#pershing

Coruscant, 11 ABY (present)

After eighteen months, Pershing supposed he should feel at home on Coruscant. 

He had an apartment and a job, he knew most of his neighbours by face and name, he had a routine repeated enough to wear into a rut, he even had a favourite caf shop which he had visited with such consistency and punctuality, the barista had his sweetened half-caf ready before he walked in.

People trusted him. He didn’t know if that meant any of them liked him, nor did he know if he truly cared about the difference. A little distance, a little aloofness, and the well-meaning but over-bearing work-mates eased up; the constant string of invites to this cantina or that club had petered out to the point they didn’t even bother asking anymore, just assumed he didn’t want to go.

“Anti-social” they labelled him at a volume they both did and didn’t mean for him hear.

“General anxiety disorder” the therapist he had to visit every Taungsday as part of his amnesty agreement called it.

He didn’t know if either or both were true or not—he had studied bodies and blood, not minds and social behaviours. Regardless, his social status was the least of his concerns.

At the end of the day, it was either exist on Coruscant or go to prison and he didn’t have the kind of constitution that could survive prison, so navigating normalcy with no prior experience in the matter was a small price to pay.

He wasn’t malcontent.

Really, he was comfortable and, to an extent, grateful: had the regimes of the day been reversed, the Empire would not have made such a deal and allowed him a quiet, more-or-less free life in exchange for intel. 

But his talents, his skills were atrophying, and that was of concern to him. 

The New Republic imposed rigid restrictions on cloning. His colleagues were content to engineer replacements for diseased or missing organs or limbs, or to research and aimlessly debate the ethics of bringing extinct species back to life, but he was not.

Not after all his breakthroughs.

Not after all he had learned.

Not after coming so close to…

Oh, well.

Spilt bantha milk, and all that.

It had been eighteen months. It was something he was beginning not to think about every single day, just… every other night.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, he had to make his way home the long way and all he could think about was the morning news tomorrow reporting on a clone engineer found dead in an alleyway. 

He had to get off the train a stop behind his usual to go to a hardware store and pick up a part to fix the tap in his refresher. (It was the landlord’s duty to fix it but said landlord was off-world at the moment and electively incommunicado, so it was either spend a fortnight going slowly mad from the inconsistent dripping sound or fix it himself.)

He got the part quickly enough (he didn’t even finish describing what the problem was; as soon as he mentioned the tap wouldn’t close properly unless he brutally tightened it, the clerk whipped the part out, explained how to install it, and rung him up). But when he returned to the station, he learned the next few trains would be skipping his stop due to some malfunction on the line between here and there—something that wouldn’t have been a problem had he stuck to his routine.

So now he was walking along an unfamiliar stretch of this level.

The part rattled about in the pit-like pocket of his coat, clashing every now and then with his keycard, a few spare credits, and a couple of pens he always forgot he had—never more than when he actually needed them. He walked briskly, hands shoved in his pockets and attempting to muffle the noise, give the impression he carried nothing, nothing at all, certainly nothing worth killing him for.

Head down, eyes front but ever flicking, ever checking his peripherals. Were his steps too loud? They sounded obscenely loud.

A drunk slumped under a tattered blanket in a shadowy doorway coughed and Pershing jumped, a hand flying to cover his heart in a vain attempt to protect it. 

He picked up his pace after that.

Even when he turned the last corner and his apartment block came into view at last, he couldn’t relax. 

Up five floors in the lift, down the corridor, third door on the left. Only when he swiped his keycard and the light blinked the most agreeable shade of green did he breathe.

The relief lasted a mere beat.

By habit, he reached out and tapped the control pad beside the door to turn on the lights as he crossed the threshold. No lights came on and when the door automatically closed behind him, so went the ambient light from outside, plunging him into darkness.

He tried the control pad again with rapidly numbing fingers but nothing happened.

Power outage? But then the door shouldn’t have worked.

Frantically, his eyes darted, catching only pinpricks of light: the distant illumination of the city filtering through the slits in the shutters, the little power indicators on the kitchen appliances, reflections of both the former on glass surfaces, and a glowing green speck somewhere in front of him that seemed small and innocuous but was definitely out of place.

Just as his hand fell away from the pad, the lights turned on, brightening gradually to allow his eyes to adjust.

Again, he didn’t get a chance to revel in the relief.

Standing there, in the very centre of his living room, directly in line of sight of the door (though he would have been hard to miss regardless), was a man he had never met before.

Human, male, hair and beard white with age but trimmed too neat for someone resorting to common burglary. It was difficult to get a sense of his frame under the pitch black cloak and robes but he stood tall and straight, arms behind his back, so confident and regal, he gave the impression the space belonged to him. The little speck of green light hung from a small beaded chain on his belt—the only slips of colour on his person.

“Dr Omid Penn Pershing, I presume,” he greeted him, his voice deep and booming in the small apartment.

“Yes?” he answered with a choke. In a surge of courage but vaguely aware the action was late and pitiful, he grabbed for the nearest object to protect himself. His hand bumped something solid and moderately weighted to his right and he brandished it like a sword. 

The man dipped his chin to look down at the lamp.

“A light?” His eyebrows raised as he glanced back up to Pershing, an amused smile bending his beard. “Thank you, but I brought my own.” With that, he brushed his cloak over one shoulder and produced a cylindrical hilt. A flick of a switch and a thin column of reddish-orange light bloomed.

“Who are you?” Pershing demanded in a stammer, the lamp rattling in his shaking hands.

“Merely a messenger,” the man answered, calmly. He waved the lightsaber in a slow, controlled figure-8, then, point made, he extinguished the blade and returned the hilt to his belt. “The work has stalled without your input and oversight, doctor. They would greatly appreciate your return.”

“What work? Who’s ‘they’?” Pershing tried to push out a scoff, make it sound like he didn’t know what this stranger was talking about.

The man tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow, looking curious and disbelieving at the same time. He didn’t even deign to give an answer.

Pershing held the lamp higher, jabbing the air like a warning. “I’m not going back.”

After a moment, the man shook his head and sighed. He turned and began a leisurely circuit of the room. Unperturbed by the makeshift weapon, he didn’t hesitate to turn his back on Pershing and walk to the windows.

“You say one thing; you feel another. You certainly prefer the comfort and routine of this life, but you cannot hide your longing to return to your work. Understandable, given how you were ripped away, right on the cusp of a discovery which would redefine your entire field and change the galaxy as we know it.”

Pershing found the lamp lowering, as if he were getting tired of holding it. When he caught up to himself, he held it high again but he could feel his stance compromising.

“I’d rather escort you than deliver you,” the man continued, parting the blinds and glancing down at the streets spiralling below, “but don’t for a moment think it’s any trouble on my part to alter the arrangement.”

He clicked his fingers, the sound a sharp cut in the otherwise quiet apartment. Responding to the cue, two others emerged from Pershing’s kitchen. Both tall and slender, they wore distinctive Mandalorian armour, the plates all scratched and covered in paint so faded, the colours lay beyond recognition. They entered and stood, passively, awaiting the next command from the man in the black robes.

The reality that he stood no true chance against these intruders should it come to a physical altercation sank in at last. Defeatedly, Pershing put the lamp back on the small table, not even bothering to set it straight.

A distracted flick of the man’s hand and the lamp returned to its original position by itself.

“Thank you for your cooperation, doctor.”

~~~~~

Author’s Notes

We’re back!

All those sweet comments on the last chapter of The Voyage are still buoying me along. Thank you so much!

I’ve got a fun new story brewing for you guys. I said the last one was a breather, so this one’s getting back into the action (slowly, of course, and it’s not all gonna be “go go go!”)

And now for some technical notes from our sponsor (incidentally me)…

I gave Pershing the first name Omid (after the actor who portrays him) back in Head Above Water. It was almost two years until season 3 would come out and reveal his first name is Penn. I don’t mind Penn, but I’m sticking to my guns and keeping Omid as his first name.

The apartment block is heavily inspired by Syril’s mom’s apartment in Andor.

I keep having that problem with the old taps in my bathroom. Can’t remember the names of the thingy-majiggies but my dad did show me how to fix it. (And the drip did drive me mad.)

And again, friendly reminder that this story diverged from canon after Mandalorian S2, Chapter 13: The Jedi and has occasionally waved to canon while passing by but otherwise continues merrily on its own track. 

I have cherry-picked a few things from TBoBF, Ahsoka, Mando S3, etc. but I have given them a generous coat of paint. Only Skeleton Crew is the exception: it gets to stay as is. My outline is quite nebulous, so if something catches my interest in the Mando movie or I hear of something I want to incorporate from Ahsoka S2 (‘cause I ain’t watching that as long as I have free-will), I might work it in, but they won’t derail this ‘verse 😉

As ever, if you have questions, fire away. This story’s become quite a monster and I try my best but the canon of it gets me in knots sometimes, so if something doesn’t make sense or I plot-hole myself, you’re more than welcome to point it out.

🍁 Safe travels! 🍁