#greyfic

His scowl deepened as he fussed with the stack of tomes that normally lay in a pile next to his bedroll, trying to make for the illusion of more space in the already crowded tent. This corner had seemed like the perfect place to get them out of the way, but every inch really was at a premium right now, wasn’t it? Hardly worthy of the grand, arduous gesture he was trying to pull off. If only he had some vestige of civilization, a romantic suite at an inn that wasn’t one sliver of concentration from disaster. Although he’d readily trade for even half the space of a thin-walled room at even the Last Light Inn at this point.

Although, considering one of the harpers had specifically warned them away from sleeping in any of the actual beds because of a lice infestation in the mattresses, that would probably also put a damper on the romantic atmosphere. Although really, after a century long of the inn suffering from a shadow curse, how were those vermin supposed to have survived? Barring the arrival on the head of an unsuspecting Elturian refugee, Harper, or Flaming Fist, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. The buggers would need regular blood meals to survive any length of time, much less a century—unless they were undead shadow-cursed lice?

Hrm, best not take the chance. The living version of the buggers were bad enough, and toss in an undead, necromantic curse on top would just be an additional nightmare to deal with. Perhaps it was best to make due with the limits of his current environs rather than—

“Gale? Are you in here?”

Musings on the merits of undead lice were quickly derailed by the call.Wait, no—it was too soon for the guest of honor to arrive. “Uh—yes, just a moment!”

Before he could reach the entrance to intercept her, Ari peeled back the tent flap and stepped inside, a gentle expression of concern writ across her features. “You’ve been cooped up in here since dinner. You even missed Raphael, he says ‘hi’ by the way, and you wouldn’t believe what those scars on Astarion’s back—”

She froze, statement ending in a lurch as her gaze whipped over to the shadowed, far corner of the tent. Her eyes narrowed, then widened alarm before she flung herself fully into the space, maneuvering her unarmored body between Gale and the perceived threat. An appreciated, romantic gesture in normal times, but not at all the way he’d been picturing this going. As her bare fists balled up, arm reeling back for a punch he found himself grabbing her wrist in an attempt to keep the evening from derailing completely.

“Wait—no! It’s okay!”

“It’s not okay, there’s a giant spider in your tent!”

“That’s just Llarry—he’s a friend!”

Said giant spider, who had been settled back in the far corner, was sitting as comfortably as an enormous arachnid could in such a cramped space, legs crossed as if settling in for tea. One spindly, furry appendage waved as if in greeting. Although perhaps the gesture perhaps came across a little more intimidating to the uninitiated as Gale had to redouble his grip on Ari’s arm to keep her from punching in one of the creature’s eight eyes.

“See, see, friendly.”

Her protective scowl gave way to a deeply confused frown as she hesitantly lowered her fists. “I’m sorry—Llarry?”

“Well, technically his full name is Llarraggathssinssrigg, but really, he only uses that in more formal settings. He much prefers to go by Llarry.”

“You named the giant spider infesting your tent?”

Llarry reared back, front legs now waving irritably as a soft whisper of discontent escaped his mandibles. Ari’s balled fists started to raise back up at the action and Gale forcefully lowered them back down.

“No, no, of course not,” Gale corrected before they could get off on even more of the wrong foot… leg… tarsus… claw… whatever. The correct terminology wasn’t important at this particular juncture. “You know he doesn’t really appreciate the insinuation that he didn’t have a name before this, and also, it’s not very polite to refer to his presence as an infestation—”

“I can understand him perfectly fine, Gale!”

Oh. Right. The spell for speaking with animals had been one of the first things she cast each day in order to properly give Scratch and their resident owlbear cub morning scritches — here he had to settle for a potion to try and arrange tonight’s events. Although technically Llarry would have understood his instructions regardless, but considering the nature of the evening, it seemed only polite to have a proper back and forth about expectations, boundaries, safe words and whatnot.

Llarry made a series of elaborate clicking noises, front legs waving eagerly.

“Yes, of course,” Gale said at the reminder, “how boorish of me. Llarry, this vision of loveliness trying to valiantly punch you is Aravyn, although she does let her friends call her Ari.”

Llarry's multitude of eyes lit up as he trained his hopeful gaze on the half-elf.

“I have known you for all of sixty seconds. I’m not sure we’re to friends status yet.” As Llarry drooped dejectedly, some of Ari's defensiveness melted. “But I suppose since we’re already using nicknames, fine. You can use Ari, I guess.”

A trill of excitement escaped Llarry, far higher in pitch than expected from a beast of his size.

Seeing that indeed they were not about to be wrapped into a cocoon of webbing, Ari's defensive posture relaxed slightly, although she hadn't quite yet moved from her protective positioning shielding Gale. She tilted her head dubiously at the giant arachnid taking up a full third of the limited space. “So, let me see if I understand this correctly.”

“Of course.”

“You found a giant spider in your tent after dinner, and then made such good friends with him, you’re on a nickname basis with him.”

“Ah, not exactly that,” Gale said as he tried to step around her, although in the limited confines of the tent there wasn’t much room to maneuver without manhandling her. “You see, I brought Llarry here.”

“I’m sorry, what? 

“Third level conjuration spell, really handy in a fight if you need some extra allies—but you know. I figured why not be a little creative, spice things up as it were, in a safe, controlled environment.”

“…what?”

“You know…” Gale trailed off, hoping he didn’t have to spell it out.

“No, I really don’t.” Ari glanced between the two of them with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and suspicion. “Explain it to me like I’m five years old.”

“Oh, this is hardly the conversation for a five year old.”

“Gale!”

The hint of irritation in her invocation of his name had him fiddling nervously with his collar. “Well, you see, I realize that things back in the orthon’s lair got a little unpleasant. And maybe I wasn’t as supportive as I should have been in the moment. But I love you, and I wanted to show you that I fully support your… proclivities. No matter how… unconventional they may seem at first.”

“Unconventional proclivities? How does a spider—” Llarry reared back with an affronted hiss at the rude generalization instead of his name, front legs waving irritably. Ari glanced at the display with a cautious frown before amending, “I’m sorry, how does Llarry fit into this?”

“It’s okay.” Gale abandoned fussing with his collar to give her an awkward but hopefully supportive pat on the arm. “It’s a fixation, we can’t help what we find stimulating. What one person may find a strange predilection, another may discover an unexpected fount of amorous adventure.” He ignored her trying to mouth the phrase in befuddlement, and instead offered an encouraging smile. “So as a show of good faith and open-mindedness…”

With his free hand, Gale made an expansive gesture at Llarry, who waved a giant furred appendage in a way that was definitely overeager to get the evening started. Damn it, Llarry, don’t get too thirsty.

Horror slowly dawned on Ari’s face, color draining from her usually rosy, freckled cheeks as she turned from spider to man. “Gale.”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Is this about the spider meat?”

“And there’s zero judgement here. This is a safe space,” he was quick to reassure. “The point is, I brought Llarry here to show that I want to make this work, unexpected kinks and all.”

Gale wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been hoping for was, but her slowly sinking to the ground as if her legs could no longer hold her weight was not it. Instinctively he made to steady her, batting away the giant spider arm that was also trying to do the same thing. Perhaps she was just overwhelmed at the magnanimity of the gesture, the whole-hearted acceptance of—

“I... I need a moment,” she said weakly, swatting both of them away as she hid her face in her knees.

“I… yes, of course. All the time you need. Although, maybe less than an hour? There is a time limit on the conjuration spell, so if you’d like to get started—”

Llarry eagerly extended a leg in her direction, and it was immediately shoved back.

“I said a moment!” she insisted more forcefully.

Gale quickly made a “cut it out” motion at the spider, who folded back in on himself into his cramped corner with a huff. He knelt down next to her, hands hovering uselessly in the air as he tried to understand this reaction.

“I have a feeling I may have made a miscalculation.” The opening statement was spoken at a normal volume, but the next was dropped to a whisper that hopefully only she could hear, and he did his best to not let any dread creep into his tone. “Does it have to be dead? Llarry’s pretty open-minded, but I don’t think he’d be particularly amenable to that arrangement.”

Not to mention that would be beyond the bounds of this particular spell. But baby steps. Unfortunately, his whisper wasn’t quiet enough as Llarry let out a noise that was neither disturbed nor eager. Intrigued? Oh gods, best to not contemplate that.

“Gale,” Ari croaked.

“Yes, yes, I’m here. Unless you don’t want me to be? Do I… need to leave the tent for this? Is this a private affair? I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I—”

She whirled on the spot, uncomfortably twisting as she grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and pulled him close, eyes wide as her voice raised loud enough for the entire camp to hear. “Stop! I’m not sexually attracted to spiders!”

“What—I mean no, not attracted to them, of course. I didn’t think that!” Not entirely. “Attraction and arousal are two different things. For example, some people like me get hot under the collar when they see a beautiful, strong woman tear a bloody swath through cursed shadowed creatures, and when you lick… rotting… spider… meat… you—”

“It was charmed!” Her grip on his collar shifted to his shoulders as she shook him fiercely. “The spider meat was charmed!”

Elocution left him. “What? But you—”

“It was laced with succubus spittle, Gale!” She fixed him with a wide-eyed, mortified gaze. “I wasn’t… I don’t get turned on by licking spider meat.” As Llarry proffered a tentative limb, she released one hand to shove it away. “Or any part of a spider!”

“Oh.” Gale blinked. “Oh. Why in the nine hells would anyone dope spider meat? With an aphrodisiac?”

“There’s no good answers there, Gale! None!”

“Oh gods, you don’t think Yurgir was—not with the displacer beast?”

“I have been unable to think about anything else for the entire day!”

“Okay, not to lose the conversational thread, but I want to be one hundred and ten percent sure on this point. Your titillated reaction was in no way genuine, and you do not have any desire to indulge in any arachnid-related fetish?”

“I do not.” It came out a defeated whisper as she buried her face into shoulder to hide her burning cheeks. 

Llarry slumped and emitted a dejected trill, his evening clearly ruined.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“A relief?” She raised her head back up from where she was trying to hide from her mortification. “I thought you said you accepted me as I am—even the weird parts!”

“Yes, but that’s not a weird part of you is it?” He shook his head, then replayed back the words that he’d just spoken. “Wait—that came out wrong.”

“So you don’t accept my weirdness?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant!” Gale held up his hands defensively. “I love your weirdness, your unexpected nature—I just am a little relieved I don’t need to reserve a third level spell slot to summon a fey spirit in the form of a giant spider for you to salivate over if we want to get intimate!”

“What the fuck is going on in that tent?” Astarion’s loud voice drifted their way.

“Dark Lady preserve us, don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to!” Shadowheart chimed in.

Okay, that was unfortunate. Another issue to deal with at another time. 

“You—you didn’t use your sound dampening charm you created?” Ari whispered fiercely. “When you thought we were going to have a wild night of spider licking?”

“Look, Llarry requires a dedicated amount of concentration to keep on this plane of existence—”

“Oh, well if Llarry requires your concentration—”

The spider in question made an elaborate series of gestures with three of his appendages, clearly indicating that this was not a part of the relationship he had agreed to be party to.

“Please, Llarry,” Gale begged first to spider, then turned his attention to his girlfriend, “I’m trying here.”

“Trying what?” An edge of equal desperation tinged her voice. “Why, why, why why—” she caught herself, took a breath, then exhaled before finishing the question, “why did you feel the need to bring a giant spider into… this?”

“I already told you—I thought I hurt your feelings.”

“You did hurt my feelings—because you yelled at me!”

“And I was only yelling out of surprise,” he tried, oh he tried to stop himself from finishing the rest of that thought, but Gale of Waterdeep was nothing if not thorough in the worst of ways, “because you licked a dead spider!”

“I only licked it because it smelled weird and magical and off!”

“Oh yes, a great justification for supping a little essence d’arachnid — not to mention a sure fire way to pick up a food-borne illness.”

“Hey! I needed to investigate!”

“With your tongue? Did you see me putting ancient relics in my mouth?”

“Yes! I gave you several to stabilize your condition!”

“I—I didn’t eat them, I just consumed them, there’s a difference!”

“And that difference is?”

“Well, one involves a dead spider and your tongue—”

“You know for someone who’s claiming this was a safe space, I’m hearing a lot of judgement in your voice.”

“I’m not judging,” Gale insisted. “I’m just…”

Ari quirked a single brow, arms crossed as she awaited his explanation for why this was about his concern, not judgement. And this entire thing was a ridiculous misunderstanding as it was. Llarry let out a long series of very sincere, but chiding clicks.

“You’re not helping,” Gale muttered darkly.

“You have to admit, Llarry has a point.”

“I really don’t have to admit that.” He shot her a look. “And okay, let’s say I concede that inadvisable curiosity had you put your tongue on it the first time. But if you knew it was charmed, why in Faerun did you taste it again?”

Her cheeks flushed a deep, deep red again. “Because you yelled at me!”

“I feel like we covered that point already.” Gale frowned. “Have we reached a circle in this ridiculous argument? Or is it a spiral at this point?”

Llarry made a low inquiring trill, front legs gesturing in a fluid motion toward the tent flaps, as this was definitely not the fun evening he had been promised.

“Not now, Llarry,” both Ari and Gale  sighed in unison.

Gale scrubbed a hand across his eyes, a desperation clawing up and squeezing at his chest as this conversation, if it could even be called that at this point, seemed to spiral completely out of control. Ah, control, what a beautiful, deranged illusion to grasp for.

Words. He needed words. “It was never my intention to upset you.” That was a good start. “When you grew distant, avoiding my gaze… can you really blame me for wanting to fix it?”

She stared at him, long and hard in a way that told him without any words, that yes. Maybe a little blame was being directed his way. He couldn’t help but wilt some at that.

“I can see you’re mad,” he started.

“I’m not mad,” she insisted. 

“But you’re not happy either.” This really wasn’t going well at all. “Look, I may not have the cleanest track record when it comes to correcting mistakes in relationships. Possibly overcorrecting just a tad.”

“Just ‘a tad’? You don’t think this was a little extreme?” She asked softly, the trace of hurt in the question like a twist of the knife. “Instead of… talking to me first?”

“When you put it that way… I suppose going to such elaborate lengths without consulting you first was perhaps a little ill-considered.” The wounded look still lingered in her eyes, and he tried to swallow past that gnawing guilt trying to rise back up in him. “You just seemed upset, and you know how they say actions speak louder than words, and I know I use a lot of words.”

“You do,” she said quietly. “You know, the first time was out of curiosity.”

“I do feel like we’ve firmly established that fact.”

She shot him a look, but the heat in it was quelled by something a little more raw. “The second time wasn’t just because you yelled or the meat was charmed. It was what you said.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You suggested that we’d run our course.”

“I did no such thing,” he insisted, with a heat. “I would never—”

“You literally told me that, and I quote, ‘the time might just have come when you and I should split ways’.” After the verbatim recitation she dropped her gaze, looking anywhere but at him.

“That was a joke,” Gale insisted hotly.

“It certainly didn’t sound like one at the time.”

Again, she wouldn’t quite look at him, just like most of the afternoon that had started this whole sordid affair. Llarry’s eight eyes glanced between Ari, to Gale, and with a world’s worth of recrimination behind the action. Stupid summoned spider—why had he not let the damned thing leave the tent when they had a chance?

Spider voyeur be damned, he moved in, gently cupping her face and tilting it up so he could look her in the eye. He half-expected her to pull away, but she allowed the motion. The shuttered expression on her face cranked that vice around his chest one notch tighter, even as his thumb brushed lightly across her jaw line.

“I told you once that nothing would turn my heart from you,” his voice was naught but a whisper, but with no room between them, it might as well have echoed from the walls, “and that hasn’t changed.”

She swallowed and after a moment managed to summon the semblance of a smile. “Not even my unfortunate habit of sampling things I shouldn’t?”

“Not even that,” he breathed.

She let out a half breath, half-laugh in response, and this time when she closed her eyes it seemed to be in relief. It was a small win, but he’d take it, and the vice loosened enough so he could breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, leaning into him.

“Whatever for?”

“Overreacting?” she tried. “I probably should have said something too. I just… felt stupid about the whole thing. And you were just so angry when you were yelling at me to stop licking things.”

“I was concerned,” he insisted, and yes, maybe a little irked that he’d been ignored in the moment. “Maybe we can just chalk up this entire sordid affair to misplaced affections and intentions? I mean, I brought Llarry into our lives to prove my love, didn’t I?”

The third wheel cleverly disguised as a giant spider rolled all eight of his eyes.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, “it was a genuine misunderstanding. Anyone could make this mistake?”

“Anyone?” Ari asked.

“Okay, maybe just me,” he amended, “but I think it’s safe to say that you’re off the hook for the evening, my eight-legged friend.”

A woeful, keening sound left the spider, his large, bulbous head dipping low in clear dejection.

“It’s you not you, Llarry,” Gale insisted, “it’s me.”

The mandibles clicked in rapid staccato, intercut with distressed squeaking.

“Yes, yes, but given the new information we’ve all uncovered in this impromptu group therapy session, the parameters of our previous negotiations really don’t apply here.”

Another click, what counted as a huff.

“Come now, let me just release you from your service. You’ve got less than an hour left of existence, my friend, you should make the most of it.”

Llarry turned his octagonal gaze in Ari’s direction. 

“No.”

Now, spiders couldn’t exactly snort, as they lacked the nostrils to do so. However every single spiracle across his large hairy body exhaled their frustration at the same time, and with a decisive shuffle of all eight legs pounding against the rug-lined floor of the tent, Llarry waddled his way past the embracing couple and shoved his way out the tent’s front flap and into the camp beyond.

“Wait, Llarry, don’t be like that—”

Almost immediately, cries of alarm went up from the rest of the party going about their evening, Scratch let out a loud growl as the owlbear cub screeched a warning. The clang of metal against stone indicated that someone had taken a swipe at the vorekink-friendly spider — and missed.

“Oh no,” Ari murmured, starting to move towards the tent flap to try and save their weird relationship counselor, “Llarry!”

“He’s up in the rafters already!” That seemed to be Lae’zel, presumably the one that had tried to cut the poor dejected spider in two. “Damn it elf, can’t you aim your longbow better?”

“It’s not my fault he’s faster than a Quickling on a sugar high!” Astarion snapped back.

“Okay, am I going crazy,” Karlach asked loudly, “or was that spider crying?”

“Leave that poor spider alone,” Wyll, ever the voice of reason, tried to bring peace and order back into their lives. Bless him. He tried.

“Yes. It’s clearly had a rough evening,” Halsin rumbled.

“I guess he’s fine?” Ari winced, turning back to Gale.

“He always did have a penchant for drama,” Gale sighed.

“You’ve known him for less than an hour.”

“But it seems like a lifetime, doesn’t it?”

“Gods yes.” She buried her face into his shoulder again. “Do you think we have any chance of convincing everyone they didn’t hear any of this?”

“I’m afraid I’m tapped out of that particular magic for this evening.”

“Is there no justice in the world?”

“Modifying our friends memory? Probably not justice—I would say it’s morally dubious at best.”

Ari tried to sink her head further into the retreat of Gale’s night shirt. Unfortunately it was not nearly as voluminous as the folds of the robes he wore in the daytime, so there was not much solace to be found there. The muffled groan was the best she could muster. At that point, the tent flap shifted again and Karlach looked in, an eyebrow raised as she took in the sight before her.

“Soooo,” she managed to draw out the two-letter word out into multiple syllables, “you’re both alive I can see. Well, I mean we already kind of knew you were alive. Because of all the yelling.”

“Remarkable observation as always, Karlach,” Gale’s reply was dry, one hand busy smoothing the top of his mortified girlfriend’s head. “Can we help you?”

“Ah, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Look, the gang—” At Gale’s quirked eyebrow, she amended, “—okay, mostly Astarion because he’s nosey as fuck, sent me in to ask what the hells is going on in here? I told him if the spider tent’s a-rocking, don’t come a-knocking, but he insisted…”

“Just a little… mutual misunderstanding is all.”

“Uh huh. You know, if you want to keep it spicy, there’s a lot easier ways than the five million fucked up scenarios I imagined listening to all that.”

Another pitiful moan left Ari, but it was mostly muffled by Gale’s shoulder. He gave her head a consoling pet.

“She okay?”

“No,” Ari’s words were muted by her insistence of slowly smothering herself in her boyfriend’s shoulder, “just let ceremorphosis take me now. I don’t think even my soul wants to remember any of this.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” Karlach insisted.

“Astarion will never shut up about this,” is what Gale was pretty sure she said, but it was mostly just indistinct mumblings at this point.

“Hey, first wise crack from Fangs, and I’ll cave his skull in. Then we can have Withers bring him back. No harm, no foul.”

“Except for Astarion’s skull,” Gale pointed out.

“You’d do that for me?” Ari mumbled.

“For you, soldier? Anything.“ She gave Gale a lurid wink. “Well, I’m just going to leave you two lovebirds to go ahead and smooth out any remaining ‘misunderstandings’ you might have. Maybe just put up that fancy sound dampening charm before you really get going, ‘ey?”

With that, she ducked back out, a chuckle in her wake. Finally alone, Ari emerged from her refuge in Gale’s shoulder, a red crease marking where she’d pressed her face particularly hard against his clavicle. “You’re really smart, right? What’s the chance of a rogue portal appearing and swallowing us up before we have to face the others tomorrow?”

“Alas, a statistical improbability.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Gale tucked back an errant honey-blonde strand, attempting to smooth her now disheveled hair. “I think we might have to resign ourselves to being the talk of the camp, at least until the next insanity is thrown our way.”

She unfortunately fit right in with the rest of the Promenade here on Nar Shaddaa. While the garish statue of Karagga had been left alone in all of his gaudy, gilded glory, the rest of Lucent Square had been filled with gaudy decorations and festive revelers. Garlands draped haphazardly across vendor stalls, threatening to strangle unsuspecting shoppers, while some enterprising Hutt had decided to erect a towering holographic tree in the plaza. Its intangible branches featured tacky holographic ornaments of the Hutt crime lords who controlled this festive hellscape grinning at the shoppers spending all of their hard earned credits.

Humans, Rodians, and all sorts of other non-Wookiee species wandered about in Life Day robes, something Draike made a mental note to ask Bowdaar the level offensiveness and Wookiee cultural appropriation was happening here. At least, he was until he saw a group of actual Wookiee carolers nearby, the distant cries of them roaring their traditional Life Day songs making him grit his teeth.

He was a respectful captain, and would not compare the sound of his old crewmate’s beloved and deeply spiritual beliefs to grinding gears of a malfunctioning hyperdrive. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t secretly wishing that maybe the job on Nar Kreeta hadn’t actually made him go deaf.

However, that did not excuse the repurposed protocol droids wandering around the place, accosting everyone with good cheer. He thought he’d overheard someone referring to them as gift droids, but if they’d been giving out gifts willy-nilly, he hadn’t seen it. Just heard their tinny voices chirping holiday greetings to passersby as they waddled about, the lights on their chassis blinking in seizure-inducing patterns. One particularly enthusiastic model nearly clothes-lined a Rodian while flailing its arms as it attempted to distribute what may have been some sort of knock-off Life Day candy.

Perhaps that should have been reported to the health inspector, but again, that was another narc move.

“Remind me next year,” Draike muttered under his breath as the circulation to his fingers seemed to be cut off from the weight of presents, “to skip town for the holidays.”

No one seemed to pay attention to, or care, about his suffering.

He attempted to shift the mountain of packages, wincing as the corner of one of the larger boxes dug into his ribs, while ahead of him Grey consulted a datapad that contained an unnecessarily detailed shopping itinerary. If she vibrated with any more holiday cheer, she might phase out of reality soon. Which would at least spare his retinas from the dancing lights on her sweater. Her husband walked alongside her, not bothering to restrain his bride’s excess enthusiasm. Theron’s concession to the holiday spirit was limited to a thin, dark sweater that was barely visible beneath his trademark red jacket. The man’s stubborn refusal to be fully pulled into the Life Day spectacle was almost admirable. Although the tiny antlers carefully perched around his fauxhawk somewhat ruined that air of grumpy indifference.

Their “merry” band of shoppers was rounded out by none other than Lyra Dorn, his Jedi often co-conspirator who for some reason wasn’t trying to rescue Draike from any of this indignity. She was managing to look tastefully festive in a deep red coat with more understated golden embroidery, and a long green scarf with snowflakes on it, exuding the sense of “holiday spirit” without looking like without looking like she'd been attacked by a pack of festive Wampas with a penchant for glitter.

A group of revelers stumbled out of the Slippery Slopes Cantina, cheeks red with festive cheer and their Life Day robes stained with what he hoped was spilled ale, and not some more questionable bodily fluid. Although that would certainly liven up this overly saccharine excursion, come to think of it. And certainly scandalize the walking embodiment of Life Day cheer who still ambled on ahead of him.

He tried to not envy the revelers their drunken stupor too much as Grey waved Theron and Lyra toward yet another vendor stall. Her ridiculous sweater seemed to almost flash in sync with her movements, the lights on the dancing wampas twinkling like a secret attempt to induce a navigational error in a passing starship. Devilishly clever if true.

Draike heaved a sigh, the dramatic kind that carred the weight of a being long-suffering and ignored by his companions, and betrayed by life itself. He tried to rebalance the gift horde again, only for the pointy box to jab into his ribs anew, as if it had a grudge against him specifically.

“How many more?” he called out.

“Hmm?” Grey didn’t even look back over her shoulder.

“How many more stops do you want to torture us with? At this rate I’m going to need a kolto tank for my spine.”

Grey finally turned to look at him, her face alight not just from the sweater but also just an unnatural level of joy and cheerfulness. He didn’t trust it one bit.

“Just three more shops!” She bounced on her toes again as she checked her datapad. “I’ve got it mapped out here. We'll hit Gree's Galactic Gifts for something special for Ben, get him into the holiday spirit."

Their youngest brother, Ben, the lucky bastard, had somehow gotten out of this charade by claiming he needed to do some special intel op spying on the Hidden Chain with Rass Ordo. Draike wasn’t sure if he actually bought the excuse what with the way Ben and his Mandalorian buddy kept sneaking glances at each other, but was actively regretting that he’d not thought to look busy with things of galactic importance to be able to get out of this endeavor.

"I think you’re going to need more than a gift to accomplish that. Probably a Life Day miracle,” Draike grumbled. “I’m pretty sure Ben was born with those grumpy pants on.”

She seemed to either not hear him, or just ignore him. "And then we'll finish up at Devaronian Delights for some of those candied song-cherries for the girls. They’ll like that right?"

Well, Soli and Roz probably wouldn’t say no to it, but seeing as his kids were teenagers, they’d probably appreciate a credit chit just as much. But if correcting her on that extended his agony, he’d just let her be the lame aunt.

Instead, he staggered dramatically and let out a loud groan. "You know, if you keep buying at this rate, we're going to need the Gravestone to haul it all back to base."

“The Gravestone was destroyed over a year ago.” Grey blinked, confused.

“It was the lucky one.”

Grey just rolled her eyes, completely unfazed by her brother's theatrics. "Oh, stop being so dramatic. We're making great time!"

"Great time?" Draike scoffed. "We've been at this for hours. I'm pretty sure my arms are about to fall off."

“Your arms seem fine to me.” Theron gave Draike a once over, eyebrow arching up dubiously but did reach out to steady a precariously balanced box that was about to take a tumble.

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” Draike shot back. “I don’t see you offering to hold any of this crap.”

“Yes, well, we had to keep your hands busy somehow, didn’t we?” Theron shot back. “After all, idle hands are the devil’s workshop. And you were so bored.”

“I’ll show you idle hands.” Draike could have “accidentally” dropped one (or more) box onto his brother-in-law’s foot, but the Jenga-like arrangement in his arms would probably all come tumbling down if he did that. So he resisted.

Lyra cleared her throat, as if she’d read the momentary gleam in his eye. “You know, we could try and reorganize the route? See if we can cut out a little wandering time.”

“Oh, no worries about that,” Grey held out the datapad, showing off a meticulously color-coded map of the Promenade, with a clear line marking an optimized path to take them from the must-have gift locations to the more optional but fun items. “Theron made sure to chart an optimal path that would hit all the stores with the least amount of backtracking.”

“Who knew he was such a stellar navigator,” Draike muttered darkly.

Theron shot him an equally sour look, deftly leaning back as Grey made a swooping hand gesture as she tried to explain the route in more detail, as if that would somehow not make Draike’s will to live slowly ebb away.

“I’m dying,” he whined. “Slowly wasting away from dehydration. My mouth a desert, my throat a barren wasteland. Just a poor abused pack nerf, far from home.”

Theron rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder it was a wonder his ocular implants didn't short-circuit from the strain. “You’re fine. You had a drink less than an hour ago.”

Lyra, probably moved by the thought of a poor, abused nerf, seemed to take pity on him. “You know, a break doesn’t sound like the worst idea. I think I spied a Biscuit Baron just around the corner. Why don’t Theron and I go grab drinks for everyone?”

“Ooh, hot cocoa!” Grey’s eyes lit up at the prospect. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the lights on her damn sweater.

“I’m going to need something stronger than cocoa to get through the rest of this,” Theron grumbled. Although whether he was agreeing to make his wife happy, or just to shut Draike up was up for debate.

“They don't serve whiskey at Biscuit Baron,” Draike said wistfully, “trust me, I’ve checked.”

“Caf then,” he amended, “strong enough to wake the dead.”

The two of them stepped away, weaving through the crowd towards the promised of caffeinated and chocolate salvation. Immediately, like an excited Kath hound pup let loose in a field of unsuspecting nerfs, Grey’s attention was captured by a nearby shop window. The display had some sort of garish representation of Coruscant’s Senate building rendered entirely in blinking Life Day lights.

“Look at this!” Deprived of her willing victim in matrimony, she tried to wave him over to coo at the display with her. “It’s adorable! Maybe we should get one for the War Room back on base.”

Draike just blinked at her. “You want to add ‘festive cheer’ to our war planning? What next, tying ribbons and bows on thermal detonators?”

She either didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him, instead peering closer at the gaudy eyesore, her nose almost pressing against the shop window. “I think it would really brighten the place up.”

“I mean, explosions generally do have that. As a side effect.”

As she seemed oblivious to the way he was staggering under the mountain of packages she’d saddled with him, Draike gave serious thought to just dropping the whole lot right there on the fancy little walkway. It would serve them right. Maybe if he made enough of a scene, they’d finally call it quits and wrap up this hellish excursion.

As if summoned by his frustration alone, one of those weird repurposed protocol gift droids waddled into view. Its red chassis was adorned with an ungodly amount of twinkling lights, and its optical sensors fixed on Draike with an intensity that suggested it had scanned him, analyzed his festive deficiencies, and declared him Patient Zero in a Life Day cheer pandemic.

“Uh uh, don’t you dare—”

“Greetings gentle being, and happy Life Day!” The droid’s voice modulator seemed like it was cranked to eleven on the perkiness scale. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem o be lacking in holiday cheer! Perhaps I can assist you in finding the true meaning of this joyous season?”

Draike’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d just been threatened with violence. “True meaning, huh? Like spending hard earned credits on useless junk? Developing a drinking problem to cope with family gatherings?”

“Stars, no!” The droid’s photoreceptors blinked in what might have been confusion. Or horror. “The true meaning of Life Day is about spreading joy and goodwill to all beings arose the galaxy!”

Hell, this thing was worse than his sister. “Yeah, nothing says ‘goodwill to all’ like being accosted by a walking holiday decoration.”

The droid’s chassis prevented it from tilting its head, but it seemed to sway as if it wanted to attempt the maneuver anyway. “I have not accosted anyone.”

“Do you come pre-programmed with the ability to ignore sarcasm, or is that an upgrade?”

The droid, unfazed by his biting tone, forged on. Probably an upgrade. “Perhaps a festive Life Day carol would lift your spirits? I am programmed with over a thousand holiday melodies from across the galaxy!”

“I’d rather be slowly digested in a sarlacc pit.”

“I’m sorry, I’m unfamiliar with that song. Since you do not have a preference, I will select a carol at random.”

“No, wait—”

Weighed down by a thousand gifts, and perhaps also his own crushing despair, Draike was unable to stop the droid from launching into an ear-splitting rendition of the traditional Wookiee song, “A Day to Celebrate”, in what sounded like Huttese. The discordant warbling was painful enough he almost dropped the mountain of gifts in a reflexive attempt to shield his ears from the auditory assault. He glanced desperately at his sister, hoping she might rescue him from this menace, but she remained blissfully oblivious to his plight.

The droid finished its “song” (and he used that term loosely) with a flourish. “Wonderful! I can see the Life Day spirit levels in you rising already!”

Draike’s eye twitched. “That wasn’t my spirit levels rising, that was my will to live actively trying to crawl out of my body and escape.”

The droid once again tried to tilt its head, but failing that ability, just sort of wobbled again, the lights around its chassis flashing in manner that could only be described as offensively jubilant. “Ah, we must then dig deeper into the core of your holiday malaise. Tell me, gentle being, have you considered extending goodwill to others this season?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He gritted his teeth as the giant gift pile swayed dangerously.

“A small donation could go a long way in helping those less fortunate.”

His arms burned from the weight of Grey’s endless shopping spree. Less fortunate? If anyone was less fortunate, it was him. “A donation? You want me to give credits to some random droid shaking me down in the street? What, did your ethical subroutines get crossed with a Hutt’s business model?”

The droid’s optical sensors flashed, its holiday cheer protocols struggling to process the insinuation. “I assure you, sir, this is a legitimate charity drive for the underprivileged children of Nar Shaddaa. Every credit goes directly to—”

“Listen, Jingle Bot, I’ve got my hands full of ‘Life Day cheer’ already. Literally. If I had any more my spine would probably snap from the weight.” Draike’s patience was wearing thinner than a worn-out strand of tinsel. “So unless your ‘charity drive’ comes with an extra set of arms or a repulsorlift sled, I suggest you take your goodwill pitch and shove it up your exhaust port!”

The droid didn’t budge, and if anything, Draike’s thinly veiled hostility seemed to encourage it almost. The festive lights on its chassis twinkled brighter as if trying to blind him into submission. “Oh, the gift of giving isn’t a burden. Perhaps if I explained the many benefits of charity during this festive season—”

Draike attempted to sidestep the obnoxious droid, the precarious tower of packages swaying dangerously, forcing him to freeze mid-step to steady them. The droid, apparently programmed with the tenacity of a Corellian sand panther, mirrored his movements, blocking his escape.

“Oh, for the love of—Grey!” Desperate, Draike tried to appeal to his sister’s heroic nature to come and save him. “A little help here!”

She turned her head slightly, barely sparing him a proper glance. “Oh, you’re fine. You’ve dealt with worse.”

A swear escaped him. “Worse? Worse than being harassed by a sentient disco ball?”

“I heard that!” The droid chirped, its tone somehow simultaneously cheerful and deeply offended. “Spreading joy may be a thankless task, but nonetheless, I persist!”

Oh, it persisted all right. Right back into Draike’s path as he tried once again to maneuver around the damn thing. A nearby Ithorian couple paused in their stroll, watching the scene with a mix of amusement and pity. One of them muttered something in their melodic language that he was pretty sure translated to “holiday meltdown”.

“Listen here, you overdecorated hyperdrive malfunction,” Draike hissed at his most hated nemesis, “if you don’t back off, I’m going to find the nearest scrap dealer and sell you for spare parts. Maybe in your next life you’ll be something useful, like a garbage compactor!”

For one blessed, glorious moment, the droid froze. Its photoreceptors dimming as if Draike’s bah humbug attitude had finally short-circuited the mechanical monstrosity. He felt a flicker of triumph.

Before the droid’s photoreceptors flickered. Once. Twice—before glowing an ominous, deep red.

The burgeoning smirk on Draike’s lips faltered. “Well, that can’t be good.”

When the droid spoke again, this time its tone was pitched deeper, slower and was laced with a menace that its cheery vocublator shouldn’t have been able to make. “Life Day spirit deficiency detected. Initiating aggressive holiday cheer protocols.“

“Aggressive what?”

He wasn’t sure if he should laugher be worried. Although from the way the droid’s festive lights flashed in a rapid, almost aggressive pattern… maybe the latter. “Now, now, I’m plenty cheerful. Look at this happy face of mine, see?”

Draike’s lips stretched into a wide, unconvincing grin, but from the way several passersby looked at him askance and herded each other away, perhaps it was more of a grimace.

The droid's chest compartment slid open, revealing a turret-like device loaded with fist-sized snowballs. Draike blinked, dumbfounded. Well, that was new.

Was that about to—?

Options flew by at light speed: Risk getting pelted with snowballs or dive for cover? Wait, what cover? The closest thing nearby that qualified was his oblivious sister. Update, new question. Drop the presents or use Grey as a shield? The answer was obvious.

Both.

Just as the first snowball launched with a soft, distinctive fwump sound, he moved. The mountain of packages tumbling in every direction, scattering with a less-than-festive crash. One particularly sickening crunch pierced the din as a delicate glass ornament met its untimely demise underneath Draike’s foot. He didn’t let that slow him down.

“What the—that was for Master Gnost-Dural!”

Before Grey could protest any further, Draike lunged for cover behind her, his hands clamping onto her shoulders and maneuvering her in front of him as a human shield, just in time for the snowball to splatter her with a wet thwack.

Phew, that was a close one. It had almost hit him!

A startled gasp escaped Grey as the snowball collided with her face, sending a spray of icy powder. But Draike was too busy surveying the damage to pay much attention to that or the fact that the droid was already reloading and launching another volley. He watched in detached, morbid fascination as an extra Life Day sweater, purchased on an impulse during hour three of this never ending shopping nightmare, unfurled like a discarded banner, its vibrant colors lost in the garish over decorated marketplace. Not much of a loss, really. The galaxy had enough crimes against fashion without adding another atrocity to the list.

A bottle of what was unmistakably expensive Corellian brandy rolled dangerously close to the edge of the walkway. Draike’s eyes widened as he looked between the bottle and the rapid-fire volley of snowballs hurtling towards the two siblings (or rather, towards Draike and his convenient human shield).

Saving the brandy could almost make this whole hellish excursion worthwhile. But there was no way he’d reach it without being pummeled. Perhaps he could drag Grey that direction and save it? The thought had merit.

As if sensing his distraction, the droid’s snowball barrage intensified.

“Draike!” Grey’s finely honed Jedi reflexes attempted to dodge the incoming snowballs (and maybe save some of her presents), but any attempt at tapping into that Force-given grace was hampered by her brother’s iron grip on her shoulders. “What in the Force are you—”

The question finished in an undignified squawk as another volley of snowballs pelted her.

“Stop it!” She sputtered, voice raising into a whining pitch that was very reminiscent to the one she used to use when they were kids and he was supposedly ‘picking on her’. “Let go of me!”

“Sorry, this is for the good of the galaxy!” He ducked lower behind her shoulder as another snowball whizzed past his ear. The cackle that escaped him was perhaps a little undignified, and more than a little manic. “You’re saving me from death by holiday cheer, just like a good little Jedi should.”

“It’s not funny, stop laughing!” Her drenched bangs were now plastered to her forehead, her ridiculous Life Day sweater now soaked through and clinging to her frame. The dancing wampas flickered pathetically, their cheery electronics no match for the droid’s relentless assault.

“Sure it is!”

Grey’s expression hardened, jaw setting in a way that suggested she was struggling to maintain her oh-so-perfect Jedi composure. “You’re being very immature, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Draike didn’t sound sorry at all, “I didn’t realize there was a mature way to be assaulted by a homicidal holiday droid!”

Whatever she was going to say next was cut off as another volley of snowballs pelted Grey, making her sputter indignantly instead. That Jedi serenity was rapidly evaporating, replaced by the all-too-familiar look of a little sister pushed to her limits.

She furiously wiped the snow from her face, trying to twist around to face him, but his grip on her shoulders remained firm and she could only peer furiously and ineffectively over her shoulder. “I know where you sleep!”

That drew a full on snort from him, as if he’d be caught unawares by the least subtle person in the galaxy. “Oh nooo, the fearsome Jedi knows my sleeping arrangements! I’m shaking, I’m shaking!”

Grey’s eyes narrowed dangerously, a look that might have been intimidating, if she didn’t resemble a drowned womp rat. “You’re going to regret this, Draike Highwind.”

“Probably,” he agreed, and then pivoted them both so she valiantly saved him from another bombardment of snowballs. “But not as much as you’re going to regret wearing that sweater.”

“It’s a fun sweater!” Grey shrieked, composure finally shattering as she threw up her hands. The air shimmered in front of her, snowballs splattering harmlessly against some invisible shield. Oh, some sort of Force nonsense. Of course.

“Oh, yeah! Nothing says ‘fun’ like a pack of electrocuted wampas doing the Coruscant Jig across your chest.” Draike peered over her shoulder, eyeing the droid warily. Despite this new obstacle, it seemed content to keep up its relentless assault. “I’m surprised the Jedi Council hasn’t made it standard issue.”

She fixed him with a glare as hot as Tatooine’s twin suns, nose wrinkling in annoyance. But between the wet hair plastered across her forehead made the look more pitiful than threatening. “You realize you’re replacing everything that got ruined.”

He made a noncommittal noise.

“Everything.”Her tone was eerily reminiscent of the times she would tattle on him to their mother. Just about as effective now as it was then, too.

“Oh, no. You’re going to make me go shopping?” He gasped in mock horror. “I guess that will be just like the last ten hours of my life!”

The droid, apparently encouraged by Draike’s obvious enjoyment of the chaos improbably increased the rate of its snowball production, expanding its targeting protocols to include a group of Revelers passing by. They scattered with undignified shrieks.

“Hey, now, look at that,” he pointed cheerfully, “you’re now not the only one being graced with the holiday spirit. Look at all the joy we’re spreading!”

A particularly large snowball sailed over Grey’s Force shield, catching a Wookiee caroler square in the face mid-warble, ending the “song” in a surprised roar that echoed throughout the Promenade. 

“Uh oh,” Draike pointed in the direction of the latest victim, “I think you made him angry. Quick, use a Jedi mind trick to calm the savage beast!”

Seeing as she hadn’t stopped glaring at him, or at least attempting to with the awkward positioning, she didn’t fix him with another one. But it definitely turned withering at the comment. “That’s not how the Force works and you know it.”

“Really? Huh. I could’ve sworn I’ve seen you pull that trick on Theron when he gets all worked up about—”

“Shut. Up.” She ground out through gritted teeth, her cheeks flushing a shade of red that had nothing to do with the cold.

The Wookiee shook himself, ending clumps of snow flying in all directions. A larger chunk sailed through the air in a graceful arc, somehow managing to bypass Draike completely and splat across Grey’s freckled nose with pinpoint accuracy. Her eyes crossed as she stared at the dollop of snow now perched in the center of her vision, looking utterly ridiculous with her soaked sweater, bedraggled hair, and newly acquired snow mustache.

It was perhaps the most beautiful sight that Draike had ever seen.

So caught up in the ridiculousness of her snow-covered visage, he almost missed the moment Theron and Lyra returned. Almost.

Just beyond the still shimmering Force barrier that was still being relentlessly pummeled with a frankly alarming and endless amount of snowballs (how was that physically possible for it to keep generating those ad nauseam without being hooked up to a water supply?), he could see both of them emerging from the crowd. Watching in real time as there expressions morphed from confusion. Lyra’s went to weary exasperation int he span of a heartbeat. Impressive honestly. She’d clearly been spending too much time around him.

Theron, however, cycled through a rapid-fire series of emotions as if he couldn’t settle on just one at first. Surprise. Dawning comprehension, then a blossoming rage. That vein in his forehead—the one Draike had mentally dubbed “Old Faithful” for its reliability—began to pulse with a righteous fury.

“Oh oh,” Drake nudged Grey slightly as she furiously wiped snow from her face. “Don’t look now, but Lover Boy’s about to reach critical mass.”

She stopped wiping her face in time to see the thundercloud settling over husband’s face. “Theron, don’t—”

But it was too late. Theron was already in motion, the drinks he’d been carrying went flying, splattering across the Promenade’s flooring in a caffeinated explosion. Lyra let out an exasperated sigh, aking a Force-enhanced step back to keep it from splattering across her cute, practical little Life Day themed boots.

“My cocoa!” Grey’s lower lip protruded in the same way it did when she was five that somehow always got Draike grounded for the next week.

Theron moved with the precision of a trained operative, a coiled spring of protective fury unleashed. He vaulted over the railing, using it as a springboard to launch himself at the droid in a move that was as impressive as it was ridiculous. His dropkick connected with a resounding clang, sending the droid flying back, snowballs scattering in every direction.

Draike let out an appreciative whistle. “Nice form! Good execution. I give it a solid 9.5 out of 10.”

Grey’s withering glare somehow intensified. If that was possible. 

The droid sparked, sputtering dramatically. Its chassis was now dented from the well-placed dropkick, and the snowball mechanics seemed to be malfunctioning. The chest compartment opened and closed spasmodically as it tried and failed to rise, determined to find its quarry. With a final, pathetic whir, one last snowball launched weakly into the air, landing with a wet plop at Theron’s feet.

He stood over the fallen droid, chest heaving and looking more than a little pleased with himself. The antlers were a little askew, and the perfectly maintained fauxhawk mussed from the extortion. A few strands of hair escaped the gravity defying amount of hair gel he used to sculpt it and fell rakishly across his forehead. Perhaps on someone who wasn’t such a stick-in-the-mud, the sight might almost have been attractive.

Grey pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long exhale that somehow managed to convey both exasperation and fondness. “Was that really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Theron replied without hesitation. He still glared at the prone droid, as if daring it to twitch. “What kind of husband would just stand idly by and let you get pelted with snowballs?”

“My hero.” Her deadpan reply was softened by the way her lips twitched, fighting back a smile. Ugh, it was so wholesome. Disgusting.

Lyra, meanwhile, was already attempting to do a little damage control, intercepting approaching cartel security personnel with an ease that suggested this wasn’t the first, or perhaps even hundredth, time she’d had to pull this maneuver.  She waved her hand in front of her vaguely, voice calm and authoritative, perhaps laced with a small amount of Force suggestion. "Everything's fine here. Just a small malfunction. We have the situation under control."

Crisis finally averted, Draike finally released his iron grip on Grey’s shoulders. She jerked away from him, still clearly irritated. She was in a sorry state, looking like she’d gone for a swim fully clothed. The once-festive sweater was now a sad, soggy mess. The dancing wampas flickered pathetically, their electronic holiday cheer no match for the droid's relentless assault.

She attempted to salvage the thing, wringing out the bottom of her sweater and creating a small puddle at her feet. The motion sent a cascade of melting snow and ice crystals tumbling from her hair, pattering against the floor like the saddest confetti imaginable.

“You know,” Draike stroked his chin thoughtfully, “I think I prefer this look. Really brings out your eyes.”

Her glare could have melted durasteel.

Draike took a step back, not because he was intimidated or anything. Truly, it was only to inspect his… mostly unintentional handiwork. Baby sister’s Jedi composure crumbling into murderous sibling intent? Check. Annoying droid in laying in sparking ruins? Also check. The stupid spy making a fool out of himself with overly dramatic and unneeded heroics? Double check. It really couldn’t have been any better if he’d actually tried to orchestrate this. 

So distracted with the beautiful poetry of it all, Draike completely missed the growing puddle of melted snow spreading across the floor from Grey’s soaked clothing. His foot his the slick surface, cutting off his internal monologue about his beautiful chaos. Time seemed to slow, his arms pinwheeling, a look of dawning horror spreading across his face.

“Oh, shi—”

Gravity took over, sending him crashing down hard on his ass right in the middle of an icy puddle, and leaving him in an undignified heap. He blinked up at the gaudy Life Day decorations adorning the ceiling.

Any attempt at Jedi-appropriate sympathy from Grey lasted about half a second, before she snorted. For her part, she did attempt to cover her amusement with a cough that fooled absolutely no one. “Are you alright? That looked… painful.”

“Your concern is touching, truly.”

Grey pressed her lips together, fighting a losing battle against her rising mirth. “I’m just glad to see you’re finally getting into the holiday spirit.”

“I will end you,” Draike promised, trying to rise imperiously from the ground, but slipping and falling again.

“And then I executed a perfect flying kick,” Theron was saying perhaps a little too loudly to a clearly unimpressed Life Day Reveler, gesticulating wildly as he mimed a blow-by-blow account of his droid takedown. “Perfect trajectory, form, sheer power. Who needs the Force?”

The Reveler, a Rodian wearing now snow-splattered Life Day robes, simply blinked at Theron before slowly inching away. 

Nearby, Lyra picked through the wreckage of their shopping expedition, plucking a sodden package from a puddle. She winced as she peeled back the corner of ruined wrapping paper, water dripping from it in a steady patter, adding to a growing pool at her feet that reflected the gaudy lights strung around them.

As if sensing his eyes on her, Lyra glanced up, arching one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in a single expression that managed to convey entire paragraphs of unspoken commentary.

A blend of “I saw that coming”, I told you so" and "you deserved that" all rolled into one. The slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her struggle to keep a straight face. Draike scowled, his pride bruised even worse than his backside.

“Don’t say it. “He pointed a finger at her, finally managing to shove himself into an upright position at least. “Not one word.”

Lyra opened her mouth, expression promising perhaps a remark about karmic justice, when a shadow fell over Draike. A towering Wookiee, draped in a festive sash that strained against its massive frame, loomed over him and let out a deep, rumbling sound. It was probably meant to be sympathetic—perhaps the Shyriiwook equivalent of "there, there." But to Draike's ears, it sounded suspiciously like amusement.

Before he could protest, a massive furry paw came down, patting him with surprising gentleness, though with enough force to still muss his carefully maintained coif. The gesture made him feel about five years old, which added another crushing blow to his already battered dignity.

“Watch the—” Another pat nearly knocked him sideways, silencing his protest. 

He flailed, struggling to maintain what little balance he had left. The Wookiee let out another sympathetic warble, misinterpreting the spluttered protests as need for more comfort. The worst part of it was one little sister’s poorly disguised attempts to suppress her mirth, the unconvincing coughs failing to cover her snickering.

The area around them was a disaster zone of holiday cheer gone wrong.  Shattered presents lay scattered around the sparking, sputtering gift droid.

"Hap-hap-happy Life D-d-day," it wheezed, a few sad snowflakes dribbling from its damaged chest. "Would you like to make a d-d-donation?"

Draike finally disentangled himself from the well-meaning Wookiee, rising with what little dignity he could muster as nearby, Theron had been forced to shift from trying to regale passersby with the heroic tale of droid slaughter to explaining to a very beefy cartel security officer why droid assault was completely justified. 

“It was a menace to society—it’s holiday cheer settings way too aggressive to be considered normal!”

The Nikto security guard looked unimpressed, reptilian features twisting into a scowl. “Sir, I fail to see how malfunctioning gift droid deserved such a brutal murder.”

“Murder?” Theron sputtered indignantly. “It was self-defense—”

Grey, still dripping, had given up on salvaging her festive sweater. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as the icy water soaked through her clothes. The dancing wampas on her chest gave one, final, pitiful flicker before going dark entirely.

Theron immediately broke off his impassioned defense of droid violence, shrugging off his jacket in one smooth motion and raping it over his shivering wife’s shoulders. As he fussed with the collar, making sure it was snug around her neck, he shot a pointed glare at Draike that clearly said “this is your fault”. 

Grey tried, and failed, to hide her little smile at the gesture, even as she half-heartedly protested. “I’m fine, really. It’s not that cold—”

Her words trailed off as she burrowed deeper into the warmth of the jacket, contradicting her claim entirely. The red leather engulfed her smaller frame, making her look even more bedraggled than before. But the contented sigh she let out betrayed her gratitude.

Kneeling down, still clutching the jacket around her, Grey began sifting through the wreckage of their shopping expedition. Her expression soured as she lifted a sodden bundle of documents, waterlogged and practically disintegrating in her hands. 

"Oh no," she groaned, squinting at the label. "This was the documentation for Master Gnost-Dural about the Hidden Chain’s latest activities. It's completely ruined."

“What a tragedy,” Draike muttered."

She shot Draike another exasperated look, this one leaning heavily towards the 'annoyed' end of the spectrum. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to track these down? Now I'll have to file incident reports about the incident reports."

"Ah yes, the bureaucratic circle of life. Truly, there is no greater tragedy in the galaxy."

“Lana has backups,” Theron put in helpfully, although he leveled a similarly annoyed glower in Draike’s direction. “Something about not trusting us with the sole copy of vital intelligence. Which, I loathe to admit, might be somewhat justified right about now.”

Lyra offered Draike a hand up, and he abandoned the attempts to wring out the hem of his jacket to accept her firm grip. She hauled him from the puddle with practiced ease. “Honestly, Draike, this is why we can’t have nice things.”

“I personally think we’re all better for the experience.” He straightened his back in an admirable, if ultimately doomed, attempt to retain some shred of authority. “Besides, seeing that damn droid get dropkicked like that was almost worth me wetting my pants—wait, getting my pants wet.”

Lyra’s lips twitched, managing to fight back a smile as she bent to retrieve another soggy package. “They do say that property destruction is the hallmark of a successful shopping trip.”

“It is when Agent Shan is involved.” Draike thumbed in Theron’s direction. “But also good riddance to an obnoxious menace.”

Grey glanced over in his direction. “I’m sure the Hutt Cartel will be thrilled to hear about our heroic droid slaying. The headlines practically write themselves: ‘Rogue Jedi and Idiot Brother Destroy Priceless Holiday Decorations.”

"Hey, it’s not our fault if they overpaid for that rusted hunk of junk. Clearly it should have only cost them a handful of credits.”

“Because they’re famously so understanding about such things.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. He really had done a number on that Jedi patience of hers, hadn’t he? “And since you’re so eager to explain our heroic deeds, you can be the one to tell Master Gnost-Dural exactly what happened to his files.”

“Wait, what?”

“I mean, it’s only fair that you get to explain to one of the Jedi Order’s new Grand Master why his carefully compiled research is now soggy confetti."

“Well why the hell did you print it out on flimsiplast to begin with instead of sending him an e-mail like a normal person?”

“I’m sorry if he’s old fashioned—”

“Wait, Gnost-Dural regularly checks his e-mails.” Theron frowned in confusion. “He sends me lame screenshotted memes like every other day.”

“I,” Draike insisted, ignoring Theron like he usually did, “was an innocent bystander in all of this.”

“You’re about as innocent as a Jawa in a droid swap,” Lyra intoned dryly.

“Lyra,” Grey said, a little scandalized at the insinuation against Jawakind. She adjusted Theron's jacket around her shoulders, though it did little to stop the shivering that had set into her bones.

A second security officer joined the Nikto, this one a burly Zabrak with a badge that looked far too shiny for someone assigned to deal with Life Day mall chaos. In unison they crossed their arms, staring Theron down with the grim determination of underpaid employees counting the minutes to the end of their shift. When his indignant sputter of doing what any concerned citizen didn’t move them, Theron moved on to the subject of legal liabilities for Cartel-owned droids assaulting innocent shoppers, and both the Nikto and Zabrak exchanged weary glances before waving him off with matching sighs of defeat. Clearly, they'd decided that dealing with this particular brand of Life Day chaos wasn't worth the overtime.

Lyra, ever efficient, had somehow salvaged and redistributed the surviving packages, even producing a small satchel from seemingly nowhere to carefully tuck away the most delicate items.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare set of clothes in there too?” Draike eyed the satchel with a mixture of hope and suspicion. “Life Day sweaters don’t count.”

Lyra's lips twitched, fighting back another smile as she adjusted the strap on her shoulder. "I'm good, Draike, but I'm not that good. Though I did manage to save your Corellian brandy."

Draike perked up, his soggy misery momentarily forgotten. "You're an angel among Jedi, you know that?"

Lyra gave him a sidelong glance, her lips twitching again. "Don’t push it, Captain. I’m still debating whether or not you deserve it. But I figured if I didn't save the brandy, you'd only cry harder."

“I do not cry,” he sniffed indignantly. “Just occasionally wallow. Besides, that droid had it out for me from the get-go. Did you see how it hounded me?”

“No, I was at Biscuit Baron.”

“It was like a predator stalking its prey—”

A mechanical whir cut him off, and the group froze, turning as one to stare at the defunct droid they’d left in their wake. The battered chassis sparked, chest compartment grinding one final time. Theron instinctively moved to shield Grey just as the droid let out one last sad little fwump.

A single snowball launched, arcing through the air, sailing past where Theron’s protective stance and Grey’s half-formed Force barrier to catch Draike square in the face. The droid let out a final, satisfied “Happy Life Day” before sparking and dying completely, lights flickering out like an errant breeze snuffing out a candle. 

Snow dripped down Draike's chin as his sister completely lose her composure, dissolving into the kind of laughter that had her leaning against her husband for support. As he wiped the slush from his face, he had to admit (though only to himself, and very, very quietly) that maybe he deserved that one. But only that one.

Pushing himself to a half-upright position, that unnatural, ever-present hunger churned with a renewed vengeance. It hadn’t been sated in days, and it certainly wouldn’t be assuaged by any worldly meal. Absently, he brushed his hand against the ache, only for his traitorous stomach to voice complaints of its own with an insistent gurgle. Well, it seemed everything was just going to complain today.

Scrubbing the grit of sleep from his eyes, he slowly shuffled toward the campfire. Despite the late summer date, a chill still clung to the pre-dawn air and the warmth of the fire beckoned now that he’d abandoned his bedroll. It had burned low overnight, and Gale could make out the silhouette of one of his newfound companions tending to the dying embers. Faint light danced off scale mail, glinting underneath the deep blue and silver tabard embroidered with the tenets of a paladin’s oath to devotion. It seemed Aravyn had risen early enough to change from the fine yet travel-worn sleep attire she’d worn in the evening. If she’d managed to change into her armor already, he had to wonder exactly how early she’d woken up.

She glanced over her shoulder at his approach, and he suspected the keen sense from her elven lineage had picked up the sound of his footsteps in the quiet of the morning — not that he’d been trying to be particularly stealthy. In the dim light, he could just make out her quirking a brow in amusement at his approach, but she kept her voice pitched lower, likely in deference to their still slumbering companions. “That is quite the windswept scholar look you have going on today?”

Gale blinked, trying to parse that statement before raking a hand through his hair and encountering a wild tuft sticking straight up in the air. He attempted to smooth it with his fingers and hoped the slight reddening of his cheeks could be blamed on the morning chill. “Yes well… not all of us can wake up looking freshly groomed and put together, can we?”

“Contrary to popular belief, not all of elven descent awake fresh and pure as morning dew.” She gently stoked the fading embers, trying to prod the struggling flame back to life. “Even we must contend with bedhead and morning breath.”

“I will respectfully keep my distance in that case.” Despite his jest, he still shuffled closer to the sputtering flames, although the embers did little to provide much warmth. “So if you do not wake up perfectly composed and dressed for battle, I take that to mean you’ve been up for a while then?”

Aravyn gave a small shrug as the returned her focus to the struggling flames. “My sleep was a little restless. Too many thoughts swimming about, not to mention our unwanted guests.”

“I was going to blame our accommodations, but that is a valid point.”

“Not used to roughing it?”

“I’ve camped among the elements many a time,” Gale insisted, “but sleeping on rocks have never done my back any favors.”

She wrinkled her nose, glancing back at him. “You set your bedroll up over some rocks?”

An exasperated sigh escaped him. “I was intending a broader condemnation of the unyielding nature of the earth itself, rather than implying I selected the most jagged plot to sleep.”

“I don’t really think the ground is going to listen to any constructive criticism you offer.” From the suspicious way her lips quivered as she pressed them together tightly, Gale gathered he was being teased. 

“Perhaps not.” He eyed the way she continued to gently prod the logs with her stick, and while there was nothing wrong with a light touch — certainly a clumsy oaf could push the smoldering logs apart and smother the flame, but there was a far quicker and more effective way to achieve this particular goal. “Here, allow me.”

With a murmured incantation, he conjured a small bolt of fire and let it loose at the embers she was still trying to coax a proper flame out of. The kindling popped and crackled before the fire roared back to life. There was once a time that he could have made the whole thing come alive, take a shape of a dragon that would roar in delight. And maybe even would have, just for a little extra show. 

“I could have done that,” she protested.

“Why didn’t you then?”A small huff escaped her, and he just managed to keep from smirking in response.

“Not every problem needs to be solved with a magical solution, you know.”

“Yes, but now we have a nice fire.”

“We still would have if you’d been a little more patient.” Another huff, and this time he couldn’t stop the smirk from blossoming, or adding a little poking of his own.

“But this allowed us to reach the desired outcome much more expediently.” The gnawing void in his chest may have spoken to at least some of the wisdom of her statement. Still, old habits died hard, and it was easier to feign exaggerated indignance than to indulge in too much self-reflection before the sun had even fully risen. “Honestly, wasting time poking it with sticks is borderline arcane masochism.”

Her brow arched as she quietly echoed, “Arcane masochism?”

“There’s no reason to abstain from magic merely for some misbegotten sense of character building?”

“Are you about to tell me to go to hell again?” For a moment he thought the question might be serious, but the glitter of mirth in her eyes gave her away.

Despite himself, the corner of Gale’s mouth twitched at the reminder of his darker musings from the previous night. “I wasn’t really planning on it — but perhaps that’s just my hunger talking. Clearly sustenance is in order before my temperament grows any darker.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” She held up a finger, as if telling him to wait, before delving into one of the nearby bags where they’d gathered all of the provisions from their group’s scrounging the day before. After a few moments of rustling around with some quiet mutterings, she produced a plain strip of dried meat for him, with the flair of a subject presenting a prize catch to their lord. “Here. You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

“Hilarious.” Gale eyed the meager rations with the air of a man facing his imminent demise. 

He wouldn’t have to deal with such indignities if he still had the power to summon an extradimensional space with a fully-stocked larder that could even put the one in his tower to shame. Even a Heroes' Feast wouldn’t go awry — not that particular spell had ever been part of his domain of magic. And would disappear in an hour. He really was desperate, wasn’t he?

Gale was stalling. Out loud he added, “I seem to recall us having a conversation just yesterday about you not inflicting your culinary masterpieces on others.”

“Yes, but this is different,” Aravyn insisted.

“How?”

“I haven’t boiled this piece of jerky.”

“That statement is not nearly as comforting as you mean it to be.”

 “Just trying to be helpful.”

"Yes, your generosity truly knows no bounds.” His tone was as dry as the piece of jerky he accepted with great trepidation. Rather than eating it right away, he just stared at it glumly. “What I wouldn’t give for a proper Waterdhavian breakfast right now. Almond cakes, buttered buns, oh, gods — some strong coffee would not go amiss either.”

“Oh, coffee…” A wistful, borderline indecent sigh escaped the half-elf. “What I wouldn’t give for a mug of the Smilin’ Boar’s finest roast.”

“The Smilin’ Boar?” It was Gale’s turn to quirk an eyebrow.

“Oh, it was this old tavern that got turned into a cafe back in Baldur’s Gate. The menu took, let’s say, some creative liberties when naming their dishes, but they served the best coffee inside of these cute little mugs shaped like a pig’s head. Or at least it was the best coffee in the Bloomridge District.”

The Bloomridge District — now that was interesting. If memory served, that was one of the wealthier neighborhoods in the Lower City, with some of the estates there threatening to rival the opulence of the Upper City itself. If he factored in the fine leather and golden embroidery from her sleepwear the night before, Gale was starting to suspect that whatever her past, their troupe’s little paladin hadn’t been born to the life of pauper.

It was an intriguing puzzle these little details presented, and it just a little too tempting for him to resist plucking those loose threads and trying to weave them into a larger fabric of knowledge. He peered past the thoroughly unappetizing slab to appraise her with renewed curiosity, an investigator sizing up an intriguing conundrum. Breakfast (if it could even be called that) could wait — this enigma required his full concentration.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” she asked.

“I’m looking for inspiration.” He waved the desiccated mystery meat product absently in the air. “Tell me more about this creative menu.”

“Oh, you know. They had things like ’Sow’s Delight’ and ‘Three Pigs in a Blanket’. It’s all a little raunchy for such an upscale cafe, but considering they reused the signboard from the old tavern…” She trailed off, as if hoping that maybe his attention had wandered, then seeing it had not, cleared her throat. “Well, the original tavern incarnation didn’t cater to quite the same clientele.”

“You’re really building this up,” teased Gale.

“The sign featured a smiling boar.”

“I had gathered that much.”

“…mounted atop a sow.”

The loud guffaw that erupted from Gale took them both by surprise, and he quickly glanced around the camp to see if he had accidentally woken any of the late risers. Mindful of his manners, he lowered his voice once he managed to contain himself. “That is positively delightful. If by some happenstance our merry little band winds up in your hometown, we must visit this charming little cafe.”

“That’s a long way to go for a cup of coffee.” Aravyn pointed out. “If you just need something bitter to sip on, I could try boiling some tree bark or mushrooms.”

“You do know that there are other ways to prepare food and drink than merely boiling everything into an unpalatable pulp?” Gale countered, still holding the unconsumed jerky almost at arms’ length. “Although at this point, I can’t say whether that would help or hurt this allegedly edible morsel.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re seeking distraction from that rather than inspiration.” Her teasing lilt was as sweet as honeyed wine but contained just a little too much levity to be believed as completely innocent. “Go on, just pretend it’s a Sow’s Delight.”

He wasn’t sure how, but she’d managed to make the bland piece of meat even more unappetizing. His lip curled involuntarily as he valiantly tried to banish the image of said sow’s delight and its causes, and took the daintiest of nibbles from the edge — and nearly gagged.

Aravyn beamed at him with the widest and most innocent of smiles. “Inspired yet?”

“Thoroughly.” Face contorting, he forced himself to swallow the salt-cured leather. “However, I do think we need to fill our larder with something of a bit more sustenance.” And flavor. Never forget flavor.

“We do have quite a few mouths to feed.” She tapped her chin, considering. “I’m not sure how far we’ll be able to stretch our current rations.”

“Well, perhaps if you ask everyone else to picture two pigs rutting, it should give us a few more days.”

Aravyn’s cheeks flushed a deep scarlet, as if only now realizing her perhaps unintentional double entendre, before her lips curled in a smile that was caught somewhere between apology, mischief, and mirth. “I don’t know. It somehow got you to take a bite.”

“I… you—” Gale sputtered. While not for the first time in his life, it had been a long, long while since someone had rendered him at a loss for words.

Dawn chose that moment to crest the horizon, its warm glow highlighting the faint spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The deep flush there lingered, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. The image had a certain endearing, almost innocent charm that was captivating. An unexpected stirring in his chest skipped just a single beat, but it was enough proof there was maybe something in there beyond the rot chipping away at him.

The impishness edge of her grin softened, hovering on the edge of something warmer. That moment, that stirring, lingered with a tension that seemed to crackle like the kindling had.

“I guess I need work on my sales pitch.” Aravyn rubbed the back of her neck, a little flustered.

“Maybe start by avoiding porcine copulation.” Gale said, though his gaze lingered on her smile a beat too long before he redirected it to the sparking flames. Clearing his throat, he grasped for a fresh conversational thread. “You know, while scavenging yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice those ruins up on the cliffs.”

“Yes, they did look rather… crumbly.”

“That is a way to describe them, I suppose.” He stole a glance back in her direction to see her lips pressed together, whether in amusement or deep thought, he couldn’t tell. “Their structural integrity aside, I can’t help but wonder what sort of secrets they might hold.”

Aravyn tilted her head, considering yet also dubious. “I doubt we’ll find any coffee there.”

“I have other needs aside from coffee.” His tone was light even as the dark, necrotic orb in his chest twinged once more. He resisted the urge to massage it — best to not draw attention to his condition, especially with a group of strangers he’d not even known a full twenty-four hours. “The whole place has an air of mystery to it, don’t you think?”

“I mean, a little.” She slid a considering glance in the far distance where said ruin lay. “Although I think it it may just be a chapel. I’m not sure what you’d expect to find there.”

“Yes, but a chapel to who? Aren’t you curious?”

From the furtive way she averted her gaze, he could tell that her curiosity had been piqued. “I thought you were eager to find a cure before the ‘wee ones’ got too hungry. I think we’re more likely to find that at the druid’s grove those tie flings mentioned. Or at the every least some fresh vegetables.”

Gale tried not to make too much of a face that that, but some adding some roughage to their diet was probably not entirely uncalled for. “Yes, yes, fresh produce is nice and all. But it’s hard to resist a good mystery, is it not? Just think of the secrets those old walls could hold, magical relics even.”

Perhaps that was giving away his true intentions too strongly, but as she began to chew her lip in consideration, he could tell she was losing the war. “You could say they’re almost on the way we were being directed. It would only be a little detour.”

“That’s the spirit! Besides, how long would it really take to poke our heads into an old church?” He waggled his eyebrows with a conspiratorial flourish. “Who knows, it might even shake loose some ideas rattling around in our skulls about what to do about our larger problem. Give the ol’ noggin something to do besides house our new guests.”

Aravyn scrunched up her nose in distaste at the description. “I’d rather not be reminded on how much they're.... squirming up there."

“Ah come now, just imagine them as hairless spiders giving your mind a massage.”

“Is this revenge for the Sow's Delight?”

“Perhaps.” To his credit, he managed to not sound too smug, but they were rapidly getting off topic. Time to veer the subject back around, although bury the lede lest he come across overeager for the expedition. A spot more innocuous chatter should do the trick. “But regardless, those ruins don’t look too massive. Should be a quick in and out. And even if we don’t find any fun arcane toys to play with, there might be some dusty tomes in there to add to my collection. My personal traveling library is rather paltry at the moment.”

The indelicate snort that escaped her echoed nearly as loud as his earlier burst of laughter. “I thought you said last night you already had enough books to fill a shelf or two.”

“If I’m being completely honest,” he was certainly threading the needle on that particular phrasology, but no matter, “I may have embellished slightly the amount of reading material on my person. It was only a satchel’s worth when I was snatched up by that ship.”

“You only had a satchel filled to the brim with books on your person when you were unexpectedly kidnapped by mindflayers?” There was just enough dubious sarcasm laced in her tone, he wasn’t sure if he should take offense. Probably best to forge past it.

“Well, should our luck prevail, we’ll find a veritable enchanted horde, but barring that, I’ll settle for uncovering a few tomes. Never been much for religious reading, but you never know what knowledge you may find.” Ever a hand talker, Gale instinctually went to rub his hands together in eagerness, but the feeling of dried meat smushed between his palms gave him pause, making him glance down in confusion at the half-flattened jerky. With a small huff, he futilely tried to reshape the pulverized snack as he forged on. “And you never know, perhaps we’ll find a musical score or hymn to expand your own repertoire?”

Aravyn tilted her head in that unique way of hers, as if she were trying to examine him from a different angle. “I’m not sure why I would need that.”

“Apologies, I just assumed after your performance last even—”

Gale caught himself as she flushed again, this time a deeper shade of scarlet as she averted her gaze once more. “Ah. I… guess you heard that.”

Sensing that he might have stepped into a sore subject, a bit of diplomacy was probably in order. “I may have caught a few notes.”

Her gaze was still firmly fixed on the campfire, the glow from it and the dawn seeming to accentuate the color in her cheeks. “Yes, well… it was the first time I had played since I was a child. I’m afraid it showed.”

“I was under the impression that the lute was a difficult instrument to master.” The smile he offered was meant to be encouraging, but the sentiment was likely lost as her eyes were firmly fixed on anywhere but him. “That you had done so as a child speaks volumes.”

“I wouldn’t—I wasn’t a master by any means.” She gave a small, awkward half-shrug. “Certainly not talented enough to pursue it beyond a hobby. Scholarly pursuits are far more practical and likely to pay the bills.”

A nearly imperceptible undercurrent of bitterness ran underneath that confession. None of the details shared quite meshed with the reality before Gale, and once again those frayed threads just begged to be picked apart a little more. A rounded education made sense for a privileged upbringing, but in his experience, rote book learning was rarely a sure path to fortune. Probably not best to lead with that, though.

“I would be the last person to discourage the pursuit of knowledge,” Gale said, “although it seems a shame your creative passion had to fall to the wayside because of it.”

The embarrassed, almost shuttered expression gave way to surprise and her startled gaze finally met his, before flitting away once more. “That is kind of you to say but… I’m not sure I’d count yesterday’s attempt as anything particularly creative.”

“Come now, it wasn’t that bad. You certainly seemed to be enjoying it before, well…”

“Someone suggested a violent and gruesome end to the performance?”

“Pshh,” he waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Lae’zel’s tent, “a little culture won’t hurt this lot.”

“It’s more than a little generous to call that noise ‘culture’.” A dry humor laced those words. “We should probably let yesterday’s mistakes be erased by the dawn.”

The urge to prod, poke further and try to trace those threads to their source was strong. Just as a careless hand could smother the fledgling flame of a dying fire, so too could a clumsy nudge undo delicately laid social groundwork. Trying to wrest secrets not meant to be thrust into the light of day was a recipe for disaster. Of that, he knew far too well. 

 It would be far wiser to let matters lie. For now.

“I feel like you are being a little too harsh,” he said, “but I can also tell when a subject changed is required.”

“Thank you.” The words came out almost as a breath, but they still rang with gratitude. A small victory, but well earned.

“However, I do admit that you have piqued my curiosity.”

Her brow crinkled. “I thought you were changing the subject.”

“I am — to you, my friend.” He meant to emphasize his point by pointing directly at her, but once again forgot he was holding his inedible breakfast, and wound up using the desiccated meat product as an impromptu pointer.

Unintentional as it was, the absurdity of the visual was apparently what was needed to deflate the remaining tension, and she tried to cover her smile with her hand. “Me?”

“You have to admit, you present an intriguing conundrum. You claim education took precedence for you for financial reasons, and yet now walk the path of a paladin.” He tactfully left out the part about her musical proclivities. “That’s a curious progression.”

“I never claimed I was a good scholar.” The breath of laughter that escaped her had a hint of that same self-consciousness from before. “I was always a little better at wielding a sword.”

“That can be very lucrative work itself.”

“Depends on who you ask.” Something in her inflection gave him pause. Her expression darkened for a fraction of a second, and then melted back into a pleasantly neutral facade so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it.

“And yet something brought you here,” he tried once more.

“Oh, you know that one already.” The glint in her eye and that impish curl to her smile let him know he’d walked right into something again. “Same as you: mindflayers.”

“Very funny.”

Her eyes crinkled as her smile blossomed further. “I like to think I have my moments.”

“You do realize this is not diminishing any of the intrigue.” As Gale shifted to steeple his fingers for emphasis, he once again had to catch himself mid-gesture, still holding that thrice-damned scrap of petrified mystery meat. He resisted the rising urge to hurl the horrid thing away in favor of making his point. A point he most definitely had.

“I think you’re building up more mystery to the situation than there really is. My life has been pretty mundane, especially when you look at the rest of our motley crew. I’m afraid I’m very boring in comparison.”

“I’m starting to suspect your self-assessments might be more than a bit biased.” He shook his head. “But! Our acquaintance has been brief. So, who am I to judge?”

A particularly bright beam of sunlight forced them both to squint, and the dawn’s growing light crept over the rest of camp. Around them, the first stirrings of life broke the relative quiet — a loud moan about someone needing to turn off the sun, shuffling footsteps, and a murmured curse or three.

Aravyn looked at the untouched jerky still pinched between Gale’s fingers. “Well, go on then. Might as well eat up before the others descend. Can’t imagine you want more of an audience for choking that down.”

“Ah, yes.” He grimaced at the fate he had managed to put off until now. “Sustenance.”

As she watched expectantly, that endearingly elfin grin threatening to spill over, Gale steeled himself. He endeavored to banish the lingering images of phantom hooves and porcine faces in flagrante delicto, and shoved the entire strip of jerky in his mouth. He chewed valiantly through what now tasted distinctly like old saddle leather, with about the same consistency. With visible effort, he managed to swallow it down and fixed her with the most aggrieved expression he could summon.

She returned it with a grin radiating playful delight. “As they say, ‘waste not, want not’.” 

“The eponymous ‘they’ may want to rethink that particular axiom,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It did nothing for the lingering aftertaste. He wasn’t sure even the highest proof alcohol would get rid of that.

“Must you both make such an insufferable racket so early in the morning?” Lae’zel grumbled as she stalked over with a scowl. “You sound like a pair of foo dogs with a bad case of interplanar indigestion.”

Gale was extremely proud of himself for managing to keep a straight face. “Apologies. You must forgive our zeal, as we were just discussing the merits of the local cuisine.”

“That is far more enthusiasm than I can bear at this hour.” She rubbed at her eyes irritably. “Especially over something as pointless as a culinary debate.”

There were a few more choice gith words uttered Lae’zel’s breath before Aravyn oh-so-helpfully produced another piece of jerky for her complaining companion. The friendly effort at first seemed to yield only a withering look, before the offering was accepted with far more grace than Gale had been able to muster.

The githyanki seemed much less bothered by the meager fare, and chewed it in contemplative silence as the other two members of their merry band roused and joined them at the campfire. Gale tracked Aravyn as she cheerfully inflicted more of the tasteless rations on a bleary and unsuspecting Astarion and Shadowheart. Their grumbling complaints echoed his own, but somehow that relentless cheer managed to win over in the end. Astarion’s exaggerated eye rolls, Shadowheart trying to hide spitting out the jerky, only for Lae’zel to loudly call her out.

The crackling fire burned bright, the snaps and pops of the dried wood in the flames a steady percussion, as if measuring the progress of the setting sun. If Aravyn closed her eyes, breathed in deep, she might almost pretend this was any normal night on the road. But every time she did so, that damned tadpole would squirm anew and shatter the illusion before it even really began. Stupid bugger, not even a day in and she was already ready to evict it purely on the grounds for being such an ungrateful little guest. All impending threats of ceremorphosis aside.

After the quiet, terse, yet surprisingly delicious meal their resident wizard had pulled together from their random assortment of fish and dried rations, most of their ragtag group had retreated to their own corners of camp. Instead of withdrawing into momentary fantasy, she eyed the dirtied, abandoned makeshift bowls and plates they’d found amongst the carnage, and the retreating forms of her fellow adventurers with a small frown.

Everyone seemed more intent on setting up their own tents for however long they’d be here — wherever here was. They all had a lot on—and in—their minds at the moment. Much more than daily chores.

Well, not quite everyone. Over by the now emptied cook pot, Gale seemed lost in thought, brow furrowed as he piled discarded fish bones and herb stems on a ragged cloth. He’d spent most of their time in camp preparing their evening meal, and had yet to set up his own area. Mind made up, she set about gathering the dirtied crockery and utensils, making just enough noise to rouse him from that deep contemplation.

“Allow me.” She indicated the bundle he was currently tying up. “You already worked enough magic transforming these rations into a feast. The least I can do is the dishes.”

That summoned the semblance of a smile, his lips quirking up ever so slightly as the frown smoothed away to a friendlier expression. “Oh, trust me, my arcane prowess extends to more impressive feats than conjuring flavor from our meager scrounging. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” she said lightly. “That meal was a sight more flavorful than any jerky soup I’ve cooked over a campfire.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what, pray tell, is ‘jerky soup’?”

“Well, it’s when you get a pot of water boiling, then throw in a mess of jerky. You can tear it up into pieces if you’re feeling ambitious. Then let soak until soft enough to not break your teeth.” 

Gale looked positively horrified at the culinary abomination described. “Do you drink the—I hesitate to call it broth?”

“Of course! Waste not, want not.”

“That sounds like quite the… unique concoction.”

“You can say bad, it’s all right. I think it would violate my oath to inflict that particular delicacy on others.”

He pressed his lips together, either to repress a smile or perhaps in relief that his intestinal fortitude wouldn’t be challenged anytime soon. “It sounds like for the foreseeable future of our journey that I should maintain control of the cook pot.”

“I would not wish to give you more duties,” she hedged, “but perhaps that is wise for now. We probably shouldn't add gastrointestinal distress to the list of things we’re dealing with.”

“Grand adventures do rarely involve epic tales of food poisoning.”

“I wouldn’t say it was that bad — but point taken. Cooking has never really been in my repertoire. That’s probably not going to change much.”

“Come now, there’s always the chance to learn,” Gale insisted, “and I have been known to instruct a wayward student once or twice in my day.”

“Have you now?”

“Granted, my apprentices, if you would call them such, needed tutelage of the more arcane nature, but! I am not a man to who would hoard knowledge from a willing pupil.”

“If you’re offering to teach me how to cook,” she threaded a note of teasing into her tone, “I am not sure I would be a talented student—”

“Please, I won’t have you downplaying your own aptitude. You had enough creativity to invent a new genre of soup, regardless of how…” he paused, as if searching his broad vocabulary for the most polite way to phrase it, “—uh, palatable it wound up being. I bet if you used more than two ingredients, perhaps a vegetable, mixed in the concept of spices, then the flavor would expand exponentially.”

“I knew I forgot something.” That elicited a quiet snort. “That’s the kind of feedback that would be helpful in the future.”

“All that and more.”

“Well, in that case, I wouldn’t mind learning from a master.” She gave him a smile. “Especially if it would help ease the burden of cooking.”

“Ah, but is it a burden to feed others?” Gale tapped the side of his nose as he gave her a wink. “Or just good manners?”

“Speaking of good manners,” she deftly grabbed the bundle before he could protest, “as you cooked the meal, it is only appropriate for someone else to clean up.”

“Yes, I guess that is true,” he conceded. “And in truth, I do appreciate the assistance. This has been… well, rather more excitement than I’d prefer for one day.”

“Hard to argue with that.” The clatter of her trying to stack their eclectic assortment of makeshift crockery with the cookware and pot nearly drowned out her murmur of agreement. “Not every day starts with ilithid abductions, crashing nautiloids, with a side trip into hell.”

The stack of cookware tilted dangerously as she tried to arrange it in one hand and reach for the dirtied cookpot with the other, and Gale rushed forward to steady it. “Please, let us not compound the day’s adventure with another crash.”

“I’ve got it,” she insisted with good nature. “Just trying to save on trips.”

“I have already added enough work for you this evening,” he grabbed the dishes that were moments from taking a tumble, “let me offset that by at least helping with transport.”

“Very well,” she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to be accused of breaking Astarion’s new favorite plate.”

“Is it really, though? It’s not like he touched much of his meal earlier. Perhaps it wasn’t to his taste.” Gale added a few more dishes to his own stack for good measure, and gave a side eye to the way she easily hefted the heavy cooking pot to bear. “Are you sure you have that?”

“Oh, this? Yeah, it’s nothing. Really.”

“Are you sure? I nearly threw my back out when I was trying to adjust its position on the fire.”

“You just have to lift with your knees.”

“If you say so,” he murmured.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“My back?”

“No—I mean, it’s your back, you have every right to worry about that, don’t let me stop you—but I was talking about Astarion picking at his food. The meal was delicious. Maybe he just has a weak stomach. As you said, it has been a long and arduous day.”

“Hm, do I detect a hint of sarcasm there?”

“No,” Aravyn insisted, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Well, a lesser person might hold a little grudge for the way he pulled a knife on you.” There was a knowing look in the wizard’s eye that had her snorting out an annoyed breath, especially when he added, “You moved on from that with a surprising amount of grace.”

She tried not to wince at the memory of the knife pressed against her throat, its sharp edge slightly cooler than the one in Gale’s threat to incinerate the pale elf threatening her. “Well, he did eventually put the knife away.”

“Only after you nearly knocked out his teeth with that headbutt—a very nice move, by the way.” The smile she tried to dredge up at the intended compliment may have come out more of a grimace, but he forged on, voice dropping to more of a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s very strange, but I couldn’t help but notice how sharp his canines are. Do you think he files them down?”

“What? No—who would do that?”

“I don’t know… Bhaalists, cannibals, oh, maybe he’s part orc?”

“He doesn’t seem to have the physique for that particular bloodline.” Aravyn set the pot down as they reached the water’s edge, the babbling of the river’s current adding a serene soundtrack to their hushed conversation now they were further away from the hub of the camp. “And a Bhaalist would have just slit my throat.”

“So we’re agreed, then? Definitely a cannibal.”

She quickly turned to Gale, letting out a hushing noise as she grabbed for the set of plates he’d rescued from their ignoble end. “You’re horrible. Stop!”

The strength of her plea was weakened by her half-laugh and wide-eyed look she tossed back towards the subject of their conversation, who could barely be seen past the large outcropping of rocks lining the shore. Gale let out a quiet, almost satisfied chuckle as he delicately set the plates on her outstretched palms.

“And yet you indulge in my salacious speculation.” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps it’s my charm.”

She shot him a wry, side-long glance as she knelt into the wet soil of the riverbank, spreading out the cookware and crockery to prepare for her task. “Might I remind you that you just accused one of our party of secretly wanting to eat us?”

Gale let out an affronted huff. “Are you impugning my character?”

“Maybe just a little.” She flashed a smile at him. “Although I should probably factor in that you were gentlemanly enough to help me haul my horde down here.”

He quirked an eyebrow at that. “This grading system of my character seems to have a lot of complexity to it. Is it a sliding scale?”

“Would you believe I invented it on the spot?”

“I might.”

“Well,” the brightness of her smile faded to something a little softer, “regardless, I think you have been gallant enough for the day. You’ve spent all your time in camp preparing us a fine meal and haven’t seen to your own tent. I’m sure you have plenty yet to unpack and arrange after the day’s chaos.”

Gale opened his mouth as if to continue a polite protest, then shut it again as he mulled over the statement. “I suppose you make a fair point. We need an area for research if we’re to be stranded here for any length of time, and my books! Well, what few I had on my person doesn’t hold a candle to my library back in Waterdeep, but still enough to fill a shelf or two. That I’ll need to construct somehow, come to think of it.”

“It seems like you have your hands full, then.” She made a shooing motion. “Go on, mine are busy with the dishes.”

As Gale turned to leave, an action she had very much been encouraging, there was just the smallest flicker of disappointment in her chest. Before he could take another step, or her mind could catch up with the compulsion, her hand shot out to catch his sleeve. She reeled the impulse back in just enough so that her fingers just brushed against the fabric, gaining a bit of a startled look back in her direction.

“Wait, I…” As he glanced down at her quizzically, she could feel her cheeks flushing and the tips of her ears burning, but she didn’t avert her gaze. “I just wanted to say. About earlier, when Astarion pulled the knife. You threatened to incinerate him.”

“Ah. Right. Not my finest moment.”

“No, no, what I mean to say is…” Gods, why was this so difficult? “Thank you. You hadn’t known me for even an hour, yet you still made an effort.”

“Well, it’s hardly the act of a gentleman to let some scallywag slit your throat, especially after you so valiantly rescued me from that malfunctioning portal.” The self-deprecating smile that twisted his lips now seemed more genuine than the practiced one that accompanied his more braggadocios statements. Like this was what came to him more naturally. “Not that my efforts amounted to much. You were obviously more than capable of handling the situation on your own.”

“That you tried means something.”

“I suppose that’s a refreshing change of pace,” he mused, almost to himself. At the quizzical tilt of her head, he seemed to remember himself and added. “Worry not. If things continue as they have, I’m sure there will be ample opportunity for me to be successful in returning the favor and save your life.” An awkward beat passed as he considered his words. “Not that I would wish more danger upon us, of course. But we do seem to attract… excitement.”

“Like moth to a flame,” she agreed quietly.

“Well,” Gale cleared his throat, clasping his arms behind his back, “I do have those books to organize. I suppose I shall leave you to it.”

At her nod, he quickly retreated towards the camp, and she let out a frustrated breath that threatened to become a sigh. Without even really thinking, she started to methodically work through the dishes and get them clean. Or as clean as they could get with the limited supplies they were working with. They needed some soap—and something rough enough to really scrub out this pot. For now, elbow grease would have to do. If she focused more on the rag in her hands, then there would be less of her mind to try to sort out her lingering disappointment.

She didn’t even know what she was disappointed about. If she thought about it at any length, bringing up the earlier incident was probably not very appropriate. She wasn’t even sure why'd done so, it was almost as if it had burst forth from her as if from its own accord. It had just made things awkward — and she hadn’t been trying to imply that Gale had failed in any way. She had just wanted… gods, she didn’t know that either.

The problem with losing oneself in a task was that each one had a finite end point. By the time she stacked the last dish inside the cook pot, the sun had shrunk behind the horizon, bleeding vivid hues across the sky in its wake. Absently she shook out the bundle of cooking scraps into the flowing water, watching them disappear into the deeper currents of the river.

They’d reached the end of the first day. Of seven if the more learned members of their ragtag group were to be believed. Seven days until the thing in their heads burst forth, ripping through their skin, burning up their souls and—

She shoved herself to her feet with an unnecessarily violent movement. No. No. She hadn’t finished with her task yet.

She carefully stacked the dishes inside of the large pot, taking time to inspect the structural integrity before hefting it to bear. She could count the steps back to the center of camp individually, rolling her feet so that the crockery didn’t clink too loudly on the trip, before setting it down in its appropriate spot near the campfire. Unfortunately, even if she dragged her feet, it only stretched out her distraction for another minute or so.

That was fine, everyone else was busy getting their own spaces prepared. She should do so as well. She'd already laid out her meager belongings in her little lean-to, but perhaps a little more organization wouldn’t hurt. The tenets of her oath had been placed carefully upon the bedroll that still needed to be unfurled for the night, and the slender neck of a lute peeked from behind where she’d stacked her armor, tabard, and shield for the evening. 

The lute wasn’t hers. Not really. It had been years since her own had been sold off, and this one had been found it amongst the wreckage on the beach. An admittedly useless item for a pack of strangers focusing on survival. While a fairly light instrument, it was still unwise to haul around extra weight that served no real utility. And yet, she couldn’t just abandon it to rot in the sea air, its song forever silenced like the countless bodies littering the shore of the crash site.

She wasn’t actively aware that she had dropped to her knees until her fingers were tracing over the nicks and divots worn into the fretboard from countless years of fingertips pressing strings against it. A few lighter scratches showed newer use — perhaps a child taking lessons, inadvertently adding their own marks.

Or maybe that was just a bit of imagination, or perhaps projection, shining through, she told herself as she struggled to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat. Though in her mind’s eye it was all too easy to see small, chubby fingers being guided along the fretboard by larger, more experienced hands. Perhaps an older relative, or a tutor. Index finger and thumb working in tandem to pluck out familiar chords to a timeless tune.

Its bright notes would be the same, whether plucked out by a small child, or drifting out the open window of a tavern. Her teenage self would have never risked going into one. Even taking just a moment to pause and listen to the full length of a tune would cut into her overly filled schedule. And yet her fingers would keep their own time, drumming atop the large tomes of mathematics and elvish history she lugged between lessons across the Lower City.

Aravyn blinked, out of memory and half-imaginings, back into her dirty, bloody reality on the banks of the Chionthar. There were no tavern musicians or traveling bards with a merry tune to chase away the dark thoughts looming at the edges — just her and the lute that somehow was already cradled into a familiar position. The fading light of the sun seemed to glimmer along the strings, and her thumb was already in motion, plucking the first string, her index finger moving on muscle memory as it picked a corresponding note that sung a crisp, familiar note.

It was brief, but just encouragement enough that her fingertips continued to dance a familiar refrain, weaving a familiar song. She could hear the cheerful tune in her head, but as her fingers continued to work the strings, the notes didn’t match. Discordant and jarring, the thin threads of music tangled together, crashing into an unrecognizable and inharmonious cacophony.

“If that racket does not stop right now,” the voice of an angry githyanki hanging on to their last thread of patience cut through the camp, “I will end both it and whoever is responsible!”

Her fingers felt as heavy and uncoordinated as those sour sounds, and the lute was quickly lowered back to her lap. Of course, some random instrument found in the carnage of the nautiloid’s crash wouldn’t function properly. Only a silly fool would think not only that but also that it would somehow lighten the heavy mood in their camp.

A familiar paternal voice in the back of her mind chastised her for chasing her own comfort and wasting time on such frivolous things, especially when there were far more important matters to tend to. And their impending ceremorphosis certainly wouldn’t be cured even if she could coax a festive song from the lute’s untuned strings.

“It’s time to put away childish things, Aravyn,” that echo from the past reminded her, the reprimand carrying the weight of a lifetime of failed expectations. She exhaled sharply to shake off the familiar, stifling sensation. If there was no time to indulge in frivolities, then there was also no time to indulge in self-pity, either. 

Even though her cheeks burned at the thought of the entire camp hearing that wretched sound, Aravyn couldn’t find it in herself to take her frustrations out on the lute. She instead forced herself to glance up. The fading sunlight cast a warm glow over her new companions, all of whom were engrossed in the rhythm of their own tasks. Even renowned musical critic Lae’zel had waited long enough to ensure the return of silence, before resuming the construction on a training dummy that was beginning to resemble a Mindflayer. Had she spent the entire afternoon attaching tentacles to the thing?

She shook her head. What did that matter?

“Just a moment, sir,” the droid continued, seemingly oblivious to the human’s distress, “I’m not quite done with your evaluation yet. Let’s see, where were we?”

“No no no no.”

The round flattened dome that served as its head tilted to one side, beady orange eyes sweeping over Theron from head to toe, before resuming its cheery, if horrifying report. “Subject is an exemplary specimen. In good cardiovascular health, above average muscle tone. Tall, well-built, and very clean...”

“Um,” Theron stammered. “I’m...” Flattered? Taken? Leaving? Wait--yes, that last one. “Going now!”

He didn’t give the cursed machine any more time to continue ogling him, instead taking off down the hall at a very brisk walk that nearly bordered on a jog. His mind raced at he beat a hasty retreat, trying to understand what was happening. It had been over a year since the The Incident, dubbed by some as the “Sexy Spy Virus”, and others by much more crude names, where a little harmless reprogramming had taken on a life of its own. Theron had been meticulous in his coding of the antivirus, wanting to ensure that the entire debacle would be forgotten. There was simply no way that it could crop back in on its own.

“Theron,” the brisk accented tone of one Lana Beniko burst in over his comm, “why did a droid just feel the need to inform me that they found rust on its insides during its last tune-up?”

“I don’t know,” Theron insisted, but his words were almost drowned out by a metallic clanking echoing down the corridor.

He threw a look over his shoulder, and to his horror, saw that his robotic admirer had decided to give chase. 

“I’m going to have to call you back,” he quickly said into the comm as the droid picked up speed from a walk to an all out gallop.

“Theron,” she sounded both concerned and exasperated, which, considering Lana, was about par the course, “what’s going on?”

“Save me!” He shouted as he took off a dead sprint.

In his many years in the field, Theron had been threatened, sure. Shot at? Many times. He’d been drugged. Tortured. Stabbed through the gut with a lightsaber pike and lived to tell the tale. He’d run into Sith, Revanites, bounty hunters, thugs, fanatics and cultists alike. He’d been in more firefights than he could remember, and more covert ops than he cared to. He’d even been accused of being a traitor (although that was kind of the point at the time).

None of that compared right now to being chased down by a droid yelling at top volume claiming he was the best lover it had ever seen.

And this time, he was pretty sure it wasn’t actually his fault.

He rounded the corner from the corridor leading from the Logistics Wing, passing by the Commander’s (and at this point, his) Quarters. HK-55 and Z0-0M straightened to their full height at his arrival. Oh thank the Force, allies.

“Salutations: Agent Shan, you are looking quite spry today.”

“What?” he panted as he approached.

“Yes, Agent Shan, don’t believe what anyone else is saying!” Zeeyo exclaimed, throwing her arms into the air. “Your undercarriage doesn’t look rusty at all!”

Mind sharp as a tack, Theron realized the implications of this just in time, and dodged to the side, ducking and rolling as the assassin-turned-bodyguard droid lunged forward to trap him in a bear hug. Not pausing to even catch his breath, as soon as his feet hit the ground he propelled himself forward and further down the hall.

“Frustration: I only wish to profess my admiration for you, Agent Shan!”

“Nope nope nope nope!” Desperation was starting to tinge the edges of his words now.

The metallic clanking intensified as more droids behind him joined in the chase, all of their vocabulators joining in unison to tell him in one way, or another, that he was in fact, the pinnacle of sexual prowess.

Theron couldn’t run forever, despite whatever their programming was forcing them to say, his stamina would give out before the lustftul droids’ power supplies. As the corridor zigged and twisted, he saw an opening in the form of a door sliding open. Without hesitation he dove in, shoving the individual there, thankfully made of flesh and bone, aside as he slammed the door controls.

The door slid securely shut just as the thunderous clanking filled the corridor beyond, their lustful words of appreciation and encouragement nearly drowned out by the racket. Theron hadn’t bothered to look or count, but he was pretty sure that the number had risen from three in the scant moments it had taken Theron to dart from one corridor to the next.

He held up a hand to his lips as he turned to thank the person who had unwittingly provided his temporary salvation. The words of gratitude died on his lips, as he realized exactly who’s room he had sought refuge in.

For a moment, Theron truly considered surrendering himself to the lusty droid mob.

Draike Highwind’s face was caught somewhere between confusion and amusement, but the latter was winning out as he started to decipher individual phrases drifting in from the corridor. A dark brow arched higher, lips twitching with undisguised mirth as the stupid blue droid that had started this whole mess yelled once again about Theron being a master lover.

More seconds passed, the ruckus quieting down, before silence descended once more, and it was finally safe to speak.

“So,” Draike drew out the word, somehow lacing it with more innuendo than all of the malfunctioning droids combined, “what ya been doing, Shan?”

“Nothing!” he insisted, voice still hushed just in case one of the droids could somehow hear.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” His brother-in-law’s smirk widened into an almost feral grin, eyebrows waggling. “Sounds like you’ve been getting... busy.”

One of the greatest mysteries in the galaxy was how one man could make anything sound that dirty. “I was minding my own business!”

“Oh, I bet you were.”

“You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“I mean...” If looks could kill, the pilot would have melted on the spot. Unfortunately for Theron, Draike was apparently immune to that sort of thing. “How often do I get the chance?”

“Did you do this?”

“Me?” Draike let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Stars, I wish I could have thought of something this good! These are memories I will cherish forever.”

Theron massaged the bridge of his nose. “I hate my life.”

“I mean, I’m not really into droids,” Draike went on, either not knowing (or more likely caring) about his brother-in-law’s predicament, “flesh is more my kind of thing. But you know, if you and the little lady need to spice things up by bringing in a little metal--”

“Please stop. I’m begging you!”

“Begging, eh? So you’re saying you’re more into--“

“Forget it, I’m taking my chances with the sex-crazed machines roaming the halls.” His palm hovered over the door sensors.

“Theron, wait!” There was enough urgency in Draike’s voice to give him pause. “It’s dangerous out there, take this.”

At first, he was honestly afraid to look, expecting to be offered something like a condom or some other bad joke, but was surprised to see the other man holding out a stealth generator.

“To escape your fans.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“I know. I’m a genius.”

“I didn’t say that.” He quickly nabbed the stealth generator before Draike could change his mind and frowned at the initials carved in the side in Aurabesh. “Is this even yours?”

“Eh, close enough.”

Whatever, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Theron would deal with those potential repercussions later.  He flicked on the power to the stealth generator which let out a low, almost inaudible hum as a burst of life engulfed his form. He closed his eyes against the sudden burst of brightness, and when he opened them again, dark spots of the light pattern danced in his vision for a few seconds. He blinked a few more times before they faded away.

He waved an arm experimentally in front of his face, and only felt the slight movement of air. Draike didn’t seem to react at all, and that was probably good enough.

“Thanks,” he said, palming the sensor to the door.

Draike rolled his eyes and ambled out into the corridor, looking around with the air of a man all too used to hiding from those looking for him. Theron watched as he raised a hand to a very slowly moving GNK power droid.

“How’s it hanging?”

“GONK!” 

“Oh yeah? You don’t say! I think I saw him head that way.” Draike pointed in the direction leading to cantina. “Just between you and me, I heard he’s sweet on that droid who’s a comfort enthusiast.”

“GONK! GONK! GONK!”

Still hidden underneath the stealth field, Theron had to bite down the urge to make any noise of frustration and just turned an invisible, irritated gaze at the other man’s back. As if sensing Theron’s irritation, Draike just grinned wider.

“Yeah, you know how those spy types are. Always toying with droids’ hearts. You could do better than him.”

“GONK!”

“Oh, you spicy droid! Yeah, trundle off that way, big guy. I’m sure you’ll catch him!”

With a loud clanking, the GNK droid began his slow and steady journey towards the cantina. As the echoes finally faded, Draike casually stretched, pointing towards the direction of the War Room.

Theron skulked on by, but not before giving his brother-in-law a well deserved whop upside the head. The stealth field flickered momentarily on the physical contact before shimmering back into place.

“It’d serve you right to get caught by doing that,” Draike sniffed indignantly, “after all I’ve done to help you.”

“When all of this is over--”

“Hush now,” Draike waved at the air in front of him. “You have bigger problems to deal with. Meanwhile, I will be heading to the cantina. And definitely won’t be live-streaming any brawls breaking out over the Master Lover breaking droid hearts everywhere.”

Theron snorted out an annoyed breath, and checked his urge to trip Draike as he sauntered off, hands jammed into his pockets as he whistled a jaunty tune. Like the purloined stealth generator, he’d have to worry about slicing and corrupting any servers containing evidence of this mess after he figured out how to stop whatever this was from spreading any further.

The upside to this whole unfortunate side encounter, was that the stealth generator made it possible for him to quietly creep around any droids he passed in the corridor. Most seemed to be making a hasty exit for the cantina, almost as if word had spread of Drake’s false rumor about his and C2-N2’s torrid love affair and every heartbroken circuit was flocking in that direction now.

And when he thought about it like that, when exactly had this become his life? Oh, right. Like fifteen minutes ago. Or however long this nightmare had started. Time had sort of lost meaning, if he were being honest.

He managed to make it to the war room, undetected and unmolested, and quietly snuck his way towards the irritable blonde Sith, holding her head in her hands as if she were battling the world’s strongest migraine. As Theron approached the Sith, he could hear her muttering under her breath in frustration. He hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat, causing her to jerk her head up in surprise.

“Who’s there?”

“Quiet,” Theron hissed. “They might hear you.”

“Oh, for Sith’s sake,” she exhaled, “where in the blazes have you been?”

“Hiding,” he whispered urgently. “These droids have all gone haywire!”

“And who’s fault is that, I wonder.”

“Not me,” he insisted, “not this time!”

“Right,” she said sardonically, “and I suppose that’s why there isn’t a reality holoseries entitled ‘Programmed for Love’ currently being live-streamed in the cantina for the entire HoloNet to see.”

“Damn it, Draike!” Theron cursed. “I thought he was joking about that.”

“Of course. How did I not see that coming?” she muttered.

“I’ll slice in and scrub all of the servers after we figure out this... this... whatever this is?”

“Your insecurities laid bare in binary?” she suggested, oh so helpfully.

“Why did I come to you for help again?”

“Because--”

It was at that point, that a probe droid, currently speeding its way towards the cantina, happened to take notice of Lana talking to thin air, and veered off its intended trajectory, heading straight for Theron’s position near the back of the war room. If the loud alarms and flashing lights were any indication, it had been able to see through his stealth generator.

Wait... those weren’t alarm proximities it was flashing. As Theron watched its rapid approach, he couldn’t help but stare at it in dumb fascination, brow furrowing as he tried to make out the images it was projecting. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say it was a bizarre mixture of Aurabesh and hologlyphs.

He squinted, just able to make out: “DX-98 🤖🔥 Analytical  Scanner 💋🙏 Okara Droid Factory 🔍🌌💕 Exobiology Research 🥵🍑 Top HoloFans 0.7%!”

Before he had a chance to process any of that, the droid was already upon him, pincher arms spreading wide to snap him up for some purpose far beyond its original programming. He only had milliseconds to react before the droid reached him, when an explosive force sent the droid flying backwards harmlessly, and had Theron landing ungracefully on his tailbone. The stealth field fizzled out with a pop on his impact with the ground.

A familiar figure landed between him and the droid, twin blue scarves billowing behind her dramatically, blonde ponytail swaying with the motion of her movement. A small frown of concentration bunched her forehead as his wife threw a concerned look in his direction.

“You requested rescue?” Grey asked.

“Ah, my knight in shining armor has arrived,” he quipped back.

“I am not wearing my armor.” The frown of concentration morphed into one of confusion.

“I--never mind.” He pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his hands. “Thank you for the timely intervention.”

She graced him with a hint of a smile and a bob of her head in acknowledgment. “Any time.”

“As touching as all of this is,” Lana broke in sourly, “it still doesn’t solve our larger problem.”

“Yeah,” Theron rubbed the back of his neck, “you’re not wrong. It sounds like this has spread across the entire base?”

“It appears that way,” Lana said tightly. “You know, you assured me that all of this had been taken care of the last time we dealt with this issue.”

“Hey now,” he bit back, “I’m a man of my word!”

She snorted at that. “Tell that to the Umbaran Transit Authority.”

“How are you still mad about that?”

“You tazed me!”

“Focus,” Grey said, eyeing the stunned probe droid warily. “If memory serves me correct, you had a program you deployed to revert the programming of the droids the last time this happened.”

“Yes, that’s what doesn’t make sense.” He watched as the holoprojectors on the downed probe droid flickered, hologlyphs flashing rapidly in the War Room’s dim light. “I programmed it to eliminate all trace of the offending code. The only way it could be reappearing now is if someone took one of the infected droids offline before I deployed...”

Lana arrived at the same conclusion right about the time that Theron did, picking up the thought. “I seem to recall a certain someone requesting you replicate your work for less-than-legal purposes.”

Theron angrily punched the button on his comm as he growled, “Gault!”

The Devaronian’s voice came back immediately, almost a little too suave. “Theron! What a surprise to hear your dulcet tones requesting my presence.”

“Gault,” Lana managed to keep some measure of calm, “are you responsible for this current situation?”

“What situation is that?” he asked far too innocently, even as a distant call of a droid’s clanking nearly drowned out it’s loud declaration of the presence of rust on one Theron Shan’s “bolt”. There was a moment of silence before he continued. “Oh! You mean the lustful droids currently running amok on the base?”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Lana said dryly. “My original question stands.”

“I am shocked, shocked and scandalized that my name would be the first to come to mind! Might I remind you, it was one Miss Djannis who requested you create her a Shan Sexbot.”

“Yeah,” Kaliyo jumped in on the comms, clearly annoyed, the sound of metallic brawling nearly drowning out her voice, “I wanted it for hilarious crimes! Not whatever the fuck this is!”

“Gault,” a third voice, Hylo Visz, cut in. From the background noise, it seemed she was in the same location as Kaliyo. “I swear, if you don’t help us figure out how to stop this, when you’re not looking I’ll cut off your--”

“Okay, okay, geez!” He interrupted before his significant other could finish whatever that threat was. “Fine, it was me! I deactivated a droid before Theron uploaded his program.”

“Of course.” Lana rolled her eyes upwards, as if asking the Force for patience.

“In my defense,” Gault continued, “originally it was just to shut the stupid thing up! But then Kaliyo came up with that brilliant idea for the Shan Sexbot Distraction, and I thought, why not hold on to this beauty in case it came in handy for a con?”

The sound of Theron smacking his forehead in frustration echoed throughout the War Room.

“So you know, just had a fun idea come to me the other day, so I extracted the original programming and altered a few things, and tried to put it into a new droid for my plan.”

“Did that droid happen to be a blue medical monstrosity?” Theron was actively massaging his temples at this point.

“I will have you know,” Gault said, “that BL-U3 is a consummate professional. You would be lucky to have him perform a medical exam on you!”

“Yeah, that was definitely his intent,” Theron shot back. “Purely professional and not lecherous at all! Which was not in any of my code.”

“Hey, I never claimed to be very talented when it came to software programming. I may have made a mistake or two when altering your code.”

“May have?!”

“How was I supposed to know that the remnants of the Gemini Frequency code in our systems was going to work after the entire Eternal Fleet had gone offline and deploy your software STD to the entire network? Sue me!”

“I’m considering it!”

Before the mostly pointless argument could escalate any further, the sounds of metallic clanking from above, roughly from the location of the cantina, began to grow closer, the cacophony increasing in volume, until it sounded like it was coming in all directions.

“That is not a good sign,” Grey’s mutter was nearly lost to the noise.

“Hey,” Drake’s annoyed voice cut in over the comm, “my livestream is now officially ruined! I hope you’re all happy!”

“I’m afraid to even ask why,” Theron said.

“Oh, it seems all of my extremely eligible and single contestants heard your voice over the comms and abandoned challenging Seetoo Enntoo to unarmed droid combat for the right to court you, and are now all headed in your direction.”

“Oops.”

“Worry not Agent Shan,” the unusually warbly vocabulator of C2-N2 came over the comms, “I will not rest until I alone can provide you with the ultimate in comfort!”

“We should probably get a different housekeeping droid after this is all over,” he told his wife.

That seemed a lesser concern to Grey, as she had shifted into Alliance Commander mode, and was currently on the comms, shouting for every available member of the Force Enclave to get to the War Room as fast as possible to help hold off the incoming army of lustful droids.

Yeah, come to think of it, that was probably more important.

“We must use nonlethal force,” she stressed, giving a particularly severe look to Lana when she said that, getting a simple nonplussed shrug in return, “as we only need to hold the droids at bay until we can come up with a solution. They are not to blame for what’s happening.”

Theron begged to differ, but she was probably right in this case. The cost of repairing or replacing an entire base full of droids would be astronomical.

As Force users began to stream in and take up position around the room, the sound of wheels racing along the metal plating caught Theron's attention, and he looked over to see a familiar silver T7-series astromech racing into the room. He tensed up instinctively at the sight of a droid, as anyone would have in his situation.

“Teeseven!” Grey called out with a smile, clearly not as wary or droidshy.

The little astromech let out a friendly whistle and series of chirps in binary, that roughly translated to: “T7-01 = Safe! // Been off network entire morning!”

“Oh, what a relief,” she breathed, “I would have hated for you to be infected with this too!”

He let out another series of beeps: “T7-01 = still in possession of original antivirus code. // Can tweak it and upload to servers = Save the day?”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Theron muttered.

“T7 = not scared!”

Grey’s expression melted into one of admiration and pride. “Teeseven, that’s incredibly brave -- but are you sure? Theron’s right, it could be very dangerous.”

“T7 = Jedi + Theron’s friend. // Helping > Risk!”

She looked at him and he returned the gaze with a small nod, realizing there wasn’t much in the way of choice. It was either that or let the droids overrun them. And then whatever happened when one of them actually got their hands on on Theron -- a prospect he wasn’t really that thrilled to explore right now.

“Fine,” he said tersely, “let’s do this!”

The two of them rushed over to the center console in the room, Theron pulling out his slicer spike as Teeseven plugged his scomplink arm into the main network terminal. The rest of their reinforcements from the Force Enclave arrived just in time and formed a ring around the two slicers. They managed to erect a large Force barrier just as the metallic clanging and clatter grew to a roar, announcing the arrival of the lecherous horde.

Near the front of the mob, Z0-0M threw up her arms in glee and excitement as she jumped to try and catch sight of her beloved. “There you are Agent Shan! You left before we could finish our conversation -- you were saying something about oxidation?”

“Interjection: Do not listen to this hussy, Theron! You and I will make sweet explosions together!”

Theron valiantly tuned them out as he took in a feed of the original antivirus code that Teeseven shared with him. Yes, this all looked correct. Unfortunately, he was going to need get a look to see how Gault had mutilated his beautiful original coding to know how to alter it.

Teeseven was two steps ahead of him, and a stream of code flashed across the HUD in his ocular implants. He watched in horror as he saw the butchery with his own two eyes.

“Gault, where the hell did you get this code?” he asked over the comms incredulously. “HornHub?”

“Excuse you, I only frequent the classiest places on the galactic communications grid, like HoloHump!” The growl of Gault’s name from a very angry Mirialan smuggler had him quickly adding. “You know, I’m just going to shut up and let you concentrate on what you’re doing.”

Teeseven, ever the valiant worker, ignored the conversation completely, and was hard at work running diagnostics on the altered code and the best way to modify the antivirus to address it. Theron watched the stream of letters and numbers fly across the HUD at lightning speed.

The little guy was good at what he did. He let out a flurry of beeps and whistles as almost the last piece of this very lurid puzzle started to fall into place. The little droid seemed to almost be singing along with the code as he wrote it, like a mechanical maestro conducting an orchestra. They were close, so close and--

The next whistle Teeseven let out was not his normal, cheerful way of communication, much lower in timbre and more seductive.

No.

Teeseven whirled his flat head around until his visual sensor faced Theron, and let out another wolf whistle, his holoprojector lighting up to proudly display: T7-01 🤖👀🔍 Observant 👁️🔭 Scanner 🔍🏞️ Tython 🌄👏 215 🍒♎ Repairing 👅🙈 Top HoloFans 3.6%

“What was that?” Grey shouted to be heard over the droids catcalling.

“No no no no,” Theron muttered, “we’re so close! Don’t do this to me, little buddy!”

“What happened to my precious baby boy?” Grey demanded, sweat trickling down the side of her face as she struggled to maintain the Force barrier.

Beyond the barrier, the rest of the porndroid army followed suit with Teeseven, all either wildly projecting their own series of hologlyphs and random facts about themselves and their planets of origins, while others struck disturbingly seductive poses, and a scant few demanded that “ShanDaddy” start a holocall with them in private.

With no time and no recourse left, Theron dove back into the system, yanking Teeseven’s unfinished code as he was nearly overwhelmed with lewd images and thirsty hologlyphs, struggling to finish and upload the code as the volume in the War Room rose to a crescendo just as the Force users’ began to fall, one after the other, their barrier weakening by the moment.

The overwhelming cacophony of hologlyphs, lewd poses, and robotic come-ons that had filled the War Room suddenly disappeared. All eyes turned to the droids as almost in unison, as they all powered down—a sign that their malware had been neutralized. Theron slumped back in relief, his work finally done.

Grey, Lana, and the others let out a long sigh of relief, the tension leaving their bodies in a rush.

“Thank the Force,” Grey murmured, sinking down to the ground. “I do not think I could have held that barrier much longer.”

Theron nodded, feeling a similar sense of exhaustion. He leaned back against the console, closing his eyes but was unable to banish the mentally scarring series of images that were probably permanently burned into his retinas.

“Remind me,” he said faintly, “to obliterate HoloHump’s servers. Once I’m done murdering Gault.”

“You act as if there will be anything left after I find him,” Lana said darkly.

“Remember everyone,” Grey spoke in her best and most official Alliance Commander voice, “murder is bad and frowned upon in the Official Alliance Employee Handbook.”

Because there was no home to return to after the Jedi Temple had been razed.

For any of them. They were still Jedi, but an Order of the lost. Now she drifted, both physically as well as metaphorically, in the deep empty black of space. Rudderless and uncertain, she once again turned to the Force to try to find a heading, some way forward.

She took a deep breath, let it out, and then another as she sought to sink into meditation. Sometimes her meditations were light, like someone languidly floating on the still surface of a calm pond. If she wanted, she could let herself drift along the gentle surface currents of the Living Force and see where it guided her — but what she sought could only be found deeper, down near the bottomless well that was the Cosmic Force. In her mind’s eye, she tried to picture the endless starfields like the map of her astrogation chart. If the galaxy was a vast ocean of stars and other celestial objects, then the Force was the swirling currents that spanned lightyears from crest to trough, the web of hyperspace lanes flowing alongside or sometimes even counter to them. 

Before the Treaty and Sacking of Coruscant, she’d always had a direction of some sort to follow. The first eighteen years of her life had been dedicated to learning, her path shaped by her teachers and those who raised her, and then the following twenty-eight had been defined by the endless war that had come after that fateful encounter on Korriban had brought the Sith back to the wider galactic stage. She had been a key player and leader in the Galactic Great War, and yet all the journeys she had undertaken in some ways had already been predetermined for her — by her teachers, the Council, the Republic war effort — in fact the only exception had been when she’d strayed from the Jedi path to follow her heart.

Which had led to the birth of her son. Although, when she thought about it, even that exception of finding her own way had still been shaped by another. By trying to do the best for the life that she had brought into this world. She could still see the large, inquisitive eyes of a newborn blinking up at her, taking in his first view of the world.

That galactic map in her mind’s eye strayed from its larger picture and its attempt to capture everything. Instead of the whole picture, it zoomed in to the Inner Rim and into the deep depths of Manaan. There she once again gazed into the eyes of that same boy, no longer an innocent infant but now with a more hardened gaze of the teenager whose image permanently resided in the locket around her neck. Back somewhere on her ship, in her physical body, she swallowed past a hard lump in her throat, the emotion threatening to pull her under its crushing depths.

Thinking of Theron, thinking of her son, inevitably led to the stray thought of his father. That was enough to find herself whisked away from Manaan's deep oceans to the Core Worlds and Alderaan. She did not know if Jace was there now. Perhaps it was just the memory of him, of their time together that was leading her astray. This family of theirs that never was. Making her wish for things that would always be beyond reach. A vice of her own making.

Perhaps her heart yearned for a home with either of them, both of them — but that would never be reality. They were buoys that that kept her afloat yet anchored her to a different path, unable to move forward to the destination she sought. These were but phantoms of the past, gossamer threads that would ensnare her if she clung too tight. She would not find a future harbor while clinging to guilt stemming from past decisions that could never be undone.

Their lives were their own, just as hers was with the Force.

Satele finally swallowed past the lump as she acknowledged the hold those in her past still had on her, and might forever still. Then she let out a shaky breath as she released her own clenched fists, as if she were letting go of those past threads and reach back out to the Force with open palms. Picturing nothing but the fathomless black empty of space. It was cold, much colder than the warmth that enveloped her when she thought of her son and his father, distant — but not unwelcoming.

She let the nothingness embrace her, envelop her. Because if the Force was everything, then it was just as much the nothing as it was the billions of pinpricks of light.

It was the inescapable gravity wells of the Deep Core, the antimatter and dark matter concentrations with their own distinct tug and pull, the blinding light of thirty billion of the galaxy’s oldest stars some only a hundredth of a light year apart, all surrounding the supermassive black hole that formed the center of everything their vast galaxy rotated around. Its pull inexorable, the strength of a million dead stars drawing everything to its crushing depths.

Everything except the Force, which flowed in and out of the dark center of their galaxy. She was but a single mote, floating on its stream as she followed it out. Twisting and writhing an impossible path between the mass shadows of the clusters of impossibly close converging stars, through the narrow gaps between gravitational pull of every celestial body blindly reaching out to the dark.

She let the current carry her, guide her from the grasp of the Galactic Center and through the darkness, a distant blue speck growing on the horizon. The closer they drew, she could make out green swirling with the blue, a glistening marble in a glittering field of stars. Their approach didn’t slow, if anything their speed increased, until the tiny marble became a verdant planet. The planet became a stratosphere. An atmosphere. Clouds whipped past her until they set down on the ground. Ancient tall trees, brambling undergrowth crawling around ancient crumbled statues — and an overwhelming sense of belonging overtook her.

This was… this was—a destination. A place. Where Satele wanted—no, needed to go.

And just as quickly as they arrived, she was whisked away, following that current even further out. Somehow, this journey was different, each twist and turn marked clear in her mind, a shimmering field of blue. The pinprick light of stars elongated until they formed a tunnel that carved its way through an unseen maze, tracing its way backwards. 

Back. Back. Back. Until she found herself gasping, eyes opening as if her consciousness had just slammed back into her own body. She stood shakily, muscles in her legs trembling as if they’d forgotten how to hold her weight. And yet her steps were sure, even if she were walking as if still in a trance, still in meditation, as she found the astrogation computer that sat waiting in the cockpit. Her fingers moved of their own accord, entering a series of unfamiliar numbers that felt like that same calling in the Force.

Mutely, she dropped a navigational buoy to mark her place, the starting point of this new path. The astrogation computer displayed a standard warning about the dangers of navigating to unknown, untested coordinates. She blinked, then dismissed the warning, and engaged the shuttle’s hyperdrive.

Once again, the pinprick of stars stretched out before her, before the familiar shimmering blue tunnel of hyperspace enveloped her ship. A glance at the chronometer on the bridge revealed to her that nearly fifteen hours had passed since she’d set down to meditate. Which went a way to explaining the empty ache in her belly and her cramped, screaming muscles.

Losing time — losing oneself — was a very real danger of diving that deep into the cosmic well of the Force. It was a risk they were rarely supposed to take alone, but then again. That had been her way for these past two years. Alone with only the Force to guide her forward.

With a glance at the calculations from the computer on the trip, Satele decided to spend most of the time addressing to matters of the flesh — food, rest, and recuperation. She was just beginning to feel somewhat refreshed when the beep of the navigational equipment alerted her to their imminent arrival. The moment they exited hyperspace, she eased herself into the pilot's seat and was once again met with a view of the verdant world the Force had shown her.

She deployed another navigational beacon — the destination, a way to guide others.

Her descent this time was more controlled. The shuttle burst through the clouds to look upon a gnarled landscape that stretched on for miles. All atmospheric readings indicated the planet was safe, the air breathable. It took several minutes of scouting to find a suitable landing site amongst the untamed vegetation, and then she walked out onto this new—no—ancient land. Wherever this was, it was old, and steeped in the Force in a way she had not quite experienced.

That same sense of belonging, of rightness, settled down into her bones.

In the distance, amongst the sprawling undergrowth, she could see something stone poking through the brush trying to claim it. Whatever it was was nearly as ancient as the trees towering behind it. The stone’s shape and silhouette were not natural — it almost looked like the outline of a person. Satele pulled a set of macrobinoculars out, zooming in and focusing on the stone, until a clear image formed.

It was a statue. Impossibly old, if the smooth time-weathered edges were any indication. The brush threatening to overtake it obscured the most intricate details that millennia of weather hadn’t worn away — but the design itself was unmistakable.

It was Jedi in origin.

She dropped the macrobinoculars, and, just like with her vision, took a step back to take in a wider view. Beyond the forest and gnarls of undergrowth, she could see more evidence of ancient structures. On and on as far as the eye could see. This wasn’t just some small settlement of the past — this was a world that had been theirs once.

And in the Deep Core, there was only one world that Satele knew of that fit that description. She had spent two years searching, asking the Force for a home, and it had provided. It had brought her to the first, and most fundamental home it knew of for a disparate, scattered gathering of Force users. The place their order had originally been birthed from: Tython, the ancient homeworld of the Jedi.

Oh, according to the paperwork, Class 5A-B7 were all star students from Coruscant’s most prestigious primary school who had performed so well on their exams that they’d won a class trip to tour the Gav Daragon, personally helmed by their personal hero, the beautiful, brave, famous Commander of the Eternal Alliance as part of a PR event the Republic was putting on to gin up morale as the war with the Sith Empire ground on. Unfortunately for everyone involved, she had been called away on an urgent mission for the Republic just as the class had been boarding the shuttle for the Gav Daragon. Somehow, in the chaos of the crying children, Theron had been nominated to take her place.

And now chaos reigned.

Theron blamed Jonas Balkar. He didn’t know how exactly, but he was certain his former partner and now the Alliance’s frequent liaison had somehow pulled some nebulous strings to put him in this position.

The teacher, a kindly old Ithorian teacher, had peeled off to take the little Twi’lek boy with a bladder the size of a koja nut to the bathroom. It had to have been the fifth time the kid had to pee, and would have been concerning if Theron didn’t have his hands full trying to keep the remaining dozen children from killing themselves the moment their teacher’s back was turned.

It had started with Klee Khze, the nine-year-old Rodian girl who had apparently stolen a stealth field belt from one of her parents and smuggled it in. She was now using it to pop in and out of sight, sneaking up on her classmates and destealthing in right in their faces in order to make them shriek at the top of their lungs. She would make an excellent SIS agent one day.

At least she was staying with the class. Theron had somehow lost sight of the little Pantoran kid, Dva Shek, and had been trying to not panic as he peeked around the museum’s large exhibits to find where he’d wandered off to, when out of the corner of his eye, the tiny Zabrak child had inconceivably clambered up onto the platform in the center of the room that was three times his tiny size, and was climbing into the cockpit of a shuttle that had been parked on display.

“What are you—” Theron was forced to abandon his hold on Vrack as he raced across the room. “Kerrah, get down from there!”

Like the rest of the pack of brats, Kerrah paid him no heed, and had clambered into the cockpit, her tiny hands nimbly dancing across the controls. Time seemed to move almost in slow motion as the once best operative in the SIS, and now the galaxy’s worst babysitter, leapt high just as the engines from the old shuttle hummed to life and started to slowly rise from the platform. 

Theron heard a different child let out an undignified squeal of fright as he awkwardly half-landed on the still lowered boarding ramp chest-first. Air whooshed out of his lungs as his fingers wrapped around the edge of the boarding ramp and painfully pulled himself the rest of the way onboard. Behind him, another child, it could have been Klee, let out a whoop of delight.

There was no time for him to either catch his breath, nor find any small solace that at least now the children were finding him interesting enough to actually cheer for, as he scrambled to his feet and lurched towards the cockpit. He staggered as the plating beneath his feet shuddered and managed to get into the cockpit just as another panel lit up brightly.

“Kerrah, no!”

The Zabrak shot him a toothy grin, finger hovering over a red button. “Kerrah, yes!”

He tried, he really did, but she was too fast for him, and before he could snatch her hand away from it, she was able to let off a small volley of missiles from the display unit. A small but noticeable explosion echoed throughout the room as the missiles blew a hole in the wall beyond them.

It was a minor miracle that wall just led to the back halls of the museum, and not the vacuum of space.

By the time Theron had got the small shuttle landed and firmly march Kerrah back out to the rest of her classmates, she was still grinning triumphantly. The stunt had apparently impressed Klee, who became visible long enough to give her fellow troublemaker a well-deserved high five, and whatever compliment she was giving Kerrah was being drowned out by the hysterical sobbing of Vell Zud, the timid Bothan boy who was now convinced they were all going to be sucked out into space.

“Mister Theron!” A reedy voice called, somehow pitching their voice higher than Vell’s wails. “Mister Theron, I need some help!”

O what fresh hell is this? Theron thought grimly to himself as he turned to locate the source of the voice, and sadly, was not disappointed with what he saw.

“Ravo,” he yelled as he once again found himself racing back across the expanse of this room of nightmares that was cleverly disguised as a museum, “how the fuck did you get behind that force field?”

Somewhere, a child gasped at the profanity coming from their chaperone.

“I dunno.” The Mikkian shrugged her pink shoulders as she tapped the giant Cormium Crystal next to her. “But the door behind me closed when Kerrah tried to kill us all with that missile.”

“I did not!” The indignant cry came from across the room, barely audible over the terrified keening that hadn’t stopped. “It was an accident!”

Theron pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a deep breath as he tried to gather the frayed edges of his dwindling patience. “I just need you all to stop doing everything for five seconds so I can think—”

Before he could finish that thought, a loud, whooping cry drowned him out, and as one, the room’s occupants looked up in confusion to see a tiny blue Pantoran dragging a massive dodecahedron glowing metal cube behind him. “Can you believe I just found this datacron in the back halls? It’s super heavy and was really hard to get across that giant chasm — why do they even have giant death pits here? It’s so unsafe! Luckily, I just so happened to have a MGGS and was able to grapple…”

There wasn’t even time to process the absolute insanity of that, before his attention was grabbed by the sound of the lift heralding the arrival of several new figures. From the hulking figure of the museum’s security guard, to the absolutely puzzled expression of the teacher and the student she was escorting, as they took in the rampant destruction that had happened in the fifteen minutes that Theron had been left to watch the kids.

Somewhere behind him, a sharp clang echoed as a piece of twisted metal fell from the wall where it had been hanging precariously after the missile strike. That was the precise moment where he gained an acute understanding of what it must have felt like to be Ngani Zho all of those years ago, having to deal with an equally precocious child.

"Look, there's a good explanation for all of this."

It was late, much later than she had anticipated, when Grey had managed to find a moment to herself to try to hopefully salvage the situation with the class trip. The shattered and crestfallen looks on all the children’s faces when she’d had to leave had been absolutely heart wrenching. But like clockwork, Theron had swooped in to help, agreeing to take her place. Her hero, always and forever.

As exhausted as she was after rescuing Arn and addressing the crisis on Manaan, and still trying to shove down the dread at what she might find once she reached Elom, Grey still summoned a convincing enough smile into place as she dialed the frequency of Miss Chobbets’s holocomm hoping that maybe a few words from her would help ease any lingering hurt feelings. 

The elderly Ithorian's face shimmered into life over the holo, and she held up two silent fingers to her twin mouths, a wry smile creeping across her features. Without a word, she swiveled the camera to show a view of the school's shuttle, and Grey's own strained smile melted into something far more genuine.

Tucked away in the back of the shuttle was Theron, his head drooped in slumber as an entire gaggle of exhausted schoolchildren snuggled up to him. The little Wookiee let out a loud snore, but the rest of the group didn't seem to rouse.

"I take it they had a good time?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, very much so," Miss Chobbet said quietly.

"I am glad," Grey replied. "Do pass on my apologies to the class again. Perhaps once this situation is dealt with, we could reschedule another trip."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Miss Chobbet rumbled. "We're all barred from ever returning to the museum, anyway."

"Wait, what?"

"Don't worry, it's not important," the Ithorian continued. "Although would Mister Theron be available to chaperone future trips? The children seem quite taken with him."