The Demon Drink (Mike)

[Ghostie]

Intruder alarms screeched over the sound of the crew’s confusion and orders. Sailors in blue uniforms ran to and fro across the bridge, doing what they could to stop the hull breeches and shut emergency doors. Sparks were flying from consoles. One station had already burst into flames, killing the young man that used to be in charge there.

“Try and detach their ship!”

“Someone put that fire out!”

“I have hull breeches on levels seven and nine!”

“Sir, intruders headed up the hallway towards the bridge!”

The last voice caught Ethan’s attention. He had been working feverously to shut all the emergency doors he could, preventing anyone from reaching the bridge. Though now it seemed his efforts were in vain. Ethan searched his mind to find out what he should do next. The blaring of the alarms made it hard to think though.

"Someone shut that damn thing off!"

At that moment, a hand came down onto Ethan’s shoulder. He looked around to see Captain Torvak. Captain Torvak had maintained his calm demeanor, unlike everyone else. The fact that the commanding officer hadn’t lost his head would be great for the crew to see, or at least Ethan thought. Sailors still ran to and fro, doing what they could instead of stopping to listen to the Captain. Torvak always had a plan, and Ethan hoped it would be more than simply fighting the invaders off. Ethan knew he could handle himself in a firefight. It was the younger officers he worried about.

“Moreill,” The Captain leaned in closer to Ethan to whisper to him, “I don’t see any other choice but to fight these guys off. I want you to organize some defense. The bridge is sealed, it’ll give you a couple minutes at most. I’m going to try and contact the other ships in the strike force, if our communications aren’t already down.”

It was if Captain Torvak had read Ethan’s mind. The first officer sighed, but complied. He nodded to the Captain and set off to do the task at hand.

_______________________________________

Ethan woke up sweating and sitting upright. He looked around very quickly, checking his surroundings. Back on The Verada Nashta. He wasn’t on The White Current, not anymore. It had been years since that ambush. Ethan laid back down rolled over in bed.

Not this nightmare. Not again. It had been years since Captain Torvak had died, why couldn’t he get over it? He rolled over to look at the clock on his bedside table. Twelve thirty-seven in the morning. Or, whatever passed for morning in Space. Before he knew it, the old Bounty Hunter was asleep again.

_______________________________________

“On your right Ensign!”

“One behind the helm!”

“Two more coming out of the doorway!”

The bridge of The White Current had exploded into chaos. Ethan’s ‘defense’ had crumbled against the invader’s numbers. The Republic officers were taking cover behind whatever they could while the raiders tried to push into the room.

Ethan had just shot a particularly nasty looking Duros off one of their Bothan Ensigns. The Duros caught two bolts from Ethan’s pistol in the back, and he collapsed instantly. A hail of blaster fire came Ethan’s way for that act, and he quickly took cover behind the navigation terminal he was standing behind.

And how should happen to be sitting next to Ethan but Captain Torvak. He too had his pistol drawn, Ethan had witnessed him gun down a large Feeorin earlier. Torvak looked beaten down, tired. Ethan took a quick assessment of the Bridge.

Things didn’t look good. Bodies, both Republic and invader, laid everywhere. Over consoles, in the doorway, slumped against the wall. The invaders just seemed to keep pouring through from the hallway.

There were a bunch of officers hiding behind a large beam that had fallen from the ceiling, they were taking fire but unable to return it. A couple more experienced officers were scattered around the bridge, most by themselves and returning what fire they could.

“Those officers, behind the beam.” Ethan pointed out the sailors in trouble to Captain Torvak. “They won’t last long, but they have the best cover. I suggest we try moving over there.”

The Captain looked over at the officers and then nodded.

“I’ll cover you. Get ready.”

Both Ethan and Torvak peeked over top of the navigation console. The raiders didn’t seem to have a set target, but were just firing freely. Except for when an officer poked around to return fire, then they’d all focus on that officer. It just so happened that an officer decided to return fire at just that time.

“GO!”

Ethan sprinted as fast as he could across the bridge. Lasers whizzed by him the whole time. All he could tell was that there was an immense amount of shouting and that his target always seemed further away. The air had a burnt smell to it from all the lasers. Ethan decided in that moment that he hated that smell.

The fire around Ethan intensified. The next thing he knew, someone tackled him and they both went sprawling behind the ceiling beam. Ethan sat upright to see who had just saved his life. Captain Torvak laid next to him, with three blaster burns in his back.

_______________________________________

Ethan woke with a start once again. It felt as if he had been tackled by someone. The smell of burnt air lingered in his nostrils. Sitting upright, Ethan swung his legs over the side of his bed and wiped the sweat and tears out of his eyes.

He didn’t know what happened. Usually going back to sleep guaranteed that he wouldn’t have another nightmare. The bedside clock now read two twenty-three in the morning. Deciding that there was no reason to go back to sleep, Ethan stood up and stretched. He groped around in the dark for the clothes he had left on the floor, a pair tan cargo pants and his white tee shirt. He put them on as quickly as he could and left his room. A drink always helped him forget any nightmares he had.

The hallway Ethan stepped out into of The Verada was dark as it could be. Most of the hired help was sleeping, save for one or two on the bridge to keep things smooth. The blue carpet felt soft on Ethan’s bare feet, and he sunk into it.

The old hunter set off for the light at the end of the hallway. When Ethan had bought The Verada, he was pleasantly surprised to hear that all Cohen-Class Gunboats were outfitted with a small recreational room. It consisted of nothing more than a couple view screens, a few couches, a card table, and a bar, but that in Ethan’s opinion was more than enough. And he always made sure the bar was fully stocked.

Yes, there was nothing better than a nice glass of Corellia’s finest alcohol to get rid of some nightmares. It had always worked before, why not now? It still upset Ethan though that after more than ten years, he couldn’t get over Captain Torvak and The White Current. Captain Torvak had been one of his greatest mentors. He found himself acting more and more like the brave sailor every day. But by now, he should be able to get over death. It was an occupational hazard after all, he had come to grips with the fact that he could die at any time a long time ago. Yet, he still couldn’t get over other people.

Let them go, big idiot. People die. If it didn’t happen from a blaster it would’ve happened from old age.

The rec room was lit, but dimly. Ethan didn’t mind much, instead, he made his way straight for the bar. He took one of the three stools and sat down. Reaching over the counter, he felt around for that special bottle.

Ah.

Just what he was looking for, one of the better bottles of Corellian Whiskey. From all the different drinks to choose from in the galaxy, Ethan sore by Corellian alcohol every time. Grabbing one of the glasses out of the stack on the counter, Ethan poured himself a very generous measure.

Time to drown this nightmare. Again.

[Fromikeable]

Horst blinked slowly as footsteps formed behind the couch. The smuggler, or he supposed, ex-smuggler looked around, noting the drink placed precariously on his gut. By the look of things, he was in the rec room he had discovered the other day while exploring the ship. The couch he was spread out on was a little used, but apparently it had been comfortable enough for the smuggler to catch 40 winks on. Horst looked over at the clock on the wall, noting the time.

2:25

No improvement, Horst grumbled, swirling his drink in the light. The entire night (or at least what the Circadian Rhythm called night in space-travel) had been nothing but a cruel teasing of half-hour naps for Horst. It had been a long time since he had slept on any ship bigger than the Night-Watch, and with the readjustment in settings came the old memories of the Navy shuttling Giog's Rancors from one end of the galaxy to the other. On the one hand, Horst remembered good times; smack talking over drinks, fixing ships in hangars, and sparring with Giog.

Then... there were the bad times...

No. That's not for now. Horst wasn't about to relive that day tired and sleep-deprived in a relatively new environment. There was enough change as it was without him having to deal those memories. Between adopting a totally new life-style, entrusting his life to a relative stranger, and even leaving his saving-grace ship for the first time in a long time, the last thing Horst needed was more change.

Later. It'll have to be later...

On the up-side, the Verada was proving to be quite the distraction in and of itself from Horst's discomforts. The engineer, true to his nature, had spent what parts of the night he hadn't been trying to sleep examining the workings of the ship. Cohen-Classes tended to be pretty reliable crafts, but as with all ships, they had their quirks and tendencies. Horst had noted some of the Cohen-Class quirks tonight; a lose bracket connecting the hyperdrive, a few burnt circuits no-one seemed to have noticed, and in classic MandalMotors fashion, most of the power systems needed adjustments. They weren't anything serious, but usually these sorts of little hiccups were the sort of things that didn't get fixed unless you looked for them.

After that an a few more failed attempts at napping, Horst had simply decided to relax in the rec room with a drink. To his delight, Ethan seemed to keep a pretty full stock of Corellian alcohol handy. Horst noted his good taste, and then promptly swallowed a glass's worth of the strongest whiskey he could find. Between that and sleep deprivation kicking in, his body seemed to have caved and allowed him an hour of rest.

But now, footsteps. Horst untwisted himself from his position on the couch, smoothing out of his plain shirt and pants he had donned for his late night wanderings. It occurred to him that it might seem somewhat suspicious to whoever had entered the room that he was sleeping in the rec room and not in his bed, but Horst didn't particularly care. If his character had been in question, Moreill probably wouldn't have let him aboard.

The engineer finally sat up, taking a moment to let the blood drain out of his head and his eyes to fully adapt to the low light. He turned his head toward the footsteps, the bar, and found none other than the shaggy red hair of Ethan Moreill. It seemed Horst wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping, nor was the only with ease in drinking.

"Birds of a feather drink together, Moreill."

[Ghostie]

Ethan’s eyes widen at the sound of a voice behind him. He hadn’t expected anyone to be up at this hour, let alone in the rec room. Apparently he hadn’t been the only one with trouble sleeping. Ethan didn’t know what Horst was doing in the rec room, or didn’t much care. Ethan wouldn’t say no to drinking with someone right now.

Setting his glass down after taking a sip of his drink, Ethan grabbed the bottle. He couldn’t read it in the low light. But it didn’t much matter. It was Corellian and it was strong. Ethan took another glass off the stack sitting on the counter and set it down in front of the seat next to him. He turned around and waved Stellar over with the bottle.

“I don’t know what this stuff is, but it’s good.”

Stellar mentioned he was in the Republic military, no?

Ethan had let Horst have access to all the ship, as a sign of good faith. He had noticed the large engineer going to a fro from the engineering department today, but didn’t know much about what he had been up to. Ethan knew a bit about ships after having his own during his bounty hunting days, but defiantly not as much as an ex-Republic engineer.

“What branch of the service were you in again?”

Ethan hoped that maybe small talk about the service would allow him the share his nightmare. Ethan wanted to talk to someone about it, and the only person available right now was Horst. But Ethan didn’t have a problem with that. He would rather talk to someone who had been in the service anyways.

[Fromikeable]

Ethan motioned Horst over to the bar with the perfect symbol of companionship; an unidentified bottle of Corellian booze. The engineer heaved himself off of the couch with a huff, the furniture squeaking slightly in relief. Horst then rounded his former bed slowly, stretching out his stiff limbs as he did so. Finally, he meandered over to the stool, glass in hand, and plopped himself down next to Ethan.

Horst received the bottle and refilled his glass. Taking a sip just to taste it, Horst grunted with agreement to Ethan; whatever it was, it was spicy, warm, and it put up a fight that would make lesser drinks flee in terror.

Perfect. He continued drinking.

“What branch of the service were you in again?”

Horst had to stop his customary reaction to this question, meaning he tried immediately to relax his back, breathe, and refrain from becoming suspicious. A few days ago anyone asking this question might have been a bounty hunter, Republic agent, or underworld scum looking for nothing more than ruining the engineer's life forever. Even now, in a supposed safe zone with a supposed ally, Horst still held strong to his reservations.

But no. No, this was fine. Ethan wasn't here to kill him or capture him or attack him in any way. They weren't two strangers talking at some cantina. They were two veterans sharing a late night drink.

"I joined up in the Army at first. After that, they transferred me over to Special Operations." In typical fashion, the engineer decided to try to learn as much as he was teaching. "You said you were Navy?"

[Ghostie]

Army, Ethan could respect that. He had thought of becoming an Army officer before settling for the Navy, being able to put his Mandalorian training to use for the Republic. But Ethan just loved to fly too much. How could he have passed up the Navy?

Special Operations as well though? Ethan didn’t care for that bunch. He had met some members of a Spec Ops team while on shore leave in the Navy. They had set themselves above everyone else. They were arrogant, and to over confident. Unfortunately, they had set Ethan’s view on Special Operations.

“Yeah, for almost ten years. And then again for about one year.”

Ethan chuckled. Most people didn’t get to serve in the Navy twice. Horst probably wouldn’t understand what he meant. But it had been two different Navies, Mandalorian and Republic. Ironically, he had fought the Republic while with the Mandalorians.

Usually, Ethan didn’t talk about his past in the Mandalorian Navy. Defiantly not to someone who was in the Republic Military. That usually started a fight. But Ethan had a good feeling Horst wouldn’t get violent about it. Especially not aboard the Verada.

He sized the Engineer up real quick. He was a very large, muscular man. Some dirt and grime here and there from working on the Verada earlier. If Ethan had to describe Horst in one word, it would be grizzly. A large man, lots of hair, simple clothing. Yes, grizzly fit.

It was a spur of the moment decision, joining the Mandalorians. Something he had not thought over completely. He had fought the Republic, it was not something he was proud of. Especially when it came to the White Current.

“When Mand’alor called, I had nothing better to do. Because of my past Navy experience, and the lack of Navy experience in the Mandalorians, I was made a Captain.”

Ethan downed his glass in one go, and then poured himself another full glass.

[Fromikeable]

"A Mandaloiran sailor. That's a new one," Horst chuckled. Initially it had sounded odd; how could you serve twice in the Navy? To the engineer's knowledge, you couldn't. Before he could ask, however, Ethan explained his dual allegiance.

To both his culture, and his country.

Horst gave the bounty hunter a look-over. His Corellian blood was pretty obvious; between his hair and his general disposition, the engineer could easily see Ethan on the streets where he had grown up. At the same time, however, there was something that betrayed his Core heritage. He posed himself well, was physically fit, and gave off an experienced feeling, almost like he was conditioned just to fight.

Just like every other Mando'ad.

"Seems a little strange though," Horst remarked, finishing another glass of the unidentified Corellian alcohol. He didn't mind that Ethan had been working under the Mandalore. To the contrary, he could respect it. Mandalorians were tough people; Horst had learned that through and through on his years on Manda'yaim. They were honorable, hard-working, and quite frankly deadly people, and to be called one was a certainly a privilege.

But even still, that left one question. "Wasn't it a little odd to shoot at Republic ships knowing back in the day you used to be on one?"

[Ghostie]

Stellar was right. More than he knew, the Engineer was right. Firing on Republic ships had been a couple of the hardest orders Ethan had given as a Mandalorian sailor. It had been one thing, helping the Mandalorians reclaim their territory. But when they had gone out and sought Republic ships to attack, that was different. At least, in Ethan's eyes it was.

And there was that one engagement with The White Current. The one ship Ethan could not bring himself to attack. It would've been like destroying a part of himself. The White Current had helped train him, had helped formed him. Ethan always wondered what would've happened if Captain Torvak was still in command of The White Current during that battle. Could he have brought himself to face his former mentor, a father figure?

“There was this one engagement, right after Concord Dawn was liberated.” Ethan began telling his story, pouring himself another healthy measure of alcohol. “There were some scout's, looking for who knows what in the system. I knew they were too far out to be on their own, so when they retreated we followed them through hyperspace.”

Ethan could remember almost every detail of that day. The fighters that were in the system, near the moon of Corcord Dawn. The small task force he was in command of orbiting the planet, lead by The Edge of Dawn, his ship. The cool blue rush of hyperspace as they followed their prey. And then finally the completely red Hammerhead, it's paint scheme changed by the overhaul and patchwork done to it's hull.

It was the worst feeling. It was as if someone had brought out false evidence, accusing you of betrayal. And there was nothing you could do to change the judge's mind. No plea or proof or begging could help you. And he had felt that same sinking feeling, the feeling of not being able to change events for the better, that only bad could come out of the judgment for both parties.

Ethan had never seen joining the Mandalorians as a betrayal, but rather an honorable call to duty. He assumed that many in the Republic Navy would disagree though. Ethan had never been able to choose a side.

“We found their task force, not far from Concord Dawn. We engaged, but there was something different about their lead ship. It was all red, and had patchwork down the left side. The last major engagement I had on a Republic ship, we took similar damage, from an asteroid.” Ethan paused, and drained his glass. “Y'know how you have that gut feeling, how those around you aren't sure of something, but you for a fact you're right? I knew it was The White Current, the ship I was on in the Republic. My ship. So, I simply had the task force ignore it. We didn't even scratch it. After that, I left.”

[Fromikeable]

That gut feeling, huh? Knowing that you're right and the people around you aren't? Having facts where everyone else has suspicions?

"Yeah," Horst croaked. "Yeah, I know that feeling just fine."

Horst could understand being prosecuted for having that feeling. Ethan couldn't shoot at his old ship; his first home in any Navy, so to speak. But Horst had felt that feeling differently. He had been prosecuted for a whole different kind of fact. The kind of fact that makes a man sit in shocked outrage. The kind of fact that makes everyone else think their perspective is obvious. The kind of fact that makes people accuse a man of killing his one and only nigh-brother in the entire galaxy. Horst's clenched his hand around his glass, squeezing so tight that his hand began to shake.

Yeah. That kind of feeling.

"Couple of years back," Horst thought aloud, unable to keep it contained. Subtle anger seeped into his words like pinches of salt into a horrendous stew, just waiting to bubble over. "we, me and my unit, were pirate-hunting."

"It was nothing serious; we fly around with the Navy for a few days, find the pirates, take 'em down, and come back with stories to tell." Horst ruffled his eyebrows. "Well, it went fine until we were crashing our ship and fighting a-" his voice skipped. The Engineer cleared it and tried again. "a Dark Jedi.

The rec room was silent for a minute, with the only sounds being a soft hum somewhere else on the Cohen-class and the distinctive audio of contained rage. It took a few moments before Horst realized he had stopped speaking. "Well, a lot of us died. And those of us who lived were talked to. And those of us who were talked to didn't know what to say..."

"And in the end, it was decided that it was my fault. No evidence. No witness. No idea at all. The finger had to be pointed at somebody, and so it fell on me..."

Horst managed to relax his hands enough to pour out another drink for himself. This was why he avoided his memories; they were nothing but absolute reminders of the life he was forced to destroy, lest it have destroyed him.

"So I left."

[Ghostie]

“And that's why we drink...”

Yes, the alcohol helped more than just two tired old veterans get over their problems. It made those problems come to the surface. It let them talk about their troubles. And then eventually it made their problems go away in the morning. Ethan drained and refilled his glass. He was feeling the effects of the alcohol now, defiantly. Whatever he was drinking, it was strong.

Ethan shook the bottle and checked it. About half left. That was good enough for tonight. Ethan mused that the alcohol business would be one that never went bankrupt in their galaxy.

The clock over the bar read almost four in the morning, but in Space, nothing changed.

The two sat in silence for more than what was uncomfortable under normal circumstances. Ethan was lost in his own thoughts. The Republic, the Mandalorians, the War, it was all on his mind. How could he choose one side? Could he choose one side?

The Corellian drink was making him think about home. Ethan missed Corellia desperately sometimes. The swoop racing, the (mostly) friendly locals, and most importantly his family. But what had happened, happened. Ethan decided he was rather good had being exiled from places.

“Stellar, where are you from?”

[Fromikeable]

For a little while, the silence of the Verada-in-hyperspace was the only company the two veterans had, with each taking a moment to dwell into themselves. Horst thought back to that day again; his unit being chopped like butter by a red lightsaber, him hastily mounting explosives to the hyperdrive, and his escape pod rocketing away as Horst's true and only brother squeezed the detonator.

The rest, it seemed, was just a bright flash. Then he was here. Sipping Corellian who-knows-what. Drowning his problems. Headed towards who-knows-what.

Doing who-knows-what.

Ever since that day, life had lost it's magic. Well, maybe magic was the wrong word. More like it's cause in general. Whenever Horst woke up, as he rubbed out his eyes and stretched his arms, he asked life's most important question. It had been easy to answer on Corellia. It had been easy to answer as a Captain. It had been trivial to answer as a Major.

And yet life had robbed him of that answer. Now when he woke up, and he asked why he was alive, he sat there and starred, incapable of answering. What was a life without an answer?

So, here he was, pouring yet another glass of liquor, just trying to make it all go away. The ironic part? It was making it all come back.

"“Stellar, where are you from?”

Horst smiled, half from drunken haze, and half from knowing it was something they shared at least in correlation. The Engineer looked at his drinking buddy before answering, again taking in his vibrant red hair. It was so easy to shrink Ethan down to just another teenager from the neighborhood on Corellia, running around proud and determined to change the world. It was a quality Horst had always loved and tried to adopt. Unfortunately, being of Coruscant birth always seemed to overcome him when it really mattered.

"I was born on Coruscant, but my home is Corellia," Horst responded. He actually put down his drink, smiling warmly as his teen years came rushing back to him. Running through the streets playing games, working with Rorry at the shop where people would actually smile and say hello, and even dealing with school work and stressing about who he'd take to his junior dance.

"I lived over by the shipyards running up a small mechanic-shop with my..." Horst paused, trying to think of a good label for Rorry. Most people didn't quite understand their relationship as Horst usually put it; Rorry had been his father, and yet they held no biological, legal, or even remote connection to one another before that day the Engineer had to tried to pick his pocket. "... god-father."

The Engineer then pointed to Ethan's head. "I take it by that hair color we're peas of the same pod?"

[Ghostie]

“Yeah, I grew up on Corellia.”

Lived on Corellia was a bit of a stretch though, or at least Ethan thought so. He had spent his summers on Concord Dawn, living as a Mandalorian. It was the most he could get away with between school and trying to train as a Mandalorian.

Horst said he was actually born on Coruscant though. Maybe it didn't matter how much time you spent there, home was still home. Concord Dawn didn't matter. Coruscant didn't matter. Corellia was where their hearts were set, so that was home.

Ethan listened to Horst describe where he lived, and what he did for a living. Ethan had fond memories of racing through the shipyards, illegal racing of course, but that didn't matter too much on Corellia. It was still one of Ethan's favorite past times, swoop racing. Or at least, watching it still was.

Ethan always had everything he needed. His father had a huge house on Corellia. Ethan was sent to the best of schools. He doubted Horst had received such luxuries. Ethan couldn't imagine anyone living so close to the shipyards. All the smog, the noise, and chances for random acts of violence from drunken sailors. Then again, it could be a good place for a mechanic-shop.

“We're from two very different neighborhoods then. I remember racing through the Shipyards though. That was fun. Lots of stuff to dodge around.”

Ethan could still remember the races. The trick in the Shipyards was your turning. If you went as fast as you could push the swoop, you'd end up as a scorch mark on a dock or ship.

Ethan still missed swoop racing, actually racing, sometimes. But he swore he'd never race again after his father was killed on his swoop. They were dangerous. Ethan smiled, a Corellian/Mandalorian shying away from danger? That seemed almost contradictory.

“Ever do any racing?”

[Fromikeable]

"Me?" Horst thought back to the few times he had ever driven a speeder beyond just pulling it out of the shop's garage. He could fly the things without sealing his own death warrant, but there's no way he'd have did very well in the actual races. "Nah, I was too busy placing bets on who'd crash first."

Those races were nuts in their day, but then again so was everyone in them and everyone watching them. Some guys would just punch the accelerator and hope for best, while others would move at a snail's pace and make sure they took every corner well. It tended to be the guys somewhere in the middle that won though.

"Was a good way to make a little cash for a trip to the drugstore and few sweets, fixing up and fine tuning the speeders." Horst had learned almost as much about repulsors from those tiny little side jobs as he did from Rorry. Of course, his figurative god-father had never truly known, but hey, it was Corellia; there was a difference between illegal and disallowed. The Engineer let out a quick laugh, still reminiscent. "Of course, that just meant that when the speeders were plowed into something, the pilot pegged it on me."

Corellia had been funny like that. It was a world of achievers, of proud believers, and determined mules. Corellians were friendly and fierce, welcoming and barring, heart-felt and competitive.

Corellia, it seemed, was the galactic center for enigmas, and yet that's what made it just such a great place.

"So were you any good?"

[Ghostie]

“Heh. Yeah, I was good. Better than most.”

Ethan remembered watching some of his father's races and vids of his races. There was a reason that on Corellia, Elias Moreill was a name people remembered. Elias rode that swoop as if he was dancing. He was so graceful and fluent. Everything he did was instinctive. That's defiantly where Ethan's love for the sport came from, from his father. There was more than just the physical that was inherited.

“My parents, despite owning a successful business, told me I had to earn my money. So if I wasn't good, I didn't have money to spend. Skill born out of necessity I guess. They bought me a Banshee 420, y'know, one of those Hiker swoops, for my sixteenth. They opened up the door without realizing it.”

Ethan finished with a smile. He loved that 420. It was fast, and beautiful, and turned like a charm. He repainted it several times, fixed it, scoured the galaxy for parts. One time, Ethan ever brought it back from almost needing to go to the scrapyard. It was the only swoop he had left after he moved to Concord Dawn. He'd never get rid of it.

Ethan remembered having mounds of credits from racing. His parents never once asked him where his money came from, they were just happy he was making his own somehow. Ethan never dared to share with him his racing. But once Corana found out...

“I quit after awhile, though.”

[Fromikeable]

Hiker, Hiker... For a brief second, that name caught Horst's attention. As he recalled, Hiker was indeed a speeder company, and for another brief second, the engineer tried to think of everything he knew about them.

Well, those hunks of metal were fast. Most of the racers always wanted Hikers, and whenever one of them actually obtained one, the reaction from their competition and the crowd was an immediate dose of jealousy. Beyond that, Horst remembered the things being pretty damn well designed. It was rare that one would wind up in the shop.

So "Mr. Hiker" owned a Hiker. Horst drummed his fingers against his still-empty glass, piecing together a little theory as to what that could mean. The really interesting part of that Ethan had just said his parents had owned their own company. Ethan went on, and Horst listened, but he made a mental note to ask about it later.

“I quit after awhile, though.”

"Yeah, we all seem to at some point." It seemed like there was always a point in life at which fun and magic just stopped be fun and magic. Rushing speeders became screaming death traps. Playing around with new hyperdrive settings became tempting fate. It wasn't that there wasn't danger in doing those things, because there was.

It was just that at some point, people stopped enjoying life, and instead started worrying about it.

"I gues- wait a second," Horst connected the dots mid-sentence. Hiker speeder? Hiker alias? Hell, even his last name! Horst knew had seen the name Moreill somewhere outside of the military; after all, the Moreill-family had made it into the news quite a few times because of their industry.

"You're not the same Moreill that owns Hiker Vehicles, are you?"

[Ghostie]

Ethan smiled widely as he brought his fourth drink up to his lips. Horst had finally figured it out. It was only a matter of time. Ethan was surprised at how fast the Engineer had done it though. They had known each other for what, a day? Then again, Ethan hadn't expected to be drinking late at night with the grizzly man.

Mr. Hiker, Hiker swoop bike, all the money. It was enough to make people wonder. Horst seemed to be smarter than most though. Ethan was surprsied no one on Nal Hutta picked up on it. Thinking back on it, Ethan decided that he was probably being risky in even using Mr. Hiker as an alias.

“Well, lets just say there's a reason there's carpeting in the Verada's hallways.”

Hiker Vehicles. Ethan's past life. Owning and running the company had been a good time. Taught him a great deal about management and business. But when he broke up with Corana, he just needed to get away. Space seemed like the most viable option.

“Money isn't goin' to be a problem. You need anything, you let me know.”

Ethan always had more than he could count. What was the use of it going to waste? Might as well spend as much of it as he could on his crew and ship. There would always be more money.

The alcohol was starting to take it's toll. Ethan's vision was blurry, and his thoughts muddled. He turned his glass upside down on the table and left the bottle for Horst to do with as he pleased.

“I'm gonna hit the sack. Nice talking to you, Stellar”

And with that, The Old Hunter turned and shuffled down the hallway. There wouldn't be more nightmares tonight. Just dreams of swoops, racing, and family. He might actually sleep for once.

[Fromikeable]

“Well, lets just say there's a reason there's carpeting in the Verada's hallways.”

"All those credits, and you couldn't choose a better color?" Horst chuckled, deciding to pour himself one last sip of the Corellian ale.

For once, Horst had run across a nice surprise. No snipers in the trees. No court marshaling. No being wanted on two accounts.

Just a nice little shock that his new companion was loaded. Money was always nice.

“I'm gonna hit the sack. Nice talking to you, Stellar”

"Yeah. It has been nice, hasn't it?... G'night." Horst swished the liquor in his glass before swallowing it, adding his drink total up to... was it 4 now? Or 5? Whatever the number was, Horst's buzz wasn't letting him recall it.

It really had been a nice evening, the likes of which Horst hadn't had since Mandalore. For the first time in a long time, he was...

happy. Yeah, that was it. Happy.

Horst smiled warmly, drumming on his empty glass again. Part of it was the booze, he knew, but... things were looking up. They really were. For once, he wasn't running. He wasn't owning up for something. He wasn't being controlled or forced.

He was doing something of his own accord. He was free.

For a minute, Horst just sat there, content for once. Then he reached out for that bottle of Corellian whatever-it-was. He brought his glass up to the end, and started to tip the container...

but he stopped. He didn't really want another drink tonight. For once, he felt pretty good being sober and aware (well, as sober and aware as he was).

Horst placed the bottle back in its original location before placing his glass next to Ethan's. The two glasses looked nice together, almost like they enjoyed each other's company.

That made Horst smile a little more. Good thing Ethan wasn't around to see.

Horst flicked off the one light in the rec room before slumping down the hall and opening up the door to his room. His bed was already a horrid, wrapped-up mess, but to him it was more inviting than it had ever been. The engineer practically collapsed into the soft mass, barely bothering to lift his legs onto it as well.

He was looking forward to tomorrow. Whatever happened then was going to be better than yesterday.

THE END