Band-Aids Don't Fix Bullet Holes

[Bee]

THE EXPANSION REGION COORDINATES UNKNOWN ​

THE JADE PHOENIX 0220 HOURS​

They called it The Jade Phoenix, but as far as Alba could tell, the captain really should've named it The Jade Piece of Shit instead. The Ronto-class transport ship was practically prehistoric, all sharp, awkward angles that were as inefficient as they were retro, and the hull itself had been painted a shade of sickening pea soup green that was so offensive it made her wish for temporary colorblindness. It was bad, but a ship was a ship. With a fake identity that barely held water and a only a few thousand credits to her name, Alba could hardly be picky about her choice of intergalactic transportation, and the pilot seemed capable enough not to drive the whole thing into a stray asteroid - so what did it matter, really? So what, if it was ugly. So what, if it was old. Maybe the ship's unimpressive appearance would be enough to deter both pirates and Imperial patrol ships alike, and maybe - just maybe - she'd make it to her destination in one piece, without having to blast her way out of an awkward situation. A girl could dream. Or perhaps she would've had such pleasant dreams - dreams of an easy ride through the galaxy, of being safe and alone and living a quiet, penitent life forever - if she could sleep, but all Alba could do was toss and turn, staring at the ceiling of her bunk as though it might hold the answers to the insomnia that plagued her. Sleep is like a cat, her commander had always said. It only comes when you aren't looking for it. But it was two in the morning - though day and night were somewhat nebulous concepts in the middle of space, the clocks still kept time and she was still dog tired - and there was nothing else to look for, nothing else to call, nothing more worthwhile to seek. With a groan, she changed positions. Face down, arms wrapped around a scratchy pillow, she wanted to scream. Were sleepless nights a punishment for what she had done? It was a cruel and unusual thing to be deprived of something so essential, and Alba couldn't help but resent her guilty, restless thoughts, and the memories that came unbidden when she let her mind wander. The blood, the screaming - it had been weeks, but gods, she could still smell it on her skin. It was a stain that refused to wash away, no matter how hard she scrubbed, no matter how raw she rubbed her arms and legs and hands and face. She'd given up on trying. Resigned to her fate, she swung her legs over the side of her rented bed and pulled on the nearest pieces of clothing she could find. A white t-shirt, two sizes too large, tucked into a pair of dark pants that were similarly oversized, cinched with a belt to prevent them from falling. She wandered the ship's halls in bare feet, shuffling toward the lounge with all the enthusiasm of a teenager faced with a math exam, making a beeline for the icebox that, Force willing, contained something resembling a beer.

 

[Apocrypha]

One table in the corner of the half-empty lounge was, not-so-miraculously, polluting the rest of the room with cigarra smoke, the sweet odor of cheap, hard liquor, and intermittent red-faced swearing. Four men lined the table, upturned juice crates planted beneath their rears, sabacc cards in each of their hands - and with a sizable pot on the makeshift table. The table's talent seemed evenly split, with two nervous men hedging their bets and two more as cool as cucumbers.

"Ante up, Grey," one calm man said to another.

"Twenty in the hand," Rorik shot back coolly, sliding forward a handful of credit chits, "thirty in the pot."

The two anxious men between them made their discomfort evident, one groaning pitifully. "I just can't do this," he remarked, laying his cards down on the table and shuffling halfway to his feet. Rorik's hand deftly snaked about the fleeing man's wrist as he shook his head:

"You aren't going anywhere 'til the hand's up, Bex." Bex looked uncertain, glancing at the other players; "Sit," Rorik insisted. Bex took his seat.

"Grey's the last one in," the calm man continued, laying his cards down. "Show 'em." One by one they lay their hands flat on the table, face-up; 18 from one nervous man, -19 from the other. The calm man let a sly grin crack his cool demeanor as he tapped the 23 in front of him. "Hand's mine," he said, reaching for the pot.

"Not so fast," Rorik replied, turning his own cards over. "None-two-three," he remarked glibly, a wry smile on his lips. "Idiot's array," he said, both hands hauling the pile of credit chits over to himself - "and that's game, gentlemen." He reached across the table, snatching a lit cigarra out of the formerly calm man's hand, leaning back and kicking up his boots on the table. Rorik took a long drag, blowing out sweet tobacco smoke.

"That's it for tonight, gentlemen. Feel free to donate more of your savings to me tomorrow night."

 

[Bee]

The voices were little more than background noise as she moved through the corridor, one hand reaching up to scratch absently at the side of her head that had been shaved down, enjoying the feel of the short, soft hair beneath her fingers. Her entire appearance spoke of her struggle: her asymmetrical haircut was a mess of curls and color, her clothes were wrinkled, and her posture sagged some with the weight of yet another sleepless night, though she managed to stand upright as the door to the chill chest swung closed. A bright green bottle of Ebla beer in hand, she rested the cap end against the countertop, tilted it to a slight angle, and gave it a quick, firm tap with an open palm. Like clockwork, the bottle opened with a telltale hiss, as Alba collected the crimped piece of metal and tossed it into the nearest bin. While not the best beer the galaxy had to offer it was refreshing in it's own way, and as she pressed the bottle to her lips she observed the trio of dejected gamblers as they waddled off toward the hall, their pockets light and their spirits low. They grumbled amongst themselves as they went, the very picture of sore losers.

Clicking her tongue at the display, Alba's attention settled on the lone man at the table, his profile obscured by the lingering smoke and the dim, yellow lighting. She didn't recognize him. Then again, she spent almost every hour of every day in her bunk - it wasn't as though she went out of her way to make friends, or even learn the names of her fellow passengers. The gamblers would've no doubt regarded her with confusion had they not been so wrapped up in their unlucky misery, but instead they exited without incident, leaving her to her beer as though she could somehow pass for one of the guys. Hell, maybe she did. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the galaxy.

The trio had long since left by the time she found it in her to speak, leaning back against the worn wood of the counter as though it was just so difficult to carry her weight around. "Better be careful." There was a hint of something playful in her warning, a kind of sardonic amusement that manifested in the sound of her voice and the lopsided smirk on her face. "Those boys look like they're about ready to mug the shit out of you." Not that it was any of her business if they did.

 

[Apocrypha]

His eyes wandered towards Alba, tracing her figure thoughtfully before answering.

"Thank you for your advice, dear," Rorik said, his voice heavily accented by his upbringing in Coruscant's undercity, "but I'd love to see them try." Shifting his coat backwards just a smidgen, he revealed a rather nasty looking heavy blaster holstered in a gun belt about his hips. He added, "They won't be the first - and they certainly won't be the last," tapping loose ash from the end of his cigarra into a tray on the table.

"Care to join me?"

Rorik motioned towards the opposite end of the table before dragging on his cigarra, puffing thick smoke out of his nostrils quietly as he transferred the chits one by one onto his own chit. It was a sizable take, all in all, a couple hundred credits to bolster his personal account. He needed every cred he could find to keep moving - which is exactly why he cheated all of those men out of their money. Rigging a game of sabacc was child's play to even a half-trained Padawan, much less to a Jedi Knight; reading cards, stacking decks and basic sleight of hand were laughably easy.

Rooking fools out of their money in a game of cards might be against some code of conduct for the Jedi - but, in truth, Rorik no longer considered himself a Jedi. Not a member of the Jedi Order, at any rate; his "home" had been blasted to bits by an overzealous empire intent on eradicating the last minute pocket of resistance in the galaxy, and - given the state of things when he fled Anoth - Rorik felt that the Jedi Order, in its current state, had absolutely no chance at turning the tide. Might as well kick back and enjoy the scenery.

 

[Bee]

Like some poor idiot who hadn't had a drink in days, Alba drained the first bottle as though it held all the secrets of the universe beneath it's cap. It was cold and a little bitter and the carbonation made her lips feel weird, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant, and as Rorik spoke she retreated back into the fridge for another serving. Turning her head just in time to catch a glimpse of the blaster at his hip, she exhaled a silent chuckle and put another dent in the wooden counter in an attempt to pry open her beer. "Fair enough, I suppose." It was a good idea to be armed - Alba wasn't sure he could see the pistol wedged against her back, but her shirt was made up of a thin enough material that it seemed pointless to assume no one would notice it.

"Depends," she offered with a shrug, the picture of cavalier indifference. "I'm not really in the mood to wind up broke." Alba didn't have a lot of money, but she had some - selling off the ship she'd evacuated Naboo in for scrap had helped quite a bit - and she was somewhat attached to the chits she'd accrued. It was a strange thing, not being on any Imperial payroll, and though she'd had her grievances with the Empire and how they handled certain Skywalker-related reveals, the idea of actually deserting the 501st​ had never actually crossed her mind, until the day it happened. With a bit more foresight, she could've at least drained her bank account and put together a bug-out bag or something. But if she'd known about the ambush on Naboo and all the moments leading up to her departure, her life would've no doubt taken a different turn.

Without waiting for an answer, Alba grabbed a bag of half-eaten crisps off the counter and crossed the lounge, plopping down across from Rorik and setting her beer down on the table. She looked tired: it was in her eyes, along with a kind of vague, undefinable sadness that was as absolute as the color of her eyes or the angle of her jaw. Immovable, absolute, ever-present. But she wasn't looking to wallow in her misery. Rather, she wanted to get just drunk enough to sleep, regardless of what kind of dreams waited for her there. Nose wrinkling some as the smoke filled her lungs, she waved the bag of salty chips in his direction. "You get picked up recently, or what?"

 

[Apocrypha]

"Something like that," he replied, eyes cast down as he stacked sabacc cards, one atop the other. "We don't have to play, if you'd rather not," Rorik assured her, glancing at the barroom door, breaking out in a thin smile. "I've earned the lion's share tonight off the backs of those fools; I'm fine for now."

"Instead," he went on, rapping his knuckles across the table, flashing her a grin, "we can play for secrets." Leaning forward, he stubbed out the cigarra in an ash tray and folded his arms over on the table. "If I win a hand, you can tell me who trained you to be a soldier." Her reaction was, presumably, one of surprise: "Don't pretend to be scandalized," he waved her away. "It's self-evident, dear. You may not wear a uniform these days, but I'd say it's been a long time since that lovely figure didn't have a big, bad suit of armor on it day in, day out. It's in the way you walk, and carry yourself."

He threw back the dregs of his drink with a grimace followed by a chuckle, shaking his head; "It takes one warrior to know another, y'know?"

 

[Bee]

Frankly, playing for secrets sounded like a hell of a way to wind up without a pair of pants. It wasn't the kind of betting she was used to - soldiers generally bartered for far more useful things than a glimpse of a sports bra - but she was sober and awake and drinking beer. It'd take more than a couple bottles to remove her decency, and more than that to convince her that any secrets hidden beneath her clothing were worth sharing. Even better, he seemed far more interested in where she was from than anything so suggestive, or he disguised his intentions well. She wasn't a Forcer, she couldn't read his mind, and life was far easier when she took people at their word. Second-guessing a perfect stranger seemed like a waste of time.

"Lovely?" There was an air of incredulity in her tone, and Alba wished she had it in her to let out some window-rattling belch in response. Sadly, it wasn't in the cards. Instead, she made a vague gesture toward the deck, accepting his terms without quite saying it aloud. "Well, now I know you're full of shit," she teased, trying her hardest not to sound genuinely cruel. No one in the Corps called her lovely. They called her a sunshine sometimes - she was always just so kriffing happy, and up at the asscrack of dawn - but it always felt a bit patronizing. Like a joke she wasn't entirely in on, but it wasn't completely offensive so she let it slide. There were worse things to be, if nothing else.

When the cards appeared, Alba couldn't help but shake her head. Negative four. Never did have the greatest luck with cards. "Not a soldier, just a merc. Nothing special." It seemed impossible that his cards could be worse than hers, meaning there was no point in delaying the inevitable. While it seemed useless to lie to someone she'd never see again, it also seemed hilariously impractical to run around bragging about running away from the Empire.

 

[Apocrypha]

Opting instead to deal, rather than reply to her estimation of how brown his eyes were, Rorik passed out a handful of cards between the both of them. He left the deck alone for the first hand, instead choosing to give chance its turn - or the illusion of chance, per Jedi philosophy. He didn't have to probe her mind to figure out that she'd drawn bust, and he certainly didn't have to strain himself to determine that she was lying to him.

"You're in alarmingly good shape for a gunslinger with hardly enough work to buy armor or a gun better than the peashooter cuddling up with the small of your back," Rorik remarked with a wink. "Why lie about yourself?" He clicked his tongue thoughtfully, tapping his knuckles against cards waiting to be dealt. "Have it your way," he relented after a terse moment of silence, handing her a few more cards.

"Seems your luck's returned," he noted; she had drawn a -23 to his 19, thanks to his own agile fingers. A skill that he'd perfected in gambling dens on the Smuggler's Moon. He had always suspected that his affinity to the Force had made the matter much easier. "Go on then," Rorik said, leaning back, "ask me a question, stranger."

 

[Bee]

It was strange to think that life could be so easy - so normal. Alba imagined that being a deserter would be fraught with difficulty and a permanent sense of paranoid dread. And while she struggled with the memories of Naboo on a nightly basis - and had a hard time wandering through spaceports without courting an anxiety attack - her day to day life was, well, kind of okay. Having a conversation with a perfect stranger over a deck of cards wasn't something she envisioned for herself, and yet here they were: he was a seemingly normal, good looking guy, treating her like anything but a piece of human wreckage. It was weird. Weirder still, she actually liked it.

"Are you always this forward with strange women on transport ships?" There was no malice in her tone, and it certainly wasn't an accusation. Rather she was simply trying to change gears, to deflect his interest in her former profession to something else. Something harmless, something less bloody, something easier to talk about. The galaxy was full of people who didn't like the Empire, and being outed as a former Stormtrooper wasn't the greatest way to make friends, even the single-serving kind. Not that I mind, she wanted to say, but the words didn't quite come through.

In the Corps, she'd been infamously shit at cards. Whether they were being dealt by a droid or a pair of real human hands, it didn't matter. Her luck was rubbish. It couldn't return because she never had it in the first place, and so when the next hand wound up in her favor, there was no way to disguise her shock. Alba's eyebrows raised and she let out a clipped laugh at the sight, bewildered and amused and only vaguely suspicious that he was somehow, someway, messing with her. Maybe he had a card up his sleeve. Maybe he'd stacked the deck when she wasn't looking. Or maybe, in another weird turn, she really was a little bit luckier than she had been. "All right, uh, something simple, I guess. Where are you from? What's your name?"

 

[Apocrypha]

"Only when they're as pleasant as you, dear," he shot back coolly.

"Can't guess where I'm from?" Rorik asked, somewhat astonished. "I take it you've never been to Coruscant - most folks can pin me right away." The coarseness of his tongue was a dead giveaway that he had come from the poorer under-city ghetto - but he felt no need to point that out. Growing up poorer than poor was an old wound, healed now, but uninteresting table chatter nonetheless. "Sailors named me 'Grey,' something to do with my eyes, I suspect."

"If you want my real name," Rorik went on, leaning in and lowering his voice, "you'll have to convince me to give it up." Leaning back, he inclined his head, raising his eyebrows - "Could be a wanted man, y'know. Ruthless killer. Frak, maybe I'm a genocidal AWOL Imperial General, 'eh? Glassed a whole planet and fled for my life. Or the galaxy's brightest scientific mind, on the run from those that would use my genius for their own evil purposes!"

"Or," he offered after a pause, grinning, "maybe I'm a puffed up low-tag bounty board scavenger, hm? Who's to say?"

 

[Bee]

Alba shook her head. "Nope, never." It was another lie, albeit a small one. She'd been to Coruscant plenty of times, but only after it's destruction at the hands of the Sith. It was strange that the Empire had turned the planet into one of their strongholds, given all the death and disorder that surrounded it, and being stationed there was always difficult to stomach. But perhaps leaving it to rot was a wasteful thing - or maybe they wanted to send a message to the Jedi, further driving the point home about how they'd conquered the Jewel of the Core without opposition. Either way, it was a creepy place to be, and she certainly hadn't met any locals who had any kind of accent in her line of work, especially ten years after the fact. Squinting, she leaned forward at the mention of his eyes, trying to discern whether or not they were a true grey, or some shade of blue that just looked pale in the right lighting. After a moment of inspection, the lopsided smile returned. "That must be it."

Leaning back in her seat, legs crossing beneath the table as she tried to get comfortable, Alba rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion as though any of his suggested identities were just too far fetched to be real. They were perfect strangers and it was beyond possible that he was some great scientist or horrible warlord, but he seemed a bit too normal for that. Voice lowering, she responded in kind, conspiratorial and vaguely suggestive without committing too much effort to the act. "The only convincing I'm any good at tends to hurt, dear." There was nothing especially serious about the threat. She wasn't so weird as to try and beat the crap out of someone, and even threatening it was hard to do with a completely straight face. It just seemed so stupid, like bullshit alpha male behavior, that she couldn't help but laugh.

Raising the bottle back to her lips as he dealt the next hand, Alba knew she was hosed before he revealed his winning combination. Her victory had been a fluke. Made sense, really. His pair of questions seemed simple enough, and when he requested her name she answered without hesitation. "Alba." While the rest of her lies were flimsy, her fake identity was given with a confidence and conviction that meant it was either her real name, or an identity she was very attached to - not some throwaway alias she'd conjured up on the spot. His second, on the other hand, was far more difficult. She was running from a lot of things, after all.

"Responsibility, mostly. Regret, I guess." It was the first straight answer she'd given him all evening.

 

[Apocrypha]

"Alba," he repeated, scratching his chin. "I could bluff and insist that it's a beautiful name for a beautiful girl - or I could be honest and say that it doesn't sound much like a name to begin with." Rorik snickered, shaking his head; "I'm fairly certain I've been to a planet named Alba, come to think of it." Who knew? It was possible. During his tenure as a Padawan, Rorik had visited far too many planets and met far too many people to remember every one.

"Responsibility and regret are great motivators," he agreed, nodding his head. "I've done my fair share of guilt-fleeing. I've found, however, that there is one sure-fire method of beating back the sorrow." He raised his index finger, indicating that she might wait a moment, then left the table.

After a few moments, Rorik returned with two glasses and a large, green-glass bottle of some foul-smelling booze. "Now, this is more or less the most bottom-bottom shelf you can find," he explained, pouring three fingers into both of their glasses, "so much so as to be located in the basement, in fact - but it will certainly drive away the blues." He corked the bottle and sat it back on the table, taking his seat once more.

"Along with most other cognitive function, in fact."

 

[Bee]

"Yeah, well. Maybe my parents just wanted something that sounded exotic." There was no doubt in her mind that some couple in the middle of a sandy nowhere planet named their kid Naboo or Zeltros, trying to sound sophisticated, without taking into account just how stupid it might sound. Alba was a fairly inoffensive name. Short, easy to remember, feminine enough that no one would hear it and think she was a man. And it wasn't related to her old life as a soldier, nor was it one she'd ever heard among the Empire. "It's more of a name than Grey, anyway." No one was named after colors anymore. It was just too cliche.

Curious, but careful not to seem too eager, Alba watched him as he departed with a slight tilt of her head. The bottle he returned with, oddly enough, looked a bit like the beer she'd pulled from the fridge, but it smelled ten times worse and didn't quite look the same when poured into a glass. Opening her mouth as though to speak, she managed only a slight noise of hesitation, before her fingers wrapped around the offered glass, as though resigned to her fate. "Well, that's good. I've always held a certain fondness for being comatose." Despite her history and somewhat muscular physique, Alba wasn't a drinker. She was the type of person who got tipsy on a couple beers and avoided hard liquor on principle, knowing full well she wasn't equipped to handle that level of intoxication. Somewhat tellingly, she knocked back the majority of what he'd offered her in one gulp, face scrunching up behind the back of her hand as she realized what a terrible mistake she'd made.

"Oh, no." It tasted terrible. Like heat and death and poison and regret. "No, no, no. This is horrible. What the kriff is wrong with you?" Reaching for her beer, she took a long pull from the bottle to try and drown the lingering taste of the bad stuff, shoving the mostly empty glass toward the center of the table.

 

[Apocrypha]

"Mm," he agreed, "though I've already said that Grey is not, in fact, my name." He swirled his glass around in his hand a bit before adding, "I won't begrudge the boys their nickname, though. Not a lot of folks on the ship provide any entertainment - and they seem to genuinely enjoy when I viciously spank them at sabacc."

Rorik watched her down the drink - and couldn't help but guffaw at her reaction to the foul concoction. "I never said it was pretty, dear," he insisted, throwing his own glass back without hesitation. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sighed in what might be contentment: "I've actually grown fairly fond of the taste, you know."

He uncorked the bottle, pouring them both another two fingers, grinning wildly at her. "Don't tell me Ms. Big Bad Merc is too cowardly to match a man name after a color in chugging rotgut." Without further ado, he spiked the liquid into his mouth without so much as a squeak, slamming his glass down on the tabletop once he was done.

 

[Bee]

"No, but it's all you've given me so far. What else am I supposed to call you?" In truth, his name wasn't especially important. He was one of a hundred or so passengers on the transport, and it was entirely possible their paths would diverge in a day or two. Maybe there was a drop-off coming up soon. It would explain why he was up in the middle of the 'night', and why he seemed to show no indication of slowing down. Still, there was no harm in teasing him about it. If his name really was Grey, she'd feel a bit bad for the remark, but her instincts told her he was being more or less truthful, and if anything it was just a convenient label bestowed upon him by the poor idiots who so willingly gave up their creds.

Alba - or Tiya, anyway - had been a relatively good girl. She never did spice, and waited until she was of age to partake in any kind of alcohol. She'd fallen into the same trap any number of young people so often did: she over-indulged on her birthday, felt sick for days, and swore off the hard stuff entirely. Beer was okay. Hell, sometimes beer was good when she was desperate, but anything that tasted or smelled like it belonged in a first aid kit was too strong for her. Drinking chemicals just felt wrong, and the inevitable headache in the morning after was something to be avoided at all costs. "Ugh." Was he being serious? "You like horrible things, then. I'm not sorry." It was a little rude, but he didn't seem like the type to be hurt by it.

Still, she couldn't help but reach for the glass when he filled it back up, holding it at arm's length. Tilting it toward herself, as though inspecting it for anything strange, Alba shook her head. "Depends on whether or not he's gonna keep dodging half my questions."

 

[Apocrypha]

Waggling his finger at her, Rorik shook his head. "By my reckoning, I've only avoided giving you my real name," he replied. "Besides that, I just so happen to know that you are, yourself, feeding me an alias, Alba." He waved his hand dismissively; they could both know each other under fictional names. Odds are they would never see each other again, after one or the other departed from the ship. He wasn't entirely sure who would leave first - primarily because he didn't know when he planned to get off.

"So, if you want my given name, you'll have to give me yours. I'm not too fussy about it, though: you can just ask me another question and keep your name to yourself." Rorik quickly refilled their glasses, eager to see if she would eventually fold and refuse to drink anymore. He was, himself, beginning to feel the buzz. In the past, he had used alcohol as a means of gaining seedier folks' trust: most thugs and career criminals would give any man that could drink them under the table a healthy dose of respect. Given his ability to slow toxins and lessen their power over him through the Force, it wasn't particularly difficult to out-drink your average person.

Tonight, however, he felt the urge - one that came along every now and again, unbidden but strong enough - to let the booze overtake him without any interference. Why not? As long as he was sober enough to point his pistol at anybody that wanted to do him harm, he was safe.

"I'll give you one, then you give me one - sound fair?" Rorik pointed at her head, grinning. "My question is: who cut your hair? Because it's, ah... it's cute, but it's just a wee uneven."

 

[Bee]

The idea of using an alias wasn't exactly a strange one. Not for mercenaries, anyway - or for people who traveled on seedy ships going to places unknown. It was a little frustrating that he seemed so fixated on the lie, because for Alba, it wasn't an untruth: Tiya had been an Imperial. She had been a Sergeant. But Alba was just a drifter, a wanderer in a vast and unknowable universe. For all intent and purposes, Tiya was dead - and with a little bit of luck, the Imperium had declared her deceased, rather than outing her for what she truly was. On the other hand, he'd only given her what the gamblers called him. It didn't sound like it was a name he'd chosen, or one he would even respond to without a bottle in his hand and a deck of cards at the table. It bugged her, but she was stubborn, and it wasn't worth starting a fight over, at the end of the day.

"Shouldn't matter what I was born with," she protested with a sigh. "Alba's my name, now. It's the only one I'll answer to." With that, Alba shrugged. She wasn't a soldier, she wasn't Tiya, and she wasn't going to delve into her past to make him feel better. Swirling the liquid in her glass, but making no real move to actually drink it, she considered his offer and managed a slight nod, acquiescing to his suggested tit-for-tat.

Expecting something far more serious than what she got, Alba reached up to scratch the short side of her hair, raking her fingers through the multicolored mess as if she'd forgotten it was there, until he mentioned it. "What, you don't like it?" Laughing, it was obvious she wasn't sure what to say. "I did it myself in a hotel bathroom on Zeltros. I love it." It was so wildly against regulation that she could do nothing but like it. And pink, despite it's designation as a girl's color, was definitely one of her favorites.

Drumming her fingers on the table for a moment, lips pursed in thought, Alba searched her mind for the most ridiculous question she could think of. Suggesting his hair was strange somehow was a low bar - and no one liked playing the question game against someone who re-used their opponent's inquiry. It was simply bad form. "Okay, so. You win a droid in a holonet contest. It can only be programmed to do one thing, but that one thing can be whatever the hell you want. What would you have it programmed to do?"

 

[Apocrypha]

"I do," he assured her, laughing. "That's why I said it was cute, you know." Swirling the bit of disgusting, hazy grog left in his tin cup, Rorik eyed her approvingly, inclining his head as if he'd just remembered something: "Somehow it reminds me of an old flame, in fact." Half-recanting, he waved his hand, "Maybe flame isn't the right word; a troublesome troublemaker with an undercoat of good in her, I always suspected."

"I haven't seen her in years," he remarked, throwing back the last of his rotgut. "Enough reminiscing, though. Past's the past, can't change that. I like your hair, Alba, and I'll call you whatever you'd like. My name is Rorik. Whether it's plain or unique depends on where you hail from, I suppose, but ah... circumstances lead me into a life whereupon my name wasn't particularly meaningful. Just my job. Just my title. Rorik doesn't hold much water, and people seem content enough with giving me their own name, once I pique their interest."

Pouring himself another finger - there was, perhaps, four left in the bottle - Rorik scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully, playing his fingertips across the tin cup's rim. "I can program a droid to do anything," he repeated, "but only one thing." After a moment, he grinned slyly, but waved his hand: "I won't be crude. Seems unfitting. If we're talking anything - even an outlandish anything - I'd program it to be the best repair droid a man or woman could ever ask for. Can you imagine? Your ship in a perpetual state of repair, never wanting for anything. No calibrations, no adjusting to a bent yoke, no listening to mismatched panels rattle about. Sounds beautiful."

That said, he tossed back his drink, smiling appreciatively.

"A mirror on the wall can show - and give - whatever you most desire, right? What is that, in this moment?"