Flynn was not a romantic man but he knew how to play one very well, to get what he wanted.
He was secure enough in who he was to know, to understand and accept that he was a selfish man. That he did things because they either felt good or because they benefited him. Usually he tried his best to make sure whatever he did would tick both of those boxes. And Trilla the port official of dock DR7-T1134 of Coruscant was one of those.
Trilla had been something of a project of Flynn's, truth be told. He had visited Coruscant on numerous occasions and almost always as a smuggler, which meant he had to pay large credit fees to the local gangs to get his products off the docks without a docking official either getting all high-and-mighty and calling it into the rangers or whatever or, even worse, demanding their own cut.
The project had been Trilla, the cute, almost mousy, young woman who worked as a senior docking official at his dock of preference. It had started off with some small smiles and slightly lengthy looks he allowed to be caught before he always looked away as if embarrassed. With every trip into the port he escalated and built upon the foundation he had lain. He bought her caf on night shifts when he was landing or taking off.
Talked to her.
Learned all that she was willing to share freely and managed to persuade her to share more than she would have done otherwise. Whatever she had told him, he had been warm, welcoming and accepting. He had learned when her pet had died and held her hand when she cried about it. For all that comfort and affection he showed her, she was nothing but a means to an end to him.
Her's were the keys that would unlock the gates and let him off-load without paying extra. Her's were the passwords and access codes that would let him alter his arrival and departure times to seem more law-abiding.
She was a project and nothing more.
A means to an end.
Just another pretty woman on a distant planet he was working on, someone who could give him something he could not otherwise obtain.
Just another corpse.
Another corpse with a crumpled up picture in her hand and a flower stuffed into her mouth with the illusion of civility clashing horribly with the way her body had been battered to death. He had found her like this inside her office when he had come to talk to her upon landing and he had done what anyone would have done when confronted with such horror.
He called the police.
And he sat there in a chair at the opposite end of the office, just looking at her. He was a selfish man because he was a childish man, an immature man, and he wanted to bend things so that they benefited him. So that he could enjoy the outcome but this? He stared across the room as the police arrived and he looked at her. Throughout his time with her she had been a project, something to be achieved and nothing more. She had not really been a person when he thought about her, more a series of objectives to reach, a goal.
A thing.
And now someone had forever reduced her to that level and all he could think about was how he had treated her. If he had any greater level of emotional maturity he would have cried but instead he just stared mutely as the police began attempts to preserve the scene.
@Sreeya