines of a starship. And away from being reminded of their last conflict. That being the case, Jon'son said his goodbyes to his captain and wingmate, and offered to take the "newbies" with him to get to know them better.

<I>Psyche</i> was an old casino that was popular among the crowds and was already established as one of the premier gambling facilities in the galaxy. And as Lexa surveyed the throng of Bothans, Rodians, humans, Corellian traders, and others in attendance, she couldn't deny the casino drew a very large crowd, adding credence to its claims.

"It could be worse," Stone told Jixoc in his gruff voice.

"How so?" Lexa sighed.

"We could be back on the <I>Pandora</I> stuffed inside our quarters waiting for the next mission. Just be glad Leto pulled strings on the Admiral to give us shoreleave," he pointed out, and that brought a crooked smile to Lexa's face. She sighed, realizing that he would always point out something on the positive side. And her XO was right. She would have been miserable back on the ship. She would have been brooding about IG's loss, in which she was starting to develop a friendship with the droid.

<I>Stone's right</i>, she told herself. <I>We're Womprats and we deserve this.</i> Resigned to have a good time, Lexa pulled out a few credits, ready to place her bets inside. But her heart wasn't in it. Not for the first time, she wondered where the choices in her young life had taken her. And how she ended up with the worst squadron of the New Republic Navy.

"So what are we standing here for? Let's get inside," Jixoc told them, interrupting Lexa's depressive reverie. She returned to the present and looked in the direction the Falleen had indicated.

"Yeah, we're not going to win our millions standing around," Stone added. He thrusted out the crook of his burly arm and said, "Let's try our luck tonight."

Lexa shook her head with a smile. "Yes, sir!" And she slipped her arm through his.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

Maguire sat on the edge of his bunk and wearily tugged off his right boot, then set it down beside his bed. Hooking his now bare right toes against the heel of his left boot, he kicked it off with enough vigor to make the shoe fly off a short distance and fall to the floor with a clang. As he reached up to unzip his flight suit, Maguire felt a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Freedom!! He had plenty of free time, and just a handful of things he really wanted to do… meaning he could devote all the time he wanted to each activity.

Standing up and shrugging out of his suit, Maguire tried to step out of the thing but got his right foot caught in the leg, causing him to loose his balance and take a few awkward hopping steps around the room till he had regained equilibrium. Heady with glee, he ignored the flight suit and didn’t even bother to fold it. He left it right where it had come off in the middle of the floor and headed for the ‘fresher. After all, this was vacation time! He could afford to let that nasty flight suit sit in the middle of the floor.

Pausing halfway into the ‘fresher, Maguire felt a stab of guilt. Maybe he should go fold the flight suit.

Maguire hurried back into the room and swept the crumpled suit under his bunk with a foot. There–a compromise. It was out of sight, but he hadn’t folded it. A clever enough solution if he said so himself.

The ‘fresher was steaming hot by the time Maguire got back, and he closed his eyes to put his head directly under the flow of water. The shower washed over him and seemed to melt away months of stress almost instantly… along with a good deal of engine grease and dust. There had been some trouble with his right stabilizer, so Maguire had stuck around to help the mechanics fix it.

Not surprisingly, Maguire’s mind turned back to the recent space battle. He hadn’t done too badly, all things considered. Mischa had helped him keep his head, and his skin along with it. Maguire didn’t like dwelling on the fight, but at the same time it was on his mind almost constantly.

Maguire felt guilt that he had killed people. He had either directly or indirectly snuffed out meaningful lives. But he had also helped save lives by following Mischa’s commands and flying… well, flying better than he ever had before. He was good in sims, but he had never been able to turn that on when people were watching. And plenty of people had been watching.

Maybe, Maguire reflected as he began to scrub shampoo through his short hair, it helped when there was some kind of real danger and his life depended on it. Maguire blushed and felt the all-too-familiar wave of shame sweeping over him as he thought back on his last disastrous mission; he had nearly killed his wingmate during a training run. For that transgression he’d been assigned to the Womprats. There had been plenty of danger then, at least for the people around him.

Shaking his head and then sticking it back under the water, Maguire tried to bolster his self-esteem. That had been… well not a long time ago. Pretty recent, actually. But he had grown since then… or so he hoped. Before, Maguire would never have been able to handle himself in a battle. He had grown.

Maybe he could even transfer to another squadron soon, if he worked hard and could keep overcoming his nerves.

Maguire paused with his hand halfway to the soap. Was he really being… ambitious? His whole life had careened from one point to the next without much effort on his part so far. Maguire knew he was intelligent enough, and also knew that climbing the ranks involved being social and putting himself forward. He could handle the social bit… maybe. This brief moment of victory over his debilitating fear seemed to have gone to his head.

Still. It was something to think about. Maybe. After the vacation.

Reaching out again for the soap, Maguire quickly finished his shower and went back to the bunk. After some sleep, he would go about finalizing his plans. He wasn’t sure they were exactly, aside from a much needed, and much dreaded, visit with his parents… but they would be well finalized.

But first he needed to read another chapter in the new book he’d downloaded. It was a cheesy romance story full of what the author obviously thought were deep life lessons. Maguire disagreed, but was forging on ahead to see when the obvious love interests would get together. Given the title, “A Flirtation With Death,” he was expecting something dramatic. Hopefully more exciting than, “Trapped In the Airlock,” had been. That story had just been plain gratuitous, and not in terms of plot… not that Maguire had minded too much. Just so long as no one ever, ever, ever found out that he read these kind of stories.

Twenty minutes later, he was snoring quietly with the datapad on his chest, his upper-body halfway propped up by his pillow and his head lolled sideways onto his shoulder.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

She had stopped at the corner of the next watched him until he was out of sight, smiling to herself the entire time. Her grin only widening at the thought of him coming by her place that evening. The giddy little thrill she felt any time she thought about Leto Tariq had only gotten more intense since that early morning in the Second Chance’s brig. And Mischa didn’t think she could ever tire of the feeling.

Love. For the first time in her life she felt what all those songs she’d derided in the past were talking about. Utterly and completely, Leto Tariq owned her heart. And the step she was taking of inviting him over for not only dinner, but to spend the night…or longer was one of the biggest indications of that. It thrilled her…and scared the hell out of her at the same time. But not necessarily in a bad way.

She had never trusted anyone enough to do such a thing in the past. Sure Stone had been over a couple of times for dinner and to watch holodiscs during a downtime or two, but she had never, ever wanted to completely share the most intimate space in the most private place she knew with anyone before Tariq.

The place was nothing spectacular. It would never be featured in some holomag article in Coruscant Design Today or anything like that. It wasn’t roomy, but it was clean and bright with natural light coming through the almost floor-to-ceiling windows. And it was hers and she loved every rare moment spent there.

Among other things the building was well maintained and it was close to the base she and Leto’s shuttle had arrived in. But even more important to Mischa was its proximity to the sprawling space that each weekend was host to the largest trade market on Coruscant and nearly the entire core. Not as extensive and diverse as the one on Chandrila, which had been the favorite of all she had ever visited, but it had served her well in helping find things to indulge her passion for cooking.

She smiled again as she walked out of the apartment tower’s front doors, thinking over the possibilities of what she might find during this quick shopping excursion. The full market wouldn’t be open until tomorrow, but several merchants with permanent shops lined one boulevard at the edge of the marketplace where she was likely to find exactly what she was looking for between them.

A quick inventory of her bright, tidy kitchen after she’d unpacked revealed less than promising prospects. She didn’t keep many fresh ingredients about; knowing that time away from her place was never predictable. But she had a staggering variety of spices from across the known galaxy and an impressive selection of preserved and packaged foods in her cabinets that she could have easily thrown something together from. But for her most special guest ever, she wanted something worthy of him and the occasion so this little trip was definitely in order.

Her first stop was to the shop with large carts in front near overflowing with fresh produce, both imported from countless worlds and varieties grown by a few enterprising “urban gardeners” here on the galactic capital. The kaleidoscopic display was almost staggering in its diversity and she was drawn toward a selection of exotic vegetables right off. With a patient, appraising eye she chose exactly what she needed for the dish they had inspired her to make. As she paid for her purchase one of the shopkeeper’s assistants walked by carrying a tray full of containers of small, luscious looking berry-like fruits and should couldn’t resist adding one of them.

Next was the best meat and seafood seller in Coruscant City. One that had been family owned since time out of mind and supplied the finest restaurants in the upper levels of the city planet. The shop owner and his wife knew her on sight and they greeted each other by name, spending a few moments getting caught up on events since the last time she had stopped in. She asked him about a couple of items he might have in stock.

“Ah, special dinner planned, Mischa?” his wife asked with a knowing smile. “Special dinner for a special guest, yes.” She replied, unable to suppress a bright, wide grin in return that made both the shop owner and his wife tease her about how she was practically glowing for the first time since they’d known her. And an additional comment about how nice it was to see her looking so happy before they started gathering up and carefully packaging her requested choices, all the while giving her suggestions on how to prepare them. She listened attentively, even though she already had her mind made up as to what she was going to cook.

She paid for her purchase there and left with more smiles and a promise to try and not stay away so long next time. In fact she was going to make the shop one of the places she would drag Leto along to tomorrow. The thought of the two of them getting to spend so much time together in “normal” settings made her feel positively bouncy. So much so that she didn’t even do as much as frown as a passerby bumped into her rudely without so much as a mumbled “excuse me”. Nothing was going to get her down as she continued on her way to her last stop, glancing quickly at her wrist chrono and picking up the pace of her steps at noticing the time creeping up on her.

The small bakery was buzzing with activity as usual, but thankfully wasn’t overly crowded much to Mischa’s relief as she walked through the door held open thoughtfully by another patron who was the antithesis of the idiot who’d jostled her a few moments ago. “Hey there, beautiful.” She heard the familiar voice of Nik’malgiri, the co-owner call to her as Mischa walked came in. “How’s my favorite pilot been?” The generously proportioned Twi’lek came around from behind the counter and embraced her in a fatherly hug. Taking great care not to crush her bags even in his enthusiasm before nosily peeking at what was inside them. “Chandrilan cloudberries!” he gave her a toothy smile. “Come…I have just the thing to go with them.”

He beckoned her over to a far display case as he slid the back open and brought out a plain, light golden cake and set it in front of her. “Air cake, made with Selonian starflower honey.” He winked. “Arlissa Dhues commed me and told me you had special dinner plans.” He grinned again at the call from the meat seller’s wife. “Figuring this would be one of your stops I thought I’d help out in impressing your young man.”

“This is just perfect, Nik.” Mischa replied, genuinely touched. The store owners she had come to know in the years she’d been living in the neighborhood reminded her a great deal of the “family” she’d made out of the cantina, shop and tapcafe owners and spaceport mechanics near her Nuba Heights home as a child. And it was one more reason she loved being back here, in spite of the bustling coreworld’s many drawbacks.

She leaned across the counter and gave him a kiss on the cheek that made the pale alien’s pale yellow skin tinge with crimson as she handed him the credits for the cake. “No charge for this, Mischa.” He told her in a low, smiling voice. “Consider it my contribution to furthering the cause of love.” He added, placing the cake carefully in a cardplast box. “My Char’la swears this is the cake that made her agree to my offer of marriage”, the baker shrugged lightheartedly “Who knows…maybe it’ll get you to settle down with this young man who makes you shine like the sun?”

“Thank you, Nik.” She took the bag he’d placed the cake in and grinned. “I don’t think he’ll need this cake to do that though. Oh and I almost forgot, do you have any of those wonderful rolls Char’la created?” He nodded, heading down the counter to get them, this time Mischa wouldn’t let him not take payment. Threatening to leave it on the counter before she departed with a promise to assuage the curiosity he very likely had over this mystery man by stopping in the next day.

Heading back to her apartment, Mischa couldn’t remember when she had ever felt this euphoric in her entire life, outside of the first time Leto murmured in her ear that he loved her.

She’d showered quickly and dressed before getting to work on dinner. Smiling as she slid on a plainly styled, yet form-fitting white dress over gossamer lingerie in the same color that she had been saving to wear for an occasion just like this. After spritzing on a very light, clean-scented perfume she simply ran her fingers through the towel-dried coppery curls that fell to her shoulders. Goddess it had been far too long since she’d had the chance to just let that feminine side of her out in the company of one she trusted and loved.

Dinner would be simple. The fresh vegetables she had bought along with the three different varieties of Nabooan shellfish were already marinating in a spicy sauce that they would be sautéed in before being tossed with the fresh noodles she was preparing now. The cloudberries had been sprinkled with freshly squeezed tart moonfuit and sweet parialla juices and a touch of fine hindian pear brandy and were chilling in the cooling unit. Ready to accompany the aircake and beaten cream for desert…if they made it that far..

She glanced at the chrono next to the kitchen window and breathed with relief that she’d been able to get everything done in time. Goddess the effect of being in her comfortable little haven always brought out that well-hidden domestic side of her.

Walking into the living room, she sipped from a glass of sunfruit-infused water and turned on a small music player to an unobtrusive volume as she gave the small living room an appraising once-over. It wasn’t fancy and the most expensive thing she’d ever bought for it was the little-used holodisc player and flatscreen. She’d never been one for surrounding herself with a lot of clutter, but it was home and there were some things she absolutely couldn’t do without. Her kitchen tools and the various small “treasures” she’d collected from her travels throughout the galaxy both before and after joining Starfighter Command being chief among them.

Much of the latter of these things were set on small, thin transparisteel shelves mounted on walls, which were painted in a very deep, soothing marine blue. Just little reminders of the worlds she’d never thought she would ever set foot upon in her wildest dreams as a child. Sitting on the roof of the small home she shared with her mother, Mischa would watch the traffic come and go from the spaceport nearby and make up stories in her head about each one. Where it was coming from, who was aboard, where it was heading next? Wanting to believe one day she’d get away from Nubia and the kind of life her mother had chosen for both of them, but never daring to fully think it possible.

But now here she was in the place she cherished above all others, waiting on the person she felt just that same way about. And for the first time in what seemed forever, they had the freedom to just be themselves and enjoy the company of the other fully. And Mischa planned to make the best of every minute of it.

She was still sitting there, reminiscing on the first time she’d set eyes on the man she loved when the chime went off announcing his arrival and making that little fluttery feeling reappear as she got to her feet, briefly checking her appearance one last time as she want to the control panel to buzz him in.

A few moments later she heard him knock, her hand was already hovering over the control panel to open the door as he did.

Leto Tariq had always been an impressive sight in her eyes in uniform or a flightsuit. But in casual civilian attire, that relaxed look he wore along with hair that didn’t have to be regulation neat and even a very slight peek of facial hair, allowed to be let go for a change, he was even more beautiful.

“Hey” she smiled slowly, stepping aside slightly to let him in. “Jut in time to help me finish up dinner…if you aren’t scared of the kitchen, Captain.” He came inside, seemingly almost shy at first as he held out the items he brought along. She saw the bottle first and took it from his hand, glancing at the label before looking at him with an eyebrow raised in pleasant surprise. “Wow, Leto I have to say I am impressed with your choice. And this will go just perfect with dinner.”

She kissed him lightly before noticing what else he had been holding and her face lit up even brighter. “You are amazing, you do know that right.” Touched beyond belief at the incredibly sweet gesture, she took the flowers and threw her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers. “I love you, Leto Tariq.” She kissed him harder this time, seemingly going on forever before they had to break for air.

“I love you too, Misch” He replied, and goddess how she adored hearing him say it.

“Let me put these in some water.” She held the small bouquet up to her nose, inhaling deeply as a flood of memories of the mission on Tralus, the first time she was willing to admit to herself that her feelings for Leto went beyond basic lust for the man or simple respect for a leader and fellow fighter into something that scared her at first in it’s intensity. And in the belief that he felt nothing like that for her in return and never could. Silly woman. “Then I’ll take you on a tour of my grand living quarters.”

“Even the bedroom?” he smiled down at her, teasingly wagging his eyebrows.

“Especially the bedroom.” Mischa took his hand and led him into the sun-filled kitchen. “Although I think a more…detailed and intensive inspection of that…room will have to wait until after dinner, love”

Corbin's Good Time

Corbin wasn’t having a bad day today.
   
He had been at the gym all day, taking a break every hour or so before continuing to work at the gym. Each time he entered the gym, he did not talk to anyone, but only focused on the equipment or the muscle group. He focused on the chest press machine, the bench tables all but taken up, and he loved feeling one muscle being worked on him, the sign that he was doing it right. He was doing about half the weight of the nearby Marines, but his form was perfect, and that is what made him smile the most, nevermind the fact that the nearby Marine was using his arms more than his chest.
   
He took his time, the feeling of accomplishment leaving as the slight throb of heat came from the muscle. He shook his head; he was on his last set for the chest and he had a few more reps to go. The weight got really heavy, even though physically it hadn’t changed, but Corbin pressed on, trying to keep his form as close as it could be. Finally, the last push, and Corbin forced his body to remain still while he pushed, as hard as he could, only using the muscle groups that were intended to be worked.
   
Bam. He brought the weight down, and breathed out, a smile on his face. Outside the cockpit, this was the only place where he felt he had control, and that gave him a sense of security. He shrugged his shoulders, his body tired from the rigorous day of training. He had to promise himself these days; besides a few other things this was the only thing that reminded him of the old times, back when it was an honor to be a Rebel pilot. He smiled as he stood up and, with a little gander at stretching first, began to walk out of the gym.
   
But, when he left the gym, the smile faded as he realized that only he and Jack were on the Pandora out of the entire squadron. He didn’t like the feeling that if shit went down he’d only have Jack to fall on, even though he could count on Jack for just about anything save watching a liquor cabinet. That little thought gave him a small, little smile on his face, his eyes looking down as he walked among the hallways.
   
He entered the turbolift, and he found, among two other mechanics, Flight Officer Maguire Tabila in the lift. He seemed startled when he saw Corbin, but the ace immediately began to speak as he pressed down a long white button marked ‘LIVING QUARTERS’.
   
“Hey, Maguire.”
   
He replied with a quick, quiet ‘Hey, Pixy’, not really looking at him.
   
“Enjoying the downtime?”
   
“Oh, uh, yeah.”
   
“Good to hear.” Corbin said again, taking the towel and patting his face with it.
   
“You, uh, working out?”
   
“Yup.”
   
Corbin stared at the lift’s list of levels, with only noticing his level and the Mess Deck selected.
   
“Going to eat?”
   
“Yeah.”
   
Another little bit of silence.
   
The door opened, and the mechanics got off, with Maguire falling in behind them.
   
“We should get a drink sometime.”
   
“Uh, yeah, we should.” Maguire smiled, giving him a wave before he got off of the lift entirely, and the doors closed.
   
“What a shy guy.”
   
The lift stopped, and Corbin was about to step off.
   
Only Jack beat him to the door, having just walked in.
   
“Hey, Corbin, I got a time card for the holo. You want to sit with me?”
   
“Who the hell would we be talking to?”
   
“Blue. It’s starting in half an hour.”
   
Corbin smiled: He hadn’t talked to Fal in a long time.
   
“Yes, I’d like that. Lemme get changed.”

   
Corbin and Jack were sitting together in one of the many holo-communication booths that were located in the Pandora, both of them wearing a pair of civilian clothes. Corbin was sitting down, leaning forward, his hands curled into each other as he waited for Blue to get on. Jack, however, was leaning back into the corner of the couch-like seat, his hands spread out on the back-wood of the seat, stretching his back against the soft surface. In front of both of them was a pair of glasses; For Corbin, it was filled with a terrible-tasting Ale, but for Jack it was Tyrian Whiskey.
   
Corbin winced as he took a sip from his glass, the taste of the low-grade alcohol burning his throat as it went down.
   
“What’s taking him so long?”
   
“Hell, Corbino, he’s probably doing a ton of paperwork. It’s not like he’s flying with a low-rate squadron.” Jack spoke out loud, but both of them thought that Blue was still writing a letter to whatever family Landford had left since he joined the New Republic. Corbin, nor Jack, did not envy Blue’s task. That was why the bottle of Corellian Ale at the bottom of Corbin’s feet rested there, to toast to the fallen pilot.
   
But that was last on the list of things Corbin and Jack wanted to talk to Blue about.
   
And, as if on cue, the blue image of Captain Fal ‘Blue’ Eielson shimmered into view from his distant location in the Galaxy. He had the same he had all those years ago: Clean shaven, haggered, but respectable and seemingly paying attention. Jack was the first to respond.
   
“Blue! Man, good to see you.”
   
Fal smiled back.
   
“Tell me about it. You guys never call me anymore! Often I’m just sitting here doing damn paperwork and wondering how you two are doing!”
   
“How’s the squadron?” Corbin asked, taking a sip of the rather distasteful drink in front of him.
   
“Right now we’re doing stuff here on Eriadu. Kinda like those missions we were doing on Zeltros; long range recon, deep strike missions, pirate missions. You know, passing the time and stuff. Boring action, if you ask me, but it’s doing something compared to nothing. How are you guys doing?”
   
Jack spoke first.
   
“Man, we’re part of this new squadron. Womprat.”
   
“Womprat Squadron?”
   
“I know, tell me about it.”
   
“Heh, well, could be worse. You could be in some Y-Wing squadron.”
   
“Shut up. That’s the last place either of us want to be. I like it here.” Corbin spoke up, taking a sip of his drink. Blue turned his head and looked at Corbin with that Aldernaanian grin on his lips. Corbin smiled back; It was hard not to when you were talking to Blue. No matter what, Blue had the capacity to make people laugh, no matter what the time.
   
“Heh, alright. Got some old Rebels in there?”
   
“Yup. Actually, there’s a lot of them in here.” Jack smiled back, taking a shot of his whiskey.
   
Corbin looked away for a second, then he brought his gaze back to Blue.
   
“What happened?”
   
Blue sighed. He knew exactly what Corbin wanted to talk about, and the look on his face told Corbin and Jack he didn’t want to talk about it. His two friends understood, but it needed to be done.
   
“We were on a long-range recon a few weeks ago. We were investigating a former Imperial mining system out near Bespin, but, uh, turns out it wasn’t abandoned like we thought it was. It was pretty well defended; mines and turrets and everything around the base. With the help of our friends from Silber Squadron we were able to take out one turret, but then we had to contend with some TIE fighters from a Strike Cruiser.”
   
“Squints?”
   
“Yeah. Landford and Mal’kav got separated in the engagement, and then Mal’kav got hit. She died instantly. Landford, however, survived for about fifteen more minutes by himself in the middle of that clusterfrak before he got hit in the engine.”
   
Blue shrugged, shaking his head as he did, bringing a hand to his eyes to rub them for a brief moment, before he breathed in. Corbin never really saw Blue act like this: He knew that the thirty something pilot didn’t really make friends, but he and Landford were pretty close, and Corbin regretted not being there for Isaiah when he was killed. Corbin shook his head as he stared at Blue.
   
“Drove it into the Strike Cruiser, though. Took about a third of that ship’s crew with him. Best way to go: die while you're kicking, than to live out the rest of your days behind a desk. Thank the Gods I won’t make Rear Admiral, that’s a death sentence.” Fal shook his head as he stared at Corbin.
   
“Got the Ale?”
   
“Yup.” Corbin replied, placing two glasses on the table in front of Jack and himself. Next came the bottle, pouring out the cool liquid into the glass. The aged pilot was now very thankful for Adok and his ability to aquire good tasting alcohol.
   
“Alright, I’ll start off. Here’s to an old friend, who never stopped fighting for what he wanted, even when it conflicted with the interests of others.”
   
“Here’s to an old friend, who was always there to help us, or the new guys.”
   
“Here’s to an old friend, may he forever rest in Pilot’s Heaven.”
   
“Amen.”
   
“Amen.”
   
Corbin and Jack immediately took the glass in front of them and downed it, Corbin relaxing as he felt the genuine taste of ale run down his throat. After his swig, he winced. One of his mechanical vertebrae pinched his skin again, a little intake of air fixed that problem as he stared at Blue, finishing his glass of Ale as well.
   
“Well, guys, I got to finish up his mother’s letter. I’ll try to talk to you guys sometime in the near future.”
   
“Yeah, we’d like that.”
   
“Heh, yeah, you would. Anyways, see you guys later!”
   
The holocom ended.
   
“Well, I’m going to head off to Chow. You coming with?”
   
Corbin shook his head.
   
“Nah, I’m going to the bunk. Sneak me some food.”
   
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try.” Jack said as he stood up and walked away from Corbin, out of the booth. Corbin sat still for a second, his mind racing. He merely tried to think up memories of him and Landford, flying together or working together. Next went to Mal’kav and how she always never tried to impress, always working. A smile slowly pursed on Corbin’s lips, his head cocking a little to the right as he leaned forward.
   
He stood up, after his private reflection, and headed out of the holocom room. Corbin’s head began to just put images of the female Bothan, then to the male human, both smiling at him and waving. Landford’s sloppy grin was beaming with pride, while Mal’kav’s little sheepish grin was shy, and reserved. Both were friends to him, and Landford was one of the old crop of pilots from the Rebellion itself, prior to Yavin.
   
As Corbin entered he and Jack’s quarters, that smile remained. If he wanted to remember the two of them, the most he could do was picture them in his head, smiling, like they would have been right now. With his bottle of Ale in his hand, he placed it under his work desk, the one with the old picture of Green Squadron, the year before he got himself kicked out. Corbin paused for a minute to view it.
   
He could see himself in the front, smiling, his arms crossed over his chest. He was leaning slight against the right, next to Landford, who was standing next to Jack, Patriot, and Blue. On his left was Spy, Hotshot, and Lanner. All of them were in flightsuits, and all of them save for Lanner had smiles on. Corbin stared at the holo after he hid his own bottle, his body now sitting in the desk chair.
   
Corbin took the holo and placed his finger on the side of the still-holo, his smile lessening but it still was hooked to the right.
   
“I miss you guys.”

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

Lexa raised a hand to her eyes and found that she needed to squint against the flashing lights. The casino, named <I>Psyche</i>, was a popular hive of activity, sights, and smells, here on Umgul. As soon as she and Stone had rounded the corner after the entrance, their senses had been assailed by the noise and lights.

The main room was huge and filled beyond capacity with eager gamblers. Along one of the far walls, row after row of lugjack machines beeped and chirped. And almost every one of the devices was in use. Lexa watched for a few moments and saw that far more credits were pouring into the machines than were coming out. But every once in a while, a patron would jump up and down as a machine screeched a winning alarm and a few credit chips came shooting out.

Off to Stone's right, Jixoc spotted at least three spinnerpits in operation. A dozen or more players were crammed around each of the tables, piling their chips on their favorite numbers. The Falleen noticed that some discreetly consulted small datapads; he wasn't sure if they were trying to play a system or simply wanted to see how many credits remained in their bank accounts. He couldn't even begin to guess how much the casino was raking in at this moment.

"Well, Lexa?" Stone turned to his fellow Womprat, "why don't you try your hand at a few of the games? Misch would be at the nearest sabacc table by now if she didn't have other plans."

She shrugged at the large pilot. "I don't know," she replied as she scanned the other tables. "I wouldn't want to throw away any credits."

"C'mon, I've seen you staring at a few of the tables; you know you want to try. Go ahead," Stone urged her, "and have a little fun." He leaned down close to her right ear and whispered, "I'm sure Leto can find a way to claim any losses as necessary expense."

Lexa was momentarily shocked, but a smile spread across her face in spite of herself. It wouldn't be the first time the Womprats had bent the rules just a little bit.

"All right," she finally agreed. Her eyes then glanced to her wingmate, Jixoc. "What about you? Not going to join me for a few hands, are you?"

"Don't be silly, Lex. I thought I saw a hot-looking Twil'ek when we came in and I would like to exchange a few words with her," he said.

Stone interrupted. "If you find her, ask if she has a friend, would you?"

"Of course. Now you have some fun." And with that, the Falleen shuffled off into the noisy mass.

Stone eyed a table in the distance. "Looks like a sabacc game is going to start over there. I better make my way to it before it closes up." And like that, he vanished into the crowds.

The only thing Stone hadn't done, Lexa thought, was pat her on the head and hand her a few credits to entertain herself, but she knew he meant well.

She dug into her pockets and pulled out a few credit chips. <I>Well, let's try to have some fun…</i>

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

Lexa went over to one of the spinnerpits and threw out a credit chip onto a number at random, more to humor herself than anything else. When the wheel stopped turning, she was delighted to find out she had won. She smiled broadly and scooped up her winnings. Without her fellow Womprats acting as escorts, though, Lexa soon realized that more than a few of the human males around the table were sizing her up, despite her tom-boyish attire. She moved to a different one and tried again. She surprised herself by winning yet again. Even Lexa couldn't deny the tiny thrill of beating the odds.

With two pocketfuls of chips, she accepted a fizzy drink called an Eyeblaster and sipped at it cautiously. She frowned at the taste. Whatever was in there was extremely intoxicating, and she set the beverage back down on the first empty seat she found. Lexa never allowed her judgment to become compromised, no matter the occasion, and she wasn't about to begin tonight, despite the fact that she was a Rat. She wandered about the casino and realized that she had the beginnings of a headache. She noticed there were a few semiprivate rooms off toward the back that appeared to be fairly quiet, so she made her way over to them, hoping to find a place where she could collect herself.

When she got closer, however, she realized that each room was full of players seated at tables large enough to accomodate only five or so. Each of the players held a few chip-cards in their hands, and a dealer sat opposite them. Whatever the game was, she noticed they were all very serious about it, which explained why the rooms were so quiet compared to the rest of the casino. Lexa stood in the archway and watched as the dealer pressed a special button on the table and the players then scrutinized their cards. Some proceeded to place one or more in the dealer's interface field, while others allowed the dealer to continue to press his button.

<I>I recognize this game before. I've seen Misch, Leto, and Stone play this on their off-time…</i> she remembered. She furrowed her brow in puzzlement, but could tell by the grim demeanor of the gamblers that no one would appreciate any questions from a nonplayer. She was so absorbed by the game itself that she wasn't aware of the man who came over to stand next to her.

"Well, hello there," he said after standing unnoticed by Lexa for several long moments.

Startled, Lexas turned and answered, "Hello?"

"Allow me to introduce myself," the elderly white-haired human announced. "My name is Roget. I'm the host of <I>Psyche</I>. And you would be–?"

Lexa silently cursed Stone for dragging her out when she could have been back on the <I>Pandora's</I> hangar bay tinkering with her X-wing. While there was no argument that the man was obviously charming, he was just a little too old for her taste.

"My name is Lexa," she replied with a smile and, after a beat, turned back to the game, hoping he would take it as a cue that she wasn't looking for company. The man was not deterred so easily, though.

"I couldn't help but notice that you were intrigued by the sabacc table. Have you played ever?" he questioned.

Lexa nodded. "I've seen my friends play it before. I think I understand the rudiments of the game, but I don't understand the markers that they're playing with. Just what are the stakes?"

Roget smiled broadly, revealing even, white teeth. "The owner of this casino, Jade Seye, always said if you have to ask, then you can't afford to play." He laughed deeply, but Lexa didn't sense any spite in his tone. She returned his smile.

"Actually," he explained, "the markers have different values. You see that green one there?" He pointed out a chip on the table, and Lexa nodded.

"That one is for a freighter," he said.

She sucked in her breath. "He's risking his ship?"

"Yes."

"That's ridiculous!" she sputtered. "Who in their right mind would gamble away a ship?"

"Well," he started to explain, spreading his hands expansively, "sometimes the stakes are worth it, especially if he thinks he's drawn an 'idiot's array.' What are the odds of two players drawing that in a single round?" he mumbled, but Lexa wasn't paying attention.

One of the players, a Feeorin, revealed his hand, and Lexa watched the others throw their chip-cards down in disgust. It was obvious he had won. The Feeorin wrapped his big, burly arms around the pot and drew it toward himself, a self-satisfied grin plastered on his mottled face.

Since the game seemed to be over, Lexa turned around to look back into the main room of the casino, and as she did, she caught sight of Jixoc. The Falleen was over in a corner, near some of the lugjack machines, still chatting away with the Twil'ek he spotted. She tried to discreetly wave to him, but he appeared to be so deep in conversation with the Twil'ek that he didn't notice Lexa. She was a bit puzzled as to what they were chatting about.

"Friend of yours?" Roget inquired solicitously.

Distracted, Lexa replied, "Yes, he is. I should go over and say hello. Thank you for the tutorial on sabacc," she added, seizing the opportunity to leave his company.

Roget picked up her hand and brought it slowly to his lips for a brief kiss. Lexa tolerated the gesture and smiled when he released her hand. "Until later, perhaps?" he asked.

"Perhaps," she answered and moved past him back into the main room. However, when she looked back in the direction of her wingmate, both he and the Twil'ek female had seemingly disappeared.

Lexa was a little perplexed that she had lost track of him so quickly…

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

   
Corbin scratched his chin, sitting at the holo-computer in his room, the holographic display showing his typed text. He didn’t know how to continue from here, because to him, now he was just rambling. He had no idea what Fal was writing to Isaiah’s mother, or if he already sent it, but Corbin knew Strigine well, and he knew he’d be disappointed to not write to his parents just simply because he wasn’t really a Green Squadron member anymore.
   
The thing with Corbin, he never really lost a friend before, not a real one. Ever since he was busted to Flight Officer, there were a string of firsts for the former Captain in this Squadron, but he couldn’t lie that he felt more accepted than he has in the last couple of years. Lots of old Rebel pilots who were like him, and he loved that.
   
For Corbin, it was like Landford was still standing over his shoulder, gazing over his head. He never experienced the lost of a friend on this kind of magnitude. He took his head and placed it in his hands, staring at the holo-computer, a sigh escaping his lips. He was glad Jack wasn't here, because he knew he'd be too distracted. Jack always made him forget, but he couldn't force himself to forget Landford's dark-skinned, smiling face staring at the Green Squadron Trio coming back from the Officer's Club. At this point, Corbin still stared at the text, but ideas were still formulating in his head, and with a small smile he went back to typing.

   
   Corbin looked at the text one more time before he turned his head away to look at the door. He was still expecting someone to come in and talk to him and get him distracted, because he was slowly beginning to understand that he couldn't handle this for much longer. He hated to show something that wasn't normally something praised, but if there was one thing worse than Imps, it was him crying. He cried heavy, never light. And all of his friends knew that as well. He gulped, and he finished the letter.

   
   Corbin stared again, and pressed the send button on the holographic desktop. The holo-mail zoomed out of his desktop, with the confirmation signal present on the center of the screen. Corbin leaned back in his desk chair, and crossed his arms. He shook his head, and for once in the first time of his life, he just wished that his squadron was back so they could go on a mission. He knew he couldn't let his mind focus on the past. But, Corbin also knew exactly what he needed.
   
He got up and left, heading for the Officer's Club and bar. But before he exited his room, he stopped walking for a second, looking back, trying to remember if he held onto the dogtags or if Landford had them. He stood still, perfectly, for about two seconds, but then he shook his head. Landford kept them. He’d have to call Blue later to ask for them.
   
And, with his head now straight forward, he tried to remember if it was the Blue Corridor or Red Corridor that was quicker to the O Club…

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

"Now I'm alone again in a place surrounded by sleazebags of all races," Lexa told herself quietly. "Of course, here I am talking to myself." She chuckled.

"I could help you change that," a deep but gentle voice offered.

"Listen, slagchucker, not really interested in–" she started to say as she turned around. She caught her breath as she realized the voice hadn't come from a typical sleazebag. Instead she found herself staring into the eyes of her superior officer that left her earlier in the evening. "Oh," she said, immediately at a loss.

Jon'son was almost a head taller than she was, with ebony hair to match. His face was full of sharp angles, with a strong jaw, and a weathered look about him. When she glanced at his mouth, she realized he was still smiling at her and that she was still staring. Flustered, she dropped her gaze.

"Well, Lexa," he continued easily, "this isn't good. You've gone from talking to yourself to not talking at all." He cocked his head and grinned crookedly. "Do you feel lucky?"

"What?" she blurted out and then tried to clear her throat, not certain of his question.

Without another word, Jon'son grabbed her hand and gently but firmly led her through the casino. Lexa was so stunned, she actually let herself be pulled around. She could feel how strong his hand was, and how rough. There were quite a few calluses on it, and she was comforted that at least one of her hunches was right.

"Wait a moment, Lt. Commander." She came to a stop. "Just where are you taking me?" she asked, no longer willing to be dragged around like a ronto by Jawas.

He turned around and looked at her. "This is a casino, isn't it? You did come here to have a little fun, didn't you?" He then raised a finger. "And we're off duty, so call me 'Jon'son'. Not 'Sir' or 'Commander.' Got it?"

She nodded. "Well, it was your idea to–" she began, but he simply turned away and started to tug her over to one of the spinnerpits, appearing to disregard anything she might have had to say that was contrary to his plans.

"Plus, I need a lucky charm to join me," he said, "I've been striking out."

As they found a free space near the table, the Bothan attendant nodded to Lexa's abductor. "Back again? I thought you gave up."

He grinned and held up Lexa's hand. "Now that I've found my lucky piece, there's no stopping me." He looked at Lexa and asked, "What's your favorite color?"

She was thrown off balance by the question, she just said, "Green."

He winked at her and placed a handful of chips on the spot she had unknowingly selected for him.

"No futher bets at this time," the attendant informed the group.

In spite of herself, Lexa became a little caught up in the excitement of the game. Yet there was a nagging voice in the back of her head that kept reminding her of what happened to Jixoc. The Falleen was nowhere to be seen. Then again, he could have sneaked away with the Twil'lek he was flirting with. With an effort, she overrode the offending mental noise as she always did.

"Green it is," the attendant announced, and the burly pilot smiled at Lexa.

"See," he told her, "I knew you'd bring me luck." Lexa half expected him to kiss her hand with the same false gallantry Roget had shown, but he surprised her once more.

"Pick another for me?" he asked.

"Forty-two," she replied, nonplussed.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

“Okay, honestly…I have absolutely no idea what that one is supposed to be.” Mischa tilted her head one way then the other, trying to make heads or tails or…whatever of the abstract sculpture on a lighted plinth before her.  

Leto studied the holoplacard hovering next to it with a look of concentration that amused her when she glanced over at him.  "Says it's supposed to be a nude study."

"Study of a nude what though?" She shook her head then shrugged, "I just don't get it."

"You aren't supposed to always get it, Misch." Leto grinned, draping his arm over her shoulders. "Sometimes you just have to look at something and appreciate that it's pretty much to each his own. That's how art is.  Subjective."

She gave him a nudge in his side with her elbow. "Your Coruscanti roots are showing, Tariq." She grinned, not missing a chance to tease him about his upbringing, never mind that it wasn’t much higher in class than her own.  As he never failed to remind her when she did.

"More like my mother's influence, actually." He smiled, but there was more than a little sadness in his blue eyes.

"I thought your mom died when you were an infant?" She slipped an arm around his waist as they walked through the skylit gallery of the Galactic Museum of the Arts.

"Doesn't mean I didn't still get some things from her." He said, "Parents pass along all kinds of things to their children."

"Don't I know it." Mischa frowned, wondering if there was anything positive at all she'd inherited from her own mother.  Or from her unknown father for that matter.  "So, she was an artist?"

He looked down at her, smiling wider this time. "She only started getting some notice right around the time my brother was born."

"Adrian?" She asked, then listened again as he nodded once before continuing.

"She was so talented and just really coming into even more renown when I was born and…" He stopped there.  Not needing to say anything else.  She knew that much of his history at least, even though he liked to talk about it very little.

"I'm sorry."  She told him, her arm tightening around him a bit, any watching eyes be damned.  "But in spite of what you may have been made to think or feel it wasn't your fault.  You were just a newborn baby for frak's sake."

"I know, Misch. I know." He stopped walking abruptly and she looked up at him, puzzled.  Then he inclined his head in the direction of the wall before them.  More specifically at a piece of framed work that even if he hadn't brought it to her attention she would have found herself drawn toward. This was what she considered art.

It was a landscape done in traditional materials. Paint brushed on canvas in fine strokes.  Transformed by the artist into a scene that seemed to glow from within with a light of its own at the point where the horizon met the body of water depicted there, suffusing the entire canvas.  Luminous was the first word that came to mind as Mischa was drawn closer to the exhibited work, needing to see more of the beauty the artist had created.  

Her sight fell on the holoplacard alongside the painting, when she was finally able to draw her gaze from it.  "In Dreams 13 BBY Oil on Canvas, Ana Drykin Tariq 43 BBY - 17 BBY” The display rotated through several languages, but the small image of the artist accompanying it, a lovely woman with dark hair and eyes, stayed the same.  

"Oh…Leto…" For one of the rare times since he had known her, the redhead was stunned into near silence, looking up at him again briefly, before turning her attention back to the painting.  

“I have this painting to thank for my existence, you could say.” He said quietly, his focus more on the holoimage of his mother though than on the piece of art she had rendered.  “My father was spending one of his rare off days visiting a small gallery owned by a friend of my mother’s and she just happened to be there that day. He saw the painting and then saw her and fell in love with both.  Bought it right then and there, even though he really couldn’t afford it on a pilot’s salary.”

“That is so sweet.” Mischa grinned, “You got the artistic appreciation from your mother, but I think you get that romantic gene from your dad.”

“Me? Romantic?” Tariq grinned back.  “Well he sure as frak didn’t pass along his piloting skills.”

“Oh I don’t know. I happen to think you do rather well at both. Just took you long enough to show it. The romantic part I mean.” She gave him a quick kiss, before gazing back and forth between Leto’s face and the image of his mother’s.  “You must look more like your father too.”

“Yeah, I suppose I do.” A brief frown crossed his face, “Adrian took after our mother more, looks-wise anyway.  But he was the one who inherited our father’s gift for combat flying and being the perfect officer.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re pretty perfect yourself in or out of uniform.” She smiled at him.  “Does the museum have any other works of your mother’s?  I’d love to see them.”

“That’s the only one here.  That gallery owner I told you about, after the New Republic took back Coruscant, he became a curator here.  My father’s confiscated belongings had been turned over to me not long before and that painting was among them so when he contacted me to ask about loaning it to a collection of Coruscant artists I couldn’t turn him down.”  

“That was very generous of you.” She told him, thinking not for the first time on how in spite of the near always-contentious relationship she and her mother had throughout her younger years, Mischa would give anything to have some small memento of Amia at least. “It’s sad to think of something so beautiful not being shared and appreciated by everyone? Are there any more on display anywhere else?”

“At the moment most of her other works are in a private collection.” He replied, adding “Back at my place.”

Mischa nudged him in the side and grinned, “Isn’t that one of the oldest tricks in the book, Tariq? You really don’t need to resort to such things to get me alone. A simple invitation works just fine.”

He rolled his eyes and smirked, “As I recall you didn’t even need that last time you showed up at my place.”

“That was…different.” She smirked in return as they walked toward the exit.

“Oh yeah,” Leta made a show of looking around at their surroundings dramatically, “No creep following you there from a cantina this time.”

They’d reached the stairs leading up to the hovertrain platform and she stood one step higher, turning to drape her arms over his shoulders.  “And if I kissed you when you opened the door I don’t think you would look nearly as surprised this time.”

“Don’t complain, Misch.” He leaned toward her until their foreheads touched, “It worked didn’t it?”

“Trust me, I am not complaining” She kissed him lightly, “I just wish it had lasted longer.”

Leto grinned at the memory of the shoreleave when she had shown up unannounced at his apartment door, greeting him with an ardent kiss, followed by a “Hi, honey! Sorry I’m late” that was just as enthusiastic, leaving him speechless and just barely able to assess the situation upon spotting the uniformed hulk a few feet behind her.  Opening his door wider to let her in before sending a glare in the stalker’s direction then closing it.

She had ended up falling asleep on his couch that night, her head on his shoulder she’d nodded off mid sentence.  He sat up watching her sleep until his own eyes closed.  

“Maybe we can reenact it and remedy that when we get to my new place.”  He kissed her back.

“You finally moved out of that dump?” She asked as they continued on up to the platform.

“It was not a dump, Misch.  The place had character.” His tone was humorously indignant.

“No, the place had characters.  And most of them shady.” She smirked.  

“Hey, CoCo Town isn’t that bad.” Leto retorted, “It just has gotten a bad rep.”

“Love, I grew in a neighborhood just like it back on Nubia and I’ve spent more time than I care to think about in dives around there to know that any reputation it had is well deserved.”  She answered as they boarded the transport and took their seats.  “Anyway, I’m just glad I don’t have to worry for your safety as much now…unless you’ve found a place even worse.”  

“Don’t worry,” He told her as the hoverbus took off, “I think it will meet your approval.”

She smiled up at him, “Anywhere you are is good enough for me.”

They spent the remainder of the ride trading made up stories about their fellow commuters to make the time pass.  The female Omwat in the plain waitress’ uniform a few shades of blue deeper than her skin was really an intergalactic supermodel in disguise just slumming to prepare for a starring role in her first holofilm.  The raggedly dressed, portly human male near the door was a senator, likely on the appropriations and finance committee.  A serious skinflint who enjoyed public transportation and cutting funding to Starfighter Command in equal measure.

Finally they reached the stop near his building. “Calocour Heights?  This definitely is a step up from that old place.” Mischa raised one eyebrow, “Captain’s rank must pay well.”

“It’s the extra hazard pay that I get from being in charge of the ‘Rats.” He joked back. “Actually the place is pretty modest and reasonable for the neighborhood.”

“Well it definitely is safer and that makes me happy.” She replied.

“Misch, we’re fighter pilots. Safe is not exactly in our vocabulary.” He waved a passkey in front to the doors leading to the older, yet solid apartment tower’s lobby, ushering her inside.  

“Which is why it’s even more important to be that way off-duty.” She glanced around at the neatly appointed and tasteful lobby as they walked toward the turbolift, giving a small unconscious nod of approval to herself.

“Okay, okay.” Leto waved the thin piece of duraplast again and the lift doors opened. “You’ve already won, woman.”  

“I usually do.” She grinned as the doors closed, pushing him against the back wall of the lift. “Hey is thing going up? I thought you pushed the down button.”

“Now you see why it’s so affordable.” He smiled, kissing her forehead.

The first thing she noticed when he opened the door to his apartment were the heavy scents in the air of freshly cut wood and what might have been paint or varnish.  The second was how expectedly neat the space was. Too neat. Almost sterile, just as his old apartment had been.

It was the walls, maybe. There were more of them in this new place and much more expansive. Plain, white, blank.  Completely devoid of anything that made a living area into a home, no matter where in the universe it may be.

“Jeez, Tariq is this an apartment or a mausoleum?”  She smirked.

Leto looked back with a small frown. “What do mean, Mi-Mi?”

“There’s no…you here.” She replied.  “It’s a nice place, but it’s like a…a…hotel or something?”

He rolled his eyes.  “Trust me, Mischa I like it just fine. It’s home, it’s where I can feel relaxed and comfortable and all the rest doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right.” She smiled and nodded, letting it go…for now. "It’s your home and it is lovely and I apologize for what I said. Now where are those paintings? I am dying to see them.”

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

One side of Jon'son's mouth curled up. He turned to the attendant and said, "Forty-two, please." And once again he won, much to Lexa's exasperation. In fact, she wondered if her commander had some kind of Force ability.

Enough was enough. Determined that he should ultimately lose, Lexa told him, "Double zero." And she smiled wickedly when she saw his grin finally falter.

But he cocked his head sideways and told the dealer, "You heard the lady. Put it all on green."

"You do realize the odds, don't you, sir?" the dealer inquired.

"If she says green, then green it is," Jon'son replied with a touch of bravado in his voice.

"No further bets," the attendant told the large group around the spinnerpit. Lexa vaguely noticed that the crowd had grown considerably since their lucky streak began. But even she was caught up in anticipation. She watched the ball bounce and hop its way across the wheel, and she held her breath.

"The wheel is slowing," the attendant informed everyone, although that much was obvious. Even he sounded a touch tense, though.

The onlookers collectively gasped. Lexa blinked and looked at the wheel. The ball was nestled in the slot marked <I>DOUBLE ZERO</I>. It was green. Against incredible odds, she had picked the winning number again.

"And the selector has popped the ball onto double zero," the astonished attendant announced. "We have one winner."

"Unbelievable," she whispered.

While Lexa stared in amazement at her commander, she noticed from the corner of her eye that one of the pit bosses had come over to talk to their attendant. The Dressellian female was wall dressed and stern faced. She leaned over to the attendant and whispered some instructions into the employee's ear. He nodded vigorously, and she stepped behind him.

"Sir," the attendant said to the dark-skinned pilot, "considering the amount of your winnings, I'm going to have to cash you out tonight." He glanced back to his boss for support, and Lexa could see he was nervous. However, he didn't have to worry. Jon'son took the news without fuss and smiled easily.

"Cash me out," he told the attendant and made it sound as though it had been his idea. "We've had enough of the game anyway and wanted this to be the last spin."

"We'll go ahead and credit your account," the attendant offered.

"That will be fine," he agreed. "Shall we?" he asked Lexa and motioned to the entrance.

"I think we should find Jixoc first, Commander," she told him, trying to glance around the casino.

"Oh, yes. I had forgotten about him. Where was he last?" Jon'son inquired. He began to crane his neck to get a good look around.

Before she could take another step, a very drunk Devaronian approached Lexa and grinned toothily. "Sweetie! Hey! Drink you like? I buy." Just as he made another move toward her, Jon'son shot out a muscular arm and caught the drunk before he even touched her.

"What you think yer doin, ooman?" the Devaronian slurred.

"You should think very carefully about what you want to do next, friend," Jon'son shot back in a deadly voice.

Lexa wasn't the only one who saw just how serious he was. The Devaronian's more sober friend, who had a slightly better grasp of the situation, grabbed his companion and started to pull him from the dark-skinned human's grip.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Too much skroggin' on his first night, I guess." And with that, he yanked his friend toward the far end of the bar.

"Are you all right?" Jon'son asked Lexa.

"Of course," she answered.

They walked out of the casino without further incident. Once outside, Lexa let her head fall back. She breathed in deeply. She had forgotten her blossoming headache, and the cool air felt good. When she faced her commander, she saw him place his comlink back on his utility belt.

"This is really strange," Jon'son told the younger pilot, slightly uncomfortable with the situation brewing. "I've called Jixoc twice already and he doesn't answer. In fact, I think his comlink is dead."

He stared at her hard and then said quietly. "I don't like the look of this. I think something is wrong."

<I>I hope nothing has happened to him..</i> Lexa thought, her mind spinning. "The last time I saw him was with that Twi'lek female he was flirting with. In fact–" she began, but he cut her off.

"Then we find that Twi'lek and get to the bottom of this. Come on." And with that, he grabbed her hand and led her away from the other revelers, toward the entrance of the casino again. When they found an unused corner, he turned and faced her. He looked quickly from one side to the other.

"We're going to stay put right here. If she is still inside, eventually she will need to step out. We'll then corner her."

She nodded. "You got it, boss."

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

He swirled the last shot of whiskey in the glass, and then downed it. He motioned the bartender for another shot, but instead of pouring the whiskey, the bartender shook his head, and ambled over. Dock reached for the bottle that he held, the the bartender drew it back, out of his reach.

“Before I pour this, I have a proposition, hero.”

Adok shook his head at the bartender's mocking tone. “The answer is no, but you knew that.”

“You haven't heard it, yet,” the bartender argued. “There's money in it.”

Adok shook his head again. “Count me out,” he told the bartender. “I'm sober enough to know better than that.”

“Come on, it's a cloud car race,” the bartender wheedled him. “Can't you do that?”

Adok frowned at the man, demanding why he hadn't said so in the first place. The bartender shrugged eloquently. “I suppose the New Republic might be interested in where some of its starfighters ended up,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Adok shrugged. “I guess you have a pilot.”


****


The Cloud Car sat in the hangar, waiting for a pilot. Adok walked around it, admiring it's sleek shape.

“Ubrikkian Talon 1,” the bartender boasted. “Cost me a few credits to, shall we say, lease, it from the government.”

Adok whistled at the sleek aircar. “I'll take it for a spin, he told the bartender. And I won't even charge you.”

The bartender laughed and tossed Dock a metallic card. “That'll open her up for ya.”

Adok smiled and climbed up a ladder along side the car and slid the card into a slot by the cockpit which opened allowing him to hop into the passenger seat. He slid over into the pilot's seat and eyed the controls. He'd never flown a cloud car like this before, but the controls looked similar enough to the ones in his X-wing…


***

On the day of the race, Adok woke up bleary eyed. He nearly fell out of the bed and then staggered to the 'fresher to splash some water on his face. “Damn, last night was a bad idea,” he muttered.

His room  was near the hangar housing the sleek cloud car, so he left, and walked out, admiring the sleek lines of the cloud car. As he admired the vehicle he heard footsteps echoing across the hangar, and then the bartender rounded the nose of the cloud car.

“Hope you're ready for the race,” the man told Adok, “I've even scraped together some credits for you.” He jangled a bag of coins. “A couple thousand.”

Adok nodded eagerly. “I'm still in then.”

“I'm glad you're confident,” the bartender told him.

Adok nodded, trying to smile confidently. The two men looked up when they heard footsteps echo on the duracrete of the hangar floor. A pair of security forces troopers strode into the hangar.

“Frak me,” Adok muttered as he tried to think of a way out. He patted his pockets, looking. In one he found his military identification, and he knew just the thing to get rid of his blackmailing bartender problem. The pilot started toward the Wing Guard officers approaching him.

When he reached the guards, he flashed his military identification to them. “Military Intelligence,” he announced himself. “Looks like you got a Tibanna smuggler, here. He's got a couple thousand credits and a load of Tibanna stashed around here. Thought you boys would like to know about the Tibanna.”

The troopers watched Adok speechlessly. Then they shrugged and started toward the hapless bartender, leaving Adok free to walk out of the hangar. He knew that with any luck, the Wing Guards were examples of the endemic corruption that consistently plagued the city. He figured that the credits and the bartender would probably disappear. He heard the sounds of a struggle behind him as he walked off, then a sickening thud. He quickened his pace, though trying not to look rushed. Dock left the hangar and headed for the spaceport, “Frak this planet,” the only thought in his mind.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

A few of the other patrons had also escaped for some air, and they meandered around the walkway of the casino. One pair laughed in such a way that Lexa knew they wouldn't want to be disturbed, at least for a little while. It was then when the Twi'lek finally stepped out into the outside– without Jixoc.

She stared at her and then said quietly, "Boss, I see her. We better confront her now before she sneaks away."

"I see her too. Let's go." And with that, he made a beeline toward her without blinking and grabbed the Twi'lek's arm quickly, leading her away from the other revelers, toward a fountain with a few discreet shrubs and alcoves. When it seemed they were alone, he turned and faced her.

The Twi'lek protested. "Hey! Look whoever you are, I'm sorry if you thought–" she began, but he cut her off.

"Shut up and listen!" After another surreptitious glance at their surroundings, he continued. "I saw you with one of our companions. A Falleen. His name is Jixoc. Where is he?"

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Don't play games with me, Twi'lek!" Jon'son growled under his breath. "Me and my wingmate saw you flirting with him and now he doesn't reply to his comlink. You better tell me now what happened to him!" He squeezed her arm harder.

The Twi'lek sighed and glanced around quickly. "I'm taking a big chance talking to you like this. If anyone were to overhear us, I'd be dead," she explained. The comment made Lexa take notice.

"What are you talking about?" Jon'son hissed. He shook her upper arm and said flatly, "Is Jixoc in trouble?!"

The gravity of the situation was carved on her face. She was serious. "Yes, I'm afraid so. I had to do it." She felt the beginnings of fear creep in. She found herself looking over her shoulder and overly aware of her surroundings, but they were alone.

"I wish I had more time," she told them, "but they are waiting for me. I am truly sorry. But time is the one thing neither of us has any longer."

"What? What do you mean?" Lexa firmly questioned. "What did you do to Jixoc?!"

"You are absolutely vital to my current mission," she replied.

"What are you talking about? We don't even know you." Jon'son could feel his pulse begin to quicken. <I>Gods no, let us not get into another mess…</I> he thought.

"Because of who you are. Look," she tried to explain and Lexa could hear the edge to her tone, "Jixoc is safe and will be if you agree to do something for us. And you are the ones who can make it work."

"What?!" Jon'son growled, lowering his voice and unconsciously taking a step closer to her. "Whoever you are, you better give us back our wingmate. Now."

Lexa intervened. "Why us?"

"Because you both are New Republic pilots. The most respected among their military. That alone gives you free reign when it comes to travel. You show your credentials and no one bats an eye, and they certainly clear out of your way. And," the Twi'lek added, "most important, it gives you access to any location you desire. That's why we need you."

"Oh?" Lexa asked.

Jon'son wanted to snicker. "Lady, I'm afraid you got the wrong pilots. If you haven't heard of us, we're named the Womprats and our squadron isn't really the most reputable. In fact, you might as well find another volunteer and gives us back our wingmate."

The Twi'lek shook her head. "Whatever your reputation is doesn't matter to us. You're going to retrieve something for us or else your friend will simply vanish. The New Republic probably knows of its existence and I'm sure they won't waste any time sending their agents after it. With the both of you as part of their military, no one will question you. You can be in and out before anyone could be wiser," she finished.

"Oh," Lexa said again, and she was hard pressed to hide the disappointment in her voice. <I>What are going to get ourselves into?</i> she thought.

Sensing that getting out of the situation was started to become in vain, Jon'son loosened his grip on the Twi'lek and added, "Well, it seems you have given us no choice."

She yanked her arm free of his grip. "Good. Now listen to everything I have to say and do not deviate from my instructions!" she demanded, fear making her words harsh.

"Just one thing," Jon'son told her, "if you are setting us up, I will come after you and your family. I promise you."

"You don't know my family and you certainly don't know me," she replied, her anger on the rise. "You don't know me at all."

"That's where you have underestimated the Womprats. Do you think we don't have ties elsewhere aside from the New Republic?" Jon'son's voice rose dangerously. "Please give us a little more credit than that."

The Twi'lek folded her arms across her chest like a barrier against his words. But she didn't back down.

"Tonight, you will go to the south landing bay at the nearby spaceport by this casino. Be there at 22:00. You will recieve more instructions after that."

"All right," he agreed.

"I've got to go," she said awkwardly. "I'm already late as it is."

Jon'son hadn't given up quite yet. He reached out and caught her arm once more. "Remember– no games!" he hissed to her.

The Twi'lek shook her head and, without a backward glance, broke away. "22:00. Don't be late," she answered, too quietly for anyone but them to hear.

Re: Womprat Squadon: Downtime

<B>22:00 Hours</b>

As they approached the spaceport, Lexa was walking with her head down, her eyes partially squeezed shut. With both hands, she was rhythmically rubbing her temples. She was so distracted that she nearly bumped into Jon'son walking in front of her. The burly pilot reached out with one hand and grabbed her shoulder. She looked up with such a fearful look on her face, the Womprat didn't know which of them was more startled.

"Are you okay, Lexa?" he asked her, concern on his face.

She didn't answer right away, and Jon'son got an even closer look at her by the light of the spaceport sign. Her platinum blonde hair was more askew than usual. Her face was flushed, and her eyes had the glassy quality of unshed tears. He reached a gentle hand toward her face and laid it briefly against her brow before brushing an errant strand of hair from her eyes. She lost some of her fearful look and closed her eyes at his touch.

"Seriously. What's the matter?" he asked her again.

Lexa shrugged her thin shoulders and said tiredly, "Nothing is wrong, Boss. I think the day has finally caught up with me. This is just something I wasn't ready to deal with. I just wanted to have a day of fun. Now this."

"I understand Lexa, but we have to do this. Jixoc is in trouble and we got to bail him out," he reminded her. "Remember, we're Womprats, and despite our reputation we never leave our man behind. Ever."

She smiled weakly up at him and agreed. "I know, Boss. I'm just tired."

"There's a cantina inside the spaceport. Maybe we can grab something quickly to drink or eat before meeting this contact. All right?"

"All right," she replied, and this time he saw that she smiled at him with some genuine warmth.

There were ten or so customers lined up along the bar. As Jon'son and his colleague walked the length of it in search of two free seats, he noticed that more than one male turned and stared at them. Toward the far end of the bar, he saw a small empty table. Jon'son motioned to it, and Lexa nodded. When the waiter droid left with their order, the burly pilot whispered to her.

"Someone is watching us. They know we are here."

"I felt the same too. I guess it's their turn to approach us now," she replied evasively. "Should we charge up our blasters?"

"Not here. Not until we meet these people," he answered slowly. "Just keep your eyes open."

The droid returned with their order, and Jon'son grew silent. He noticed the bill was already paid for their drinks. Lexa was surreptitously scanning the room. "Our hosts have thought of everything tonight."

Seconds later, a Zabrak approached their table. "I hope your drinks are to your satisfaction?"

Lexa looked at him sharply. "Yes, they are. Who are you?"

"Did the Twi'lek send you two?" he asked, sidestepping the question.

"Yes, she did," Jon'son answered, "have a seat."

"Thank you," he replied as he sat across from them and slowly pulled off his left glove to shake their hands. Jon'son could see he was missing two fingers. Lexa shifted uncomfortably in her seat, because she knew where this was going to lead.

"Okay, you brought us here. Now where's our friend?" Jon'son asked.

"Don't know," the Zabrak replied, "but I do know Boss has him and he's not going anywhere until you get what he needs."

"Figures as much," he said. "All right, just what do you have in mind for us to do?"

"Well," the Zabrak began with an innocent tilt of his head, "there's a certain cache of items Boss wants that another party has in their possession. I just need you simply to steal this cache away and have it delivered to Boss's private yacht in this very spaceport. After that, your friend will simply show up unharmed. Simple. No?"

Lexa sighed inwardly. It was as she expected…