Booze & Reacquaintances

[Apocrypha]

The Poison Pit: a more wretched hive of scum and - oh, whatever, everyone knew the spiel. It was a dirty place. A disgusting place, even - consumed with highly suspect lucre, dangerous drinks, and unsavory folks, the Pit was, believe it or not, a cut below the rest of the dive bars on Nar Shadda. Directly adjacent to a brothel, it boasted a handful of Sabacc tables, excess seating, and a better-left-alone bar front and center. The patronage of the Pit were, typically, spacers, bounty hunters, and other societal dregs that had either found themselves ejected from every "respectable" venue around, or - equally as frequent - men who had to get good and blitzed before sauntering into the whorehouse across the street. The back door was a one way ticket to blaster-point muggings in the alleyway behind the Pit, and most of the bar's customers paid as little attention to each other as possible - until one of them caught the other using a fixed card in a hand of Sabacc.

Entering the Pit, Rorik Grey immediately found himself desiring egress - though the brunt of Nar Shadda was, predictably, not too many steps above the Pit in terms of hospitality and pleasantries. Though the young Jedi had spent years on the run, often in places quite similar to Nar Shadda and the pit, he had never grown accustomed to them; he could blend in, avoid drawing the ire or the attention of others, but he would never be one of them. He was a Jedi, and his way was that of peace, serenity, and self-awareness - justice and balance. Not prostitutes, gambling, and spices.

Either way, he would suffer the establishment for his current purpose; narrowing his eyes against the hazy, smoke-filled room, the Jedi proceeded to a table in the far corner of the room, seating himself with no fanfare. Unlike the other bars and clubs in the area, these tables had no holoprojectors in lieu of service staff - and, coincidentally, had virtually no service staff, aside from the bartender in the center island.

Who, incidentally, Rorik had his eyes on. He was virtually unnoticeable, but he watched her carefully, studying her movements and her general composition - he was almost certain of who she was, and suppressed the shock rising in his chest. She had changed - of course, so had he - but she had to be her.

Of course, Jedi knew there was no coincidence; there was, simply, the Force.

 

[Bee]

There were women in her position - all hired because they fit some vague aesthetic ideal that allegedly helped sell more cheap liquor - who hated their jobs at the Pit. It was open all hours of the day and night and possessed a thin layer of filth on everything but the private tables and bartop that, despite the efforts of the employees seemed impossible to remove completely. It was full of drunk, handsy spacers from dusk 'til dawn, and the pay, quite frankly, was garbage. No one tipped in a place like the Pit, and even the hours were inconsistent. Employee turnover was high. But Vica liked it, in the way some people enjoyed watching a landspeeder accident: it was horrible, it was messy, but it was exciting and on top of that, she'd been there too long to just up and go. While she didn't own the place, the fact she hadn't run off screaming gave her some leeway as far as the rules went - and meant that cursing out a customer was a nightly occurrence that rarely involved any kind of disciplinary action. As long as they made a profit, her boss didn't care. And - though he'd never say it to her face - there was something interesting about a hot-blooded woman running the bar, something that brought customers back more than the pretty-but-compliant Twi'lek he'd hired for the days she wasn't there.

And that Twi'lek, nice as she was, could never seem to make it in on time. The Pit wasn't particularly busy, not up by the bar - most people congregated around the dealer droids anyway - but it meant she was stuck running her own orders until the girl arrived, which was probably her least favorite part of the job. It meant leaving the relative security of her bar and picking up empty glasses, grabbing refills, and socializing with the terrible people who couldn't get a drink elsewhere, who were too lazy to stagger back to the bar but who she knew who could be talked into buying a round for their friends. Grabbing an oversize serving tray she activated the automated barkeep and crossed her fingers that it wouldn't break down, winding through the cantina to tidy up and take new orders. Her first trip back involved dumping the tray's contents in the sink, and once she was loaded back up with a pitcher of lum and some assorted shots, she braved the crowd again.

Before she could make it to Rorik's side of the room, a pale and misshaped hand reached up to curl around her forearm, unrelenting and strong. Giving Vica a sharp tug, she braced herself on the table and jerked back to prevent herself from coming too close to the wide eyes and pitch black mouth of the inebriated Swokes Swokes that held her tightly, tongue sweeping across his lower lip. His - well, she was assuming it was a him - breath was hot and metallic, and though she couldn't understand what he was saying the message was pretty clear: he wasn't looking for a drink. He was looking for something a bit more exciting than that. Disgusted, she held the table with both hands and used it to keep herself steady, kicking the old chair he sat in with enough force to send him tumbling and knock one of it's legs out, though the latter had more to do with the alien's girth and the way he struggled to remain upright than anything else. For good measure, she pushed the table over too - and added a few choice words that likely went unheard by anyone inclined to listen, though they weren't very nice - before taking one more look at the bar. The droid was on. It wasn't smoking, and it was taking orders.

That meant she could, at least technically, leave. With no belongings to gather she took one last look at the crowd - her shift had ended an hour ago, so why was she reluctant to go? - and headed toward the door, passing by the Jedi's table in the process. It was that distinct presence, that slight ripple in the Force that made the hairs on her arms stand on end, that gave her pause. A few paces away, she slowed down and looked back, confused by the sudden sensation, and narrowed her eyes. Was that..? Was he..? It didn't seem likely, but she turned to move closer to Rorik's table just the same, standing there like a proper waitress for a moment as she looked him over.

In the years that had passed, she'd grown up. Filled out. Still had some odd fixation on tight slacks and leather jackets, but that was about all that remained the same. Taking her time, she studied him like some fancy collector might inspect a painting, a small grin tugging the corner of her lips upward. It had to be. Still stunned, she managed an amused, "What're you doing in a shavit hole like this?" before laughing quietly.

 

[Apocrypha]

"Spying on you, of course," the Jedi shot back, turning his gaze proper upon Vica. So she had changed - somewhat, at least. It wasn't unwelcome. "I find I'm not entirely surprised by your choice of venue for employment." He rose to his feet, smiling down at her, staring for just a moment before he swept a hand towards the door. "Your shift is over, I believe," he said simply. "Would you mind if I accompany you... wherever it is that you're going?"

With that, they were off! Out into the seedy, scary, dank night of Nar Shadda, surrounded by durasteel, droids, blasters, and bounty hunters. Rorik was ever so slightly bemused at just how much money any of these contract killers could stand to make by delivering his corpse to the Imperium - or, even more desirable, delivered him alive. Most wouldn't take that bet, though - not unless they severely overestimated their own skills; a Jedi, Padawan or no, was no easy mark. He oft suspected that, given enough time, a Jedi could pry himself loose from just about any situation.

Now illuminated by the streetlight, Rorik's own changes were more apparent; more muscle, more beard, a little more wisdom behind those eyes - and a touch of sincerely premature grey in his hair. What was most noticeable, however, was his confidence: it was as if the young man had undergone a very powerful change in demeanor and attitude, and he seemed the better for it. More focused, more capable. If anything, he had certainly and noticeably become more powerful in the Force since their last encounter.

"Perhaps I should have expected to find you here - Nar Shadda suits you well, I imagine. Though training at the temple, I think, would serve you better - it is, of course, your choice." He smiled wanly at her, glancing from the corner of his eyes as they strolled at a leisurely pace down the street.

 

[Bee]

Some things hadn't changed: she was still rather tall, enough so that the space between the hem of her shirt and the top of her belt was taken up by a strip of visible pink flesh, and though she'd 'grown up' she still looked like the kind of person in need of a hot meal. Working in a cantina wasn't exactly that great for one's health, nor was trying to get by on the meager credits that came with the position. Not when there were guns to buy, armor to upgrade, and so on. "Yeah," Vi hesitated for just a moment, before producing a small ID card from her back pocket. "Let me clock out." Whether or not she believed that he was spying on her - it didn't seem likely, but it was as possible as anything else - it didn't matter. Her shift was over. They were off.

The moment her boots hit the pavement, Vica stretched her arms up over her head and took in a deep breath, one that relished in the cleanest air the planet could manage. It was certainly better than what circulated in the cantina, thick with smoke and sweat and the sour tinge of what happened when lightweights drank too much, and for that she was thankful. Shoving her hands into her jacket pockets she kept pace with him along the sidewalk, taking another long look up at him when the lighting allowed. It was funny how people aged, sometimes. He looked almost completely different - not in a bad way - while she'd only struggled with buying bigger shirts and the way the bright red color of her hair faded to a white-streaked pink as it grew. Did she prefer the naive light in his eyes? It was tough to say.

Looking at him incredulously, the grin remained. "I don't even know if that's an insult or not." At least he hadn't told her she looked at home on Nal Hutta. But, given their brief history and his do-gooder ways, it probably wasn't the nicest thing to say - he didn't exactly strike her as the type who approved of bounty hunters when they met last - but at least he was consistent when it came to speaking his mind in potentially offensive ways. Except this time, rather than lashing out, she laughed while shaking her head as he carried on. "Come on. It hasn't even been five minutes." Heading across the street, she reached out to give him a light shove. "Not even a 'its nice to see you'? God, you're still an ass." She didn't mean it. Most people tended not to when they were chuckling the whole time.

 

[Apocrypha]

"Of course it's nice to see you," the Jedi replied with a laugh, glancing her direction.

"Besides," he went on, running a hand through his hair, "perhaps you're just too sensitive, mm?" He jammed his hands into his coat's pockets, casting idly around at the cityscape surrounding them. The planet had a sort of charm, in its own, deplorable kind of way - though its denizens were forever giving him bad vibes, or a less-than-pleasant sense through the Force, as it were. This was, really, unsurprising; many of the people on Nar Shadda wanted to do you harm, perhaps to take your valuables, or sometimes even for the fun of it.

"How have you been?" he inquired. "Anything particularly new and exciting in the last three years? A husband? A couple of kids? A nice job tending bar at the Pit?" He grinned, shaking his head - and wondering to himself if she was particularly upset at him for essentially cutting and running the night after. They hadn't done much of anything, sure, but it was rude nonetheless. Three years had passed, though.

Maybe she wasn't the type to hold a grudge.

 

[Bee]

"That might be it," she agreed in a cheerfully sarcastic tone. "Maybe I'm just too emotional to be a Jedi, then." The sidewalks were pretty clear - not many people were brave enough to walk around after dark with a weapon at the ready, and those that did were often times too drunk to be concerned with. And though her voice lowered some when she uttered that word, it was much for his sake as hers. If he was talking about the Temple she was quite certain he'd gone back, and the last thing she wanted was for the one sober set of ears to hear her, and infer that one of them (if not both) was a head worth collecting.

As for holding a grudge, Vica would've had a hard time being upset at him for taking leave in same the way she'd planned on doing. Saving both of them the awkwardness of a 'morning after' wasn't a bad thing - and maybe it was for the best that he'd woken up first. Pulling her hands from her pockets, she held her hands out for inspection, shaking her head. "No, not married. Definitely no kids." Did she look like someone who'd had children? Was she filling out in the wrong places? "And my job is lovely, clearly," she deadpanned, cold fingers finding their way back into her jacket. Stopping at a fairly nondescript building, one lit up with too-bright neon lighting, she pulled open the door and slid inside, easing into a booth away from the windows and doors.

The diner was several orders of magnitude nicer than the Pit, but that didn't exactly make it anything special. Average, for the planet, if anything. On the wall, a set of menu tablets waited to be picked up and tabbed through, while droids worked in the back preparing meals. There were no human employees, at least not visible, and the diner itself wasn't exactly full, either. "What about you? You seem like the type to settle down."

 

[Apocrypha]

Rorik chuckled, shaking his head as he seated himself across from her. "Not yet," he replied. "Even if I did meet somebody, I don't think the term settling down would apply to a person in my line of work." He leaned back and sighed, placing his hands palm-down on the table. "Besides that," he went on, glancing out of the window beside them at the speeders screaming by in the lanes of traffic adjacent to the street, "with the way that galactic society at large views us, I can't imagine attaching myself to somebody on that level would be the best idea."

"So what's your real job?" he inquired, smiling again. "I know you aren't just working the Pit - that isn't you, and if anybody that knew you for more than a day thought it was, they'd have to be insane." He adjusted his belt, drawing a bit of focus from the lightsaber discreetly hidden on his hip with a leather carrying case - to others, it would look more akin to a pouch for spare blaster cartridges, or perhaps some tool.

 

[Bee]

While not generally a creature of habit, Vi almost always ordered the same thing when it came to a post-work meal: one blue milkshake and a plate of starfries. Tonight was no different, her order easily programmed into the menu with a few quick taps, her eyes barely grazing the screen. It felt nice to be off her feet, and even better to be far away from the scummy drunks with wandering hands and tentacles that seemed to believe her body was public property. And Rorik's company wasn't bad, either. "I've heard of it happening," she persisted, teasingly. "Though I guess it's technically against the rules." Was the Order in any position to be so picky, though? Vica genuinely didn't know.

Leaning back in the booth, she fixed him with a surprised look that seemed to border on questioning his intelligence - like the answer was that obvious somehow. "Did you not see the bordello across the street?" Vi raised an eyebrow, letting the question linger until she couldn't hide that stupid grin any longer, shaking her head to dispel the possibility of her ever being caught dead in that line of work. "I get by. Odd jobs here and there, you could say." Odd jobs that involved blasters and the occasional sniper rifle, yes - but there was no need to go into that kind of detail. The brief flash of what could only be his lightsaber, hidden smartly away, didn't go unnoticed. It made her lean in closer, elbows on the table, to speak softly again. "So what color is it?" Clearly, that was the most important part.

 

[Apocrypha]

Rorik inclined his head and quirked his brow at the suggestion, but shook his head and chuckled as a grin broke out across her face. "Oh, of course," he said, watching her place her order. "I know exactly how you feel about those girls, if you'll recall." He mulled over their mutual past, wondering whatever became of Trix - he hadn't been back to Adarlon in three years. Really, why would he be? What an awful place - and if Wan Fa Lon ever found himself out of local custody, there would certainly be a sizable price on the Jedi's head.

"I don't think it's against any rules, though," he remarked, in regards to marriage and relationships. Crossing his arms, Rorik leaned to the wall-adjacent corner of the booth, glancing out at the sparse patrons of the diner. "This isn't the Old Republic. Of course, I was out of the loop for around a decade - I can almost guarantee you that the Masters have far more important things on their mind than what their students are doing between the sheets." He shook his head, chuckling again.

The Jedi raised his eyebrows, unaware that he had even touched his concealed weapon. Ah, yes - she didn't know that he had built another! "Orange," he replied, grinning. "It wasn't my first choice - but I guess you could say it came to me. I've been told that's how it works."

 

[Bee]

"Is that so?" It was a strange thing to think that the Order could be so lax, now. Vica's master - a woman who seemed like she'd be happier with a kidney stone than a Padawan - had been more than just a little old fashioned, and made it clear that straying even slightly from their path could result in disaster. Maybe it was because they operated in between what was light and dark to start with, or maybe Yureria was just a jerk. She genuinely didn't know - but she didn't have plans to get married anytime soon (if at all), much in the same way that she couldn't see herself returning to the Order, either. It made no real difference for her either way.

While she was considering whether or not Jedi could get hitched - they probably could, she just didn't know enough about them anymore to believe one way or ther other - a droid ambled up and dropped both the fries and shake on the table, the latter of which she happily slid closer and searched for a straw to drink it with. "Not exactly a subtle shade, regardless." Giving him the same curious look she'd fixed on him in the cantina, Vi tilted her head some and smiled, as near a genuine one as she'd managed in recent memory, taking a sip of her shake before posing a simple question. "What're you really doing here?"

 

[Apocrypha]

"I don't believe that any colors are particularly subtle, though," he stated, watching her food arrive and frowning in response to her question, glancing around the diner for a moment. "Why am I ever anywhere, Vi?" The Jedi shook his head, looking her in the eyes. "Nothing important - not to you, anyway. You've already helped me once; you certainly don't owe me anything. Believe it or not, I just happened to wander into the Pit and spot you; had no idea you were even on Nar Shadda, truth be told."

He reached out and took one of her fries with alarming alacrity, grinning as he took a bite out of it. He'd never partaken, but they weren't bad - a bit on the greasy side, but the majority of the patrons of a joint like this weren't watching their health.

 

[Pete]

The elongated light of a million stars faded away as the unremarkable ship descended into real-space. Night had fallen on the side of Nar Shaddaa that the grey shuttle faced, though the lights of the city-planet's nightlife remarkably resembled daylight.

Sleek, highly-polished black boots rested on the co-pilots chair, one that had never seen an occupant. The sweeping final movements of the Skaalite Orchestra's final performance slowly filled the cockpit, and once it reached a volume loud enough to wake Dandon Kasst, an artificial voice, clearly feminine, nigh-whispered to him, "Good morning, sir. We've exited hyperspace. Nar Shadda".

"Yes, thank you. How long was I asleep for?", the man mumbled, rubbing his face. A light coat of stubble had formed, he noted, and would have to be removed before landing. "By my calculations, six standard hours, sir. Will you be enjoying a meal, or shall I hail for our landing?", the voice asked him. "I'm not hungry. Pull up my last accessed notes, please. And from now on don't clear them unless I ask you to". Immediately, the view-port was covered in a myriad of documents and photographs that he had been studying not only for the first few hours of the hyperspace trip, but in fact the last few years. Few assignments lasted this long, particularly not one that only involved the death of one man, but this had become something of a personal affair between him and a man who likely didn't even know his hunter's face.

It wasn't that he was hard to track, much less than most of the Jedi that Kasst had hunted and killed in the name of the Empire. Quite the opposite, in fact. This one was quite bad at hiding his tracks, leaving behind him a trail of ill-advised good deeds, and the bodies that typically accompanied such a feat. He used a forged Imperium I.D. card to travel, one of a strain that SIENA watchers had been monitoring for years, and frequently traveled outside of Imperial controlled space, which raised a red-flag in and of itself. The abduction and interrogation of an Adarlonian whore three years ago had filled in vast amounts of dead space in Kasst's investigation, allowing him access to countless hours of surveillance photographs and subsequent questionings. She'd proven quite useful to him before her death, sparing him no detail in exchange for his false promise of quarters. It seemed impossible, a personal affront, that he hadn't witnessed the Jedi's death yet.

And now he was here, staring through the semi-opaque images at the smuggler's moon. He was down there somewhere: Travel records logged to the identification card placed the fugitive here, and it had been confirmed by a two-bit informant working at one of Nar Shaddaa's most prevalent ports, fully unaware of his information's importance, seeing it only as a chance for a hot meal.

Dandon regarded his trophy with fascination, a lightsaber won in a duel that seemed so long ago. The explosive final act of Lord Kavad and his symphony, performed hours before their arrests and subsequent executions, thundered through the ship. Rorik Grey's face predominated the holoscreen, smirking at him in defiance.

---

"What do you mean you don't know?!"

The Rodian spat something that Dandon assumed was the equivalent of blood onto the agent's shoes, a pair of common spacer's boots that had replaced those of his immaculate black uniform. Kasst wore a different uniform now, one that had been literally designed so as to lack anything truly remarkable, a drab ensemble of greys and browns that could have been worn by a tradesman in any number of professions. He drew back his gloved hand to deliver another blow.

"I don't. . know. . I 'ee him leave 'aceport. I no follow him. Not p-p-part of de-". A leather-clad fist cut off the sentence's finale, allowing the creature to collapse onto the abandoned cargo facilities durasteel floor.

"Quit your crying and listen to me, you sniveling pile of filth. If you see him come back through here, you tell me, and you tell me WHERE he is going", Dandon sneered to the Rodian dockworker as he removed his gloves, stuffing them into one of his utility coat's many pockets. "And maybe I'll forget this". Dandon turned and left the alien as it regained its composure, using the wall to steady itself. Stepping out of the spaceport, into the bustling streets of what was undoubtedly one of the galaxies most disgusting planets, Dandon could do nothing but scowl.

 

[Bee]

Considering the ridiculousness of what she'd said, Vica laughed and grabbed a fry. "No, probably not." He was right. There wasn't anything particularly subtle about a lightsaber, unless you counted the hilt. And even then, some Jedi - or Sith, she figured - had some rather ornate ones, which seemed a bit strange for something that likely rarely saw much use anymore, things being what they were. Still, to each his own. With the booth big enough that she could kick her feet up on his side and not run the risk of kicking him, she did just that, slouching down in her seat a little to get more comfortable. "Right, sure." She believed him, but it was more fun to pretend she didn't. "Total coincidence."

The fries were okay, but the milkshake - a strange shade of blue with swirls of what looked like mashed up fruit swimming in it - was the star of the show, sweet but not overly so and comforting enough to keep her from thinking about the awful clientele and absentminded co-workers that ruined her nights on a constant basis. "It's okay if you've been thinking about me all this time, hoping we'd run in again. Hell, I'd be fantasizing about me, too." Maybe not. Vica didn't think she was anything special, but she wasn't looking to take herself home, either.

 

[Apocrypha]

"Mm," he sounded out, eyeing her with an expression that very clearly wondered how serious she was. "You're a lovely woman, Vi," he said after a moment, grinning, "but as you can imagine I've had my platter filled to the brim for the last few years. You might be pleased to know that I've become a bit handier in a scrap - particularly with my you-know-what." No, not his genitals. His lightsaber. Rorik's lightsaber. "I expect you haven't practiced much with yours? Though that would be understandable; I have the benefit of colleagues and superiors, and you have the drawback of being disinclined to be rounded up by bounty hunters." Which, of course, begged the question why did she keep it? He knew she had it - and he suspected that it wasn't just for show, or for tight spots (though it certainly didn't help)... but he didn't ask that, because he had garnered at least a bit of tact in the intervening three years between their last encounter.

"So let me ask you a question." He didn't ask if he could ask her a question, of course - that just wasn't Rorik's style. In fact, prefacing his question with any warning whatsoever was hardly Rorik's style, but maybe he liked her enough to send up flags every now and then - "Why are you wasting your sincerely impressive talent at a dive like the Pit, scrounging up contracts - or whatever - from the local Hutt big-wigs? I've fought alongside you, Vi. I've watched you take terrible men apart, and you helped me disassemble an outfit that was hurting a lot of people - and nobody twisted your arm on that. You came along because you wanted to."

"We need your help, dear. We need a lot of peoples' help, but particularly those that have received some training, and have a lot of raw talent. There aren't a lot of records being kept at the temple, but I - ah, I hope you can forgive my rudeness, but I dug into a few registries about you and your master. I know what happened... but I also know - and surely you must know, yourself - that everybody expected you to spend a few more months preparing and pass your trials with flying colors. Why the change of heart?"

What a damned tirade - but he couldn't help himself. These questions had been gnawing at him for years, now, tenfold since he had the inspiration to dig into her past a bit. He winced, just a bit, clearly expecting an outburst.

 

[Bee]

Waving a hand, she smirked as he dismissed her less than serious accusations. "Sure, sure." Honestly, the fact he'd remembered her name, let alone what she looked like, was a surprise. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy their weekend of derring do, but it had been quite some time ago. Long enough that she'd let go of the idea of seeing him again, because she was just a bit too smart to get hung up over a one-night anything. Even without physical intimacy they'd fostered some kind of connection, and as sad as it was Vica was glad to see it fade away with the passing of time, another thread linking her to what could've been - a life as a Jedi, something she'd never asked for - snipped quietly in two.

"More than you might think," she added quietly, in a small voice not unlike a child in the middle of being reprimanded, wondering just how out of practice he thought she was. Sure, she didn't have holocrons or other Jedi to duel with, but she wasn't shy about brandishing her lightsaber off-world where it was less likely to come back and bite her in the ass, though that didn't exactly count for much, either. Meditation, healing, focusing inward - none of that had been her strength. Combat, quick and dynamic and toeing the line between light and dark, was another matter entirely. If she missed anything, that was it. The one thing her master gave her that hadn't been a cruel life lesson.

Without realizing it, her body tensed when he continued to speak, the idea of a question - one related to being a Jedi, no doubt - enough to make her blood run cold. Normally so easygoing she seemed stiffer, bracing for impact, smirk gone from her lips. But there was no outburst, no shouting or screaming or reaching across the table to hit him, though the latter was something she sorely wanted to do. Instead, Vica was silent. It was neither thoughtful nor penitent, but an obvious effort to keep herself from doing what he seemed to expect with the way he winced, fingers curling into tight fists that sat in her lap going nowhere fast. "None of that is any of your business."

Fishing in the pocket of her jacket, she pulled a few credits from her pocket and tossed them on the table, mumbling something along the lines of, "Nice seeing you," as she got up and headed to the door.

 

[Apocrypha]

"Wait, hold on -" he spluttered, climbing out of the bench and racing after her "-wait, Vi, what-" as he caught up to her, a particularly apropos reminiscence of a very prescient observation - that Vica was spending the majority of her life running away from something - came to mind, and Rorik vaguely wondered if he was at least partially prophetic. "Where are you going!" he demanded, half-question, half-exasperated cry. As they came out into the street, the roar of ships tearing through the atmosphere overhead already bothering Rorik, he put his arms up in the air in frustration.

"I don't know who you are," he said, "but this is beneath you." She seemed determined to ignore him, however, and so he spit out - "Run from it as long as you want, sweetheart," he called, now a distance behind her, "but this life is never going to satisfy you, and you know that." He jammed his hands into his coat pockets, grimacing and doing his best to identify the anger, exasperation, and embarrassment welling up inside his chest - and then gently deny them control of his being.

He lost focus of her for just a moment, a gentle tingling yanking at a stray brain cell - something was amiss. Something. Somewhere. Danger, perhaps? Was it his - or Vica's? Or perhaps another associate, somewhere nearby? It could be anywhere; he had felt the Bothan's life force gutter out from nearly five thousand light years away - and, in the chronicles, he had read of Jedi experienced a strong sense of danger for their allies as far as ten thousand light years away. Nothing terribly specific, but a warning, nonetheless... Rorik could not decipher this one, however. Here on Nar Shadda the Force was muted, in a way - so much life in one singular place made it difficult to pinpoint any one feeling or hazard.

He suspected, in fact, that if she left now he wouldn't even be able to track her down with the Force - as he had done before, with other Jedi.

 

[Bee]

In her head, she imagined herself storming off and taking the long way back to her apartment, just in case he tried to follow her. But in reality she made it to the corner before she turned around, looking very much like someone who was at the end of her rope - which she was - unable to just ignore the words coming out of his mouth. Moving back in his direction, her gait wasn't as loose and easygoing as it had been before; it was determined and slow, with a kind of menacing grace that just about emanated from her slender form. But her voice was measured, low and calm, compared to the loud roar it had been when tempers flared on Adarlon, "I'm not your kriffing sweetheart." Vica drew in a deep breath, unafraid to look him in the eye. "Don't talk to me like we're more than strangers."

Was she really surprised he'd managed to say something stupid again? He did it last time, and while she'd been happy enough to see him that his comments in the cantina were easy to overlook - able to be joked about, even - it felt like he was trying to guilt trip her into returning to the Jedi Order. And if that was a viable recruitment tactic, then they really were more desperate than she could possibly imagine. "No, you really don't know anything about me. And yet you're standing here trying to lecture me like I might care about what you've got to say?" Vi laughed bitterly, throwing her hands up in frustration. "I didn't want to play the hero with you. I saw you and you looked like an easy lay. I wasn't at the Glow Dome," there was some emphasis on the place's name like it was such a ridiculous title, which it kind of was. "To make friends or save pittins from trees."

Looking as though she'd calmed down after saying her piece, she rubbed her chin in thought, almost sizing him up again. "You wanna be a detective, Rorik?" Something about the way he'd admitted to rummaging around in her files was just.. enough to make her stomach churn. Seemingly out of nowhere, she whipped around and brought her fist slamming into his mouth, following through to the extent that she nearly lost her balance toward the end. "Investigate that, laserbrain."

 

[Apocrypha]

Reeling from the blow for a moment, Rorik straightened out, touching his lip and frowning sourly at the blood on his fingers. He wasn't bleeding quite "profusely" caliber just now - more than anything, his own teeth probably did the damage - but he was furious. Were she to see his face for perhaps half a second, she might just feel a tinge of fear. Luckily, he was a Jedi; a man of peace... and besides, he had endured far worse. He centered himself and exhaled in one long, deep trail, staring her in the eyes.

"I apologize," he said curtly, any trace of warmth or friendship in his voice entirely vanished. "I was digging into business that was not mine to uncover, and I presumed too much; it's your life, and it's your decision." The set of his jaw and the emotion behind his eyes spoke volumes about the general absence he was projecting - it seemed that she had very rapidly reduced his opinion of her to virtually nil. For the time being, at any rate. Perhaps his pride was just wounded.

"If you need anything else from me," he said, raising his voice ever so slightly - in a curiously dismissive fashion - "I'll be returning to my transport on Pad 116, Section C6-A. Otherwise, I'll be leaving in a few hours." The Jedi bowed his head, said, "It was a pleasure to see you again," before brushing past her and making his way down the street, vanishing from sight with alarming speed - perhaps he had picked up a trick or two at the temple.

 

[Bee]

"Screw off, already." There was something deeply disturbing in the way he had admitted to the invasion of privacy so easily. Almost like it didn't matter - like he'd learned something that was public knowledge, rather than digging for it in whatever kind of vault the Jedi stored their records of failures and washouts at. Most everyone had expected her to pass those trials, and they expected her to be a fine Knight with a knack for swinging a saber as well. A weaponmaster, her tutor had suggested, but Vica didn't want that life. Her failure had been an intentional one, miserable to the point where it cast doubt on her Master and those who had taught her at the Temple, and that was the point: to remove the thought of her as a Jedi from their minds, because despite their encouragement it just wasn't the life for her. It wasn't where she belonged.

Watching him walk away she expected to feel justified somehow, vindicated maybe; but all she could recognize was anger, a dark feeling burning a hollow hole in her chest, leaving nothing in it's wake. She didn't linger for long, and considered going back inside to finish her meal. Glancing through the window, the sight of a droid clearing her place was enough to convince her to move on, jogging across the street and in the direction of her apartment.

 

[Apocrypha]

Rorik marched stolidly towards the nearest hub of public transit, paid for a ticket, and seated himself aboard without so much as a glance spared to the other sentients near him. He turned things over in his mind quietly, tracing the outline of his lightsaber against his hip - still reasonably concealed, but comforting in its presence - and began to soothe himself; he shouldn't have expected much else from an encounter with the Zeltron. It was, perhaps, the very nature of their dynamic that they be upset with each other. He was, of course, embarrassed - and angry - but the young Jedi examined those feelings and let them slip away like so much sand in an hourglass.

Before long, he had arrived at Docking Terminal C6-A. Rorik disembarked from the shuttle and made his way back to Pad One-Six-Six. Besides, he had work to do - and with the sensitive nature of his current task, he was more than a little relieved that she wouldn't be along this time. Explosions and guns she could handle, but delicacy didn't seem to be one of her strong points. Then again, neither was it one of his, at times. He would be all right, though.

Rounding the corner to his pad, Rorik spotted the light freighter and felt some general comfort - he had used it more than once since his return to the Jedi Order, and it felt as much like home as anywhere or anything ever had... that is to say, not much, but enough to provide some level of relaxation. As he approached the boarding ramp, though, a prickling, nagging feeling tugged at his mind - something was not right here. He placed his hand upon the leather sheath at his hip, ready to tug the lightsaber free as he extended himself, searching the ship for some sign of the source of his discomfort.