(The intro for Cretcher **********ing Rhomm as ‘The Jedi Knight’ for that playthrough.)
He was below. The Bunker was the one guaranteed place where he and the soldiers could be free of Imperial spies undermining their liberation efforts. He would go up soon enough and rally the troops - push to get the Imps off planet...But not before the first explosion. Not before the slaughter and destruction the Force should have warned him why didn’t it warn him WHY DIDNT HE SAVE THEM WHY DIDN’T YOU WARN THEM WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP THEM WHY DID IT FAIL WHY DID YOU FAIL YOU FAIL YOU FAIL YOU FAILURE YOU FAILURE YOU FAILURE-
He woke. Drenched in sweat. His head was killing him - everything was threatening to creep back in.
The first swig of the ‘day’ put a swift end to that.
He sat. Minutes passed. His eyes remained shut, mentally forcing all of that shit back into the dark, locked little corner of his brain with alcohol-reinforced chains. He’d slipped up last night. Fell asleep rather than passing out. Hadn’t had enough to drink. Harder to dream when properly pickled.
Another swig. Not making that mistake two days in a row.
Finally he stood, listened to every crack and pop his body. He felt old.
His throat was dry, voice hoarse and generally unpleasant to the ears.
Swig number three. Oh, yes, it would be a good day.
He lurched his way toward the refresher, his body fighting the good fight to rid itself of toxins. A futile attempt really, but it had to try.
A look in the mirror was somehow less flattering than he felt. Weeks of untrimmed grey over his face, hair unkept and getting too long in the back, yellowed eyes with none of the former sharpness, even the tattoo latticing the left side of his face seemed out of focus. He stretched, grunted, drank, and felt which scars ached more today than the others.
The bottle was empty by the time he finally was dressed and staggering out the door. The shaders he wore only just made it bearable. If he’d woken up any earlier, he might have had to face the full light of day rather than what many would consider quite a lovely evening.
He moved on autopilot. He’d stumbled this route many a time, and his thirst guided him the rest of the way. There were a number of little dive cantinas off the beaten path that he enjoyed stuporing in. Routine. He went in, added to his tab, found a corner, watched the dancers, drank, and just tuned the Galaxy out.
Like he had the past two decades.
Twenty years, a dozen planets, and-
He shook his head and forced the feeling away. It did not belong in his conscious mind. Instincts of the Old Life belonged in the dark corner.
It was an older Mon Calamari, and while his clothes were civilian, everything else - posture, gestures, mannerisms, all that were Republic Military through and through.
He was standing and making for the door already, not swaying as much as he would have liked. The Mon Calamari was following. He’d gained two companions at his flanks. Idiots. Undercover was the SIS’ specialty, not the Army’s.
“-A lotta things but I ain’t one of ‘em.”
He wasn’t going to lose them. Not easily in his state. If they found him at the cantina, they knew where he lived. And he wasn’t about to skip the planet that easily - he wasn’t a fugitive. Not really.
He grabbed a bottle on the way back, and greeted the ‘welcoming committee’ in his apartment. Whereas the cantina crew had attempted to go undercover, the fine folks waiting for him had not. Shiny uniforms and all.
He dropped down into his chair, cracked open his drink, and had at it. Once a third of it was ‘comfortably’ in his gullet, he gestured to the group.
“Make yer damn pitch and get it over with.”
And they did. The Cold War was certain to break down. The Jedi Order was rebuilding and bount to be stronger than ever - a lie but one they wanted to believe - the Empire was getting bolder and bolder, the Republic needed Heroes and warriors more than ever. It needed-
“A man who died twenty damn years ago, even before that kriffin’ Treaty.”
One of the soldiers shifted. He didn’t need his connection to the Force to know what he was thinking.
“Oh fer kriff’s sake kid, I know I an’t actually dead. But I ain’t that person anymore. Jus’ an old drunk waitin’ for th’end. An’ I’m pretty damn sure there ain’t a damn thing you can say t’...I’unno...reignite m’patriotic spirit.”
They sat and stood in silence for a few good, long minutes.
“...Sir...were you familiar with General Var Suthra and the Special Weapons Projects?”
