Already the officers here are mobilizing-streaming out the door or heading up the stairs to the speeder pad on the roof.

"It's the kriffin' Acolytes," Rydel says. "Ain't you got one in the back room there? Bring his narrow can out here. Let's kick it around a little."

Yeah. Yeah, Erno thinks. He stomps to the back room he was in, throws the door wide and- The kid is gone.

Just then: The lights flicker once, then twice, then go out.

Erno is in darkness. Thankfully, a few seconds later the emergency lights come up-they line the floor and the ceiling, casting everything in a red glow. He curses under his breath and heads back out into the main room, and already most of the building has cleared out. It's him, Rydel, a couple of other detectives like Shreen and Mursey, and- Wait, wasn't Kiza here? Where the hell'd she go?

He's about to say something to Rydel, but then a blaster shot threads the air, clipping the officer square in the forehead. Rydel falls backward. Two more blasts and Shreen and Mursey fall-Shreen flips backward over her desk, and Mursey just slumps forward against a hydro-cooler.

Erno fumbles at his back for his own blaster- But he's too slow.

There's Kiza. Kiza, of all the people. She has a standard sec-issued blaster pointed up and at him. The kid in black is nowhere to be seen.

"Kiza, I don't...I don't get what's happening here, doll."

"I'm not your doll." Her voice trembles as she speaks.

"What...what is this?"

She slowly crosses the space between them. Winding her way through the sea of desks, through the red-lit half dark. "This is a revolution. This is the revenge of the darkness. This is oblivion."

"Borkin' hell," Erno says. "You're...you're one of them."

He figures, she's not trained. She's scared-he can hear that much in her voice. So he goes for his blaster anyway. He's old, but she's not a cop. His hand finds his blaster and his arm extends- The air lights up next to him. The world thrums as a red beam of light whisks upward through open space- A searing line of pain across his wrist.

And then, the hand that held the blaster is gone. It thumps against one of the desks, still clutching the blaster. He watches it fall and tumble away. It's an absurd thing to see, your own hand coming off like that.

Next to him, it's the kid in the cloak.

He has a red-bladed lightsaber in his hand.

"I told you I knew what was in the basement," he seethes.

"That's the blade we've been looking for?" Kiza asks him.

The Acolyte gives an over-eager nod.

Then-wham.

Kiza clubs Erno in the side of the head. The world spins away from him as he tumbles to the floor. She bends down and whispers in his ear: "Vader lives. And so do you. Tell everyone the Acolytes are coming, doll."

The bar is a little seaside joint off Junari Point-a few klicks outside Hanna City proper. It's not much to look at: a round bar of dark wood under a wind-ruffled tent. Bulabirds strut about the pebbles-and-sand, their star-tipped beaks overturning rocks to look for their next meal to come skittering out. The ocean slides in and out with less of the crash-and-clamor of proper waves, and more the hiss-and-whisper of a calm lake lapping at its shore. The night is cool. The spitting rain is done, leaving behind a breeze.

Sinjir sits, staring into a white mug of black liquid. Steam rising around him, warming his chin.

Tonight the bar has a few other patrons. Other Chandrilans-over there, an angler with a firm chin staring down at her pint of fizzing something-or-other. On the other side, a young man in a fancy, breezy shirt glaring at his holoscreen with grave disinterest. The bartender-a tall woman with her white-blond hair pulled back in a complex braid that loops around her neck like a collar-eases past, asking: "Everything good?"

He gives a small nod. As she passes, he sees her gaze turn up. She spies someone coming. Someone behind Sinjir. He's about to tense up- And then, half a second later, an arm slides around his neck on the right side-and on his left, a scruffy and familiar head appears on his shoulder. Sandy beard scratching his collarbone.

"Well, hello," Sinjir says, arching an eyebrow.

The man's free hand snakes over Sinjir's right shoulder and grabs the mug, then pulls it to his head so he can sniff it.

"This is caf," the man says with a frown.

"What?" Sinjir says, feigning shock. "Caf? Well, I didn't order this. I must burn this place down in protest. It is the only recourse."

The man-Conder Kyl-rolls his eyes. "You're very dramatic. I'm just surprised you're drinking this and not, say, Kowakian rum or, I don't know, hull stripper."

"I'm trying to stay awake to see you. Hence, the caf." He holds up the mug and leers over its lip. "Oh, and I'll have you know that Hull Stripper was my nickname at the Imperial officers' academy."

"I don't doubt that." Conder leans in to kiss Sinjir's cheek.

Alarm bells go off inside his head. Reflexively, he pulls his face to the side. He scoots his stool a few centimeters away from the man.

"That can't be good," Conder says. "You done with me so soon?"

"Now who's being dramatic?"

"So what is it, then?"

"I told you. I don't like...this."

"This?"

"This! This. The...public thing."

Conder hip-bumps a stool closer to Sinjir, then plops down on it. His elbow plants on the bar and he leans against his hand, his face twisting into a dubious, bemused mask. "You do know where you are, right? You're safe here, Rath Velus. We're safe here. Chandrila is...pretty open."

Conder exists on that perfect line between pretty and manly. He's got a barrel chest and big arms, a laser-shorn scalp, and that patchy, spiky beard of his. But he's also got long, theatrical lashes and pouty lips. And skin as smooth and tan as a statue carved of Nimarian korabaster. Even his voice: It's gravelly, but it has a lilt to it, too. It is rough but beautiful music.

He's also one of the best slicers the New Republic has on deck. Not many systems Kyl can't cut to ribbons if he sets his mind to it. That's how he and Sinjir met-two jobs back, hunting Moff Gorgon, the crew needed someone to break into an interrogator droid's head, and Temmin wasn't up to the task. They brought in Conder Kyl.

Conder, whom Sinjir just publicly rebuked.

"It's not that," Sinjir says. "Not exactly. The Empire..." Well, he's explained this all before, hasn't he? Conder knows the deal. The Empire cared little about any sexual or romantic entanglements, provided they didn't have to see it. No matter what your peccadilloes, the manual of decorum made it clear that you kept all of that behind closed doors. (Especially if it violated any of the Empire's family initiatives-they wanted breeders above all else.) Worse, Sinjir knew all too well that affection was a weakness. Relationships were a rope to tie around your throat-a rope all too easy to tug and choke. First thing he did when investigating one of his own for disloyalty was find out whom they were bedding. It was always a vital weak spot-as vital and as weak as stabbing a thumb into a person's windpipe or pumping a fist into his kidneys. Knowing who loved whom was a path to exploitation and control. "Affection exposes us. I don't want us exposed. And look, people are staring."

The angler continues to stare down into her drink. The young man in his fancy shirt keeps gazing at his datapad. The bartender stands off to the side, polishing glasses.

"Oh, yeah," Conder says. "I feel completely dissected."

"Well, what do you know?" Sinjir sips his caf loudly.

From behind them, footsteps against the pebbles. Bulabirds chatter and hop as two other customers step up to the bar. Sinjir has seen them here before: Both are pilots for the New Republic. The first is a long-nosed Chandrilan with a faint scar across his brow. The other a slump-shouldered woman with pocked cheeks and a permanent scowl screwed to her ugly mug.

Mister Browscar steps up to the other side of Sinjir, raps his knuckles on the bar, and calls to the bartender: "A balmgruyt. Now."

"Two," Miss Scowlface says, slapping the bar.

As the bartender fetches their drinks, Browscar looks over and glowers long and hard at Sinjir. "I don't like your kind," he says.

Sinjir applauds. "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much for proving my point. See, Conder? These pilots do not approve of our lifestyle."

Scowlface pokes her head up over Browscar's shoulder and her eyes narrow. She sticks her chin out. "We don't like Imperials around here."

So disappointing.

"That's your problem?" Sinjir blusters.

"He's not an Imperial," Conder says, standing up. "He's on our side."

"Well," Sinjir corrects, "let's not go that far-"

"He's a kriffing Imp is what he is." Browscar leans forward, baring his teeth. Sinjir can smell the spirits on his breath; the man's already lit up like a laser battery. "A blackarmor, corner-turning cur who'll cut our throats if we let him. We don't like his kind. We don't care for Imp-lovers, either."

"I get it," Sinjir says, faking a sip from his mug of caf, a mug he fully intends to break over this man's fool head. "I do. For a long time, the Galactic Empire has run roughshod over every system and station-from the warm gooey center of the Core to the coldest fringes of the Outer Rim. But the Empire is breaking apart and now all us bad guys are showing up at your door with a shrug and a smile and asking to be forgiven. And we probably don't deserve it, yet here we are. That presents a problem for you because now the question is: Will you prove that you're truly the champions of the galaxy? Are you the good guys who can forgive, or are you just as bad as-"

Bam. Sinjir's head snaps back from the hit. It's got power behind it, but it's as inelegant and imprecise as a stampeding nerf-his brain rattles, but he doesn't taste blood. He licks his lips to be sure. Nope.

His hand curls around the mug. The caf is still hot.

It'll leave a lovely burn across the man's scalp.

But then Conder's hand finds his, and steadies it. "We can just go," the slicer says in his ear. A breathy whisper. Not scared. Simply confident.

The pilot stands. Browscar's hands are squeezed into fists and he's ready for the fight. The man is just itching for it. Sinjir echoes that itch-it crawls inside him like wires in his blood, hot and electric.

All Sinjir does, though, is nod. "Good night, gents."

Browscar and Scowlface seem taken aback as Sinjir and Conder lock arms and leave. The caf mug still on the bar, steaming.

- Morning. Same beach, same sea, same bar.

Sinjir had gone, but now he's back. He left Conder and a warm bed behind. A proper bookend to the night, he thought at the time-that before he drank more and passed out right there.

The smeary light of sunrise melts across Sinjir's shut eyes. He smacks his lips and peels himself off the bar top. It makes a noticeable sound, like unwrapping a bandage from a sticky wound.

His mouth tastes of- What is that? Ah. Yes. Tsiraki. A liquor born of fermented salakberry and pickling spices. Sour and sweet and totally terrible and also amazing.

He blinks sleep from his eyes. His head still feels wobbly. Which is good, because that means the hangover has not yet gotten its claws into him. A little hair of the garral then to keep him going and- Ugh, but where oh where has that pesky bartender gone?

That's grumpy-making.

It's then, though, that he realizes someone is sitting next to him.

"Hello, you," he says.

"You brined yourself quite effectively," Jas Emari says. She's on the stool next to him, picking her teeth with a narrow-bladed knife.

"Hm? Yes. Tsiraki."

She makes a face.

"Don't judge until you've partaken," he mumbles.

"I have. It tastes like slug bile."

"You don't drink. You're not a connoisseur." But he yawns and stretches. "That's why we make fine friends, though. You're the no-nonsense get-it-done bounty hunter, and I'm the soggy-but-lovable agent provocateur. They should do a HoloNet show about us now that the Empire's stranglehold over the media has all but fallen away."

"You're mad at me," she says.

"What? No," he lies.

"Was it Jom? Are you really mad about him?"

"Are we really doing this? Right now?" But he can see by the steel in her gaze that the Zabrak is quite serious, indeed. "Blech. Fine. No, it's not Jom. You do what you like when pantsless. It's..." He doesn't want to say it, so for a moment he just lets the words dissolve into a kind of throaty growl until he can finally articulate: "It's the plan. Your plan at Slussen Canker's fortress. You went ahead and played your little scheme and you told the boy but you didn't tell me."

"I should have. I concede."

"I don't like being in the dark. Not with you. It makes me squirrelly. And it's not just that. It's...I didn't know. I had no idea you were pulling a fast one on us all. That sort of thing, I can usually see it long before it drops out of hyperspace. But somehow you kept it from me. The boy did, too. I'm either losing my touch or-"

"Or you trust us."

"I do."

"That bothers you."

"It does." Now it's his turn to make a face. "Let me ask you something."

"Ask."

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"This. The team. The New Republic."

She cleans the tip of her blade with the pad of her thumb and shrugs. "I don't know. Credits. Debts."

"I don't quite believe you."

"So don't. Why do you do it?"

"I'm bored."

It's her turn to say it: "Now I don't quite believe you."