Private A Moment's Reprieve (Ra'a'mah)

[Dalvos Thrakan]

Davlos wasn't much of a drinker. To see him out and about you'd think otherwise: His public persona was, after all, a bit of a lush. His fondness for good whiskey was only topped by his love for sweet wine. Here, though, on Zorren, he could let the mask drop.

And drink tea. Lovely tea. Hot tea, cold see, soothing or energizing, sweet or savory, whatever he craved. He could go out and relax without hitting a bar, and give his poor (thankfully regularly checked) liver a vacation.

This Davlos, the calm and withdrawn Davlos, wasn't one that anyone in the Galaxy got to see... except on Veradune. Here, he wasn't on mission, he wasn't on call, and he wasn't expecting to run into anyone he needed to keep up appearances with. His hair was its normal platinum white, his clothing subdued earth tones. He fit right in, here; it helped that most people here also knew who he was. After all, this was the 'employee' cafe closest to the Intel headquarters of the Protectorate; not the overdressed and overpriced cafe in HQ itself, where the bigwigs went to chinwag and discuss the future of nations. No, this was where regular - as regular as spies get anyway - working stiffs went to unwind. It wasn't an explicit rule that no one in management could come here, but the unwritten rule was accepted nonetheless. Anyone who did come was expected to behave themselves.

Today, it was a huge cup of iced sweet tea with exotic fruit juice to give it a little fizz and bite. A sampler platter of pastries sat on the table with him, and he had a datapad in his hand with some kind of fictional story scrolling across it.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah did not stand out when she entered, which was precisely the point.

The café sat along one of Veradune's living corridors, where sound never truly settled, voices overlapping as dishes moved while wind carried the distant rush of water and foliage through open architecture that refused to separate the inside from the world beyond it. Even here, even among those who preferred discretion, the planet insisted on being heard, which made stillness noticeable.

Her gaze moved once across the room, not searching so much as confirming. Davlos.

She did not approach immediately, instead ordering something simple, a caf rather than anything softer, and allowing a moment to pass as she observed without interruption. In a place where noise was constant and attention diffuse, he had carved out something quieter without needing the environment to cooperate, and that was more telling than the setting itself.

Then she crossed the distance.

"Veradune doesn't offer quiet," she said as she came to a stop beside his table, her tone calm and even, one hand resting lightly against the back of the empty chair opposite him as her presence settled without forcing the moment. "It offers enough noise that people can decide how much of it they let in."

Her eyes moved briefly over the details of the table, the datapad, the drink, the untouched pastries, before returning to him.

"You've made a deliberate choice."

Not a question, and not quite a statement either. She took the seat without ceremony, the motion smooth and unclaimed, as if it had always been available. Her caf arrived a moment later, though she did not touch it.

"I was passing through," she continued, which was not untrue, "and noticed this place was still functioning as intended, something that tends to be rarer than people think."

Her attention remained steady, measured without pressing.

"In most environments, people mistake isolation for absence, but here it requires intention, and intention tends to say more about a person than the environment ever could."

Another small beat passed, letting the observation settle where it would before she continued.

"I'm curious whether you intend to keep it that way, or whether this is simply where you come to decide what version of yourself you're taking back with you."

Dalvos Thrakan

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

He looked up from his pad, a quick flick marking his page before he set it down. He paused for a moment, briefly searching her features, and taking a sip of his tea. It wasn't from any difficulty recognizing; the shrewd look in his eyes said he was buying time to interpret her company, assessing...

And then he set the cup down, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. After a moment, he exhaled, his smile spilling out with warmth. "Ra'a'mah." He dipped his head in greeting, polite but not servile. "I find often enough that my bait lures in good conversation and fine company. Would you like some?" He gestured to the pastries. "I welcome your noise," he added after a moment, a little smirk briefly brushing over his lips.

He didn't directly address her final words. Another sip of tea rolled around on his tongue, as if perhaps tasting them and deciding whether he would swallow them or spit them out. Finally, he sighed. "It's hard enough to remember who I am, assuming there is such a thing anymore." He gave a slight, one-armed shrug, holding his teacup steady with the other. He set down the cup, and lifted a small almond pastry. "I've been thinking of it as a clean slate. An opportunity to decide who I want to be, when I'm not someone else." His fingers lightly drummed along the edge of his datapad. Was fiction inspiration for that? "I'm introducing the new me to some of the finest pastries in this quarter."

He finally took a bite, letting it rest on the edge of his small plate, washing it down with tea. He brushed off his fingertips on a napkin, fastidiously, and then his eyes flitted a quick circuit of the room. He caught himself doing this, taking a tiny huff of annoyance, and then making a circuit of the pastry, the tea, and the napkin. His ingrained habits weren't going away, they were just being redirected.

He almost reached for the pastry again when he stopped his twitching fingers, quelling them with a moment's concentration. "It is a pleasure to see you here. It's been... What? Too long; I can't be bothered to count back that far. Years, or planets." There was a strange tenseness to his shoulders, as if stilling his hands required significant effort. As if he was fighting not to let his eyes sweep the room. His genuine smile kept flickering as if something pulled at the edges, until he finally turned his gaze downward to the plate. "It's strange isn't it, the things one can become accustomed to? That can become familiar, comfortable?" His voice was small, and soft, now; as if he wasn't entirely speaking to her. "Almost miss it. Almost. Not quite though."

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah watched him without interruption, her attention steady but not invasive as his expression shifted and settled, as habits surfaced and were quietly pressed back into place. None of it seemed to surprise her, and if anything, there was a quiet recognition in the way she observed him, as though what he was experiencing was not unfamiliar, only shaped differently.

At his gesture, her gaze moved briefly to the pastries before returning to him.

"Thank you," she said, her tone even as she accepted without ceremony and selected one with deliberate ease. "I find it unwise to refuse good offerings when they're given without condition, particularly when they come with conversation."

The faintest trace of something warmer touched her expression, though it never softened into indulgence.

"And I suspect your definition of noise is more selective than most."

She did not interrupt when he spoke of himself, of the shifting sense of identity, of the distance between who he had been and who he was trying to become, instead allowing the words to settle naturally rather than pressing them into something immediate or simplified.

When she did speak again, her voice remained calm and grounded.

"Most people assume identity is something stable, something fixed that can be uncovered if they look closely enough, but it rarely functions that way in practice," she said, her fingers resting lightly against the table as the pastry remained untouched for the moment. "What you're describing is not the absence of self, but the removal of expectation, and there is a difference between forgetting who you are and no longer being required to be who others needed you to be."

A brief pause followed, not to break the thought, but to allow it space to exist.

"That kind of space can feel unfamiliar, even uncomfortable, particularly if you've spent long enough operating under conditions where every action had a defined purpose and a predictable outcome," she continued, her gaze steady on him before briefly noting the restrained movement of his hands and the way his awareness tried to expand outward before being pulled back in.

"Habits persist because they were useful, and they do not disappear simply because the environment changes; instead, they adapt, or they are redirected, as you've already begun to do."

She reached for her caf, taking a measured sip before continuing.

"As for missing it, that is not as contradictory as it might seem, because familiar structures, even difficult ones, have a way of becoming predictable, and predictability often resembles comfort even when it isn't," Ra said, her voice thoughtful but steady. "The absence of that structure leaves room for choice, and choice, for many people, is far less comfortable than routine, even when that routine was never truly their own."

Her gaze returned fully to him.

"But it is also where change becomes possible."

Only then did she take a small bite of the pastry she had selected, acknowledging the moment rather than interrupting it.

"You don't need to decide who you are all at once, because most people who try end up selecting something convenient rather than something true," she added after a moment, her tone remaining calm and unpressured. "It is enough to decide what you are willing to carry forward, and what you are willing to leave behind, because the rest tends to follow in time."

Dalvos Thrakan

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

He laughed softly at her words, mulling them over as she spoke. When she spoke of identity and habits, the comfort of routines, his eyes sunk to the rim of his cup, frowning down at the tea within. After a few moments, he set the cup aside, steepling his hands before him.

"So... I'm curious then. How did you become who you are? Did you get to choose, or..." He pondered a moment, drawing upon her own words, "Are you required to be who others need you to be?" He tilted his head curiously. "Do you ever get to... Turn it off?" He picked a different pastry, abandoning the carcass of his first; something sweet and frosted with bright red filling.

"When I'm... Out there, I know exactly who I am. The image I need to project. I can simply make myself him, and he acts as he is wont to do. Lots of drinking and carousing, stupid bets and poor decisions... whatever it takes to get me where I need to be. Here?" He gestured around. "I don't need to be anywhere... And it's driving me batty."

"Don't get me wrong," he held up his hands defensively, the tart held up like some kind of flaky shield. "I'm happy, extremely happy, not to be out on my own anymore. I greatly appreciate the Protectorate taking me in. Seriously. After... Everything, being able to... come home is... Amazing." He let his hands drop after a moment, sighing, "But the 'in-between' isn't quite what I expected it to be." He paused, raising an eyebrow at Ra. "Can you believe I've even had..." He lost his words in laughter for a moment, coughing to clear his throat. "Do you remember Shiralia? The Mirialian? She uh, actually... Sent me an invitation to drinks. Apparently some of the former field ops have been... Settling down." He laughed again. "I mean, I know there was always talk about that kind of thing..." He gestured vaguely behind him. "But to think we're... There. We're 'after'. Some people are actually... Retiring. I never thought that would happen."

"It just feels like it's not over yet, y'know? And... I'm not sure if that's because it isn't over, or it'll never be over, or if... I don't want it to be over." He rotated the cup slowly in his hands, the tart forgotten once again. His gaze went distant, chewing lightly on his bottom lip in thought. There was a certain thrill to the spy game. A certain feeling of... being deeply alive.

Why did that feeling only come when closest to death?

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah did not interrupt him as he spoke, her attention steady and patient as his thoughts moved between humor, memory, and something quieter beneath it all. She recognized the pattern without needing to name it, the tension between what he had been and what he was now expected to become, and the unease that settled into the space between those two states. When he mentioned Shiralia, there was the faintest shift in her expression, not surprise but recognition, the kind that came from memory rather than sentiment.

"I remember," she said, her tone calm and certain as her gaze remained on him rather than drifting into the past. "She was precise, deliberate, and never rushed a decision she didn't have to make, and she was always going to be one of the ones who found a way to step away when the time came."

She allowed that to settle naturally before continuing, her posture unchanged, composed but attentive.

"What you're feeling isn't uncommon," Ra continued, her voice even, though there was a quieter weight beneath it now. "Most of the people who operated out there long enough were trained to function inside pressure, inside uncertainty, inside environments where the stakes were always immediate and tangible, and that kind of conditioning doesn't disappear simply because the environment changes."

Her gaze shifted briefly, not away from him, but through him, as if measuring the distance between who he had been and who he was trying to become now.

"When everything is quiet, when nothing is actively demanding your attention, the absence of that pressure can feel wrong, not because something is missing, but because your instincts are still searching for it, still expecting the next moment to matter in the same way the last one did."

Her fingers rested lightly against her cup as she continued, the movement subtle, grounding the thought without interrupting it.

"You were trained to operate with purpose, where every action, every decision, and every movement had a reason behind it, and when that structure is removed, what remains can feel less like freedom and more like drift, even when it isn't."

There was no softness in the truth, but neither was there any harshness.

"I trained many of the people you're talking about," she added, her tone quiet but steady. "Spies, assassins, information gatherers, people who learned to survive by becoming exactly what the situation required of them, and that kind of work leaves an imprint that does not fade simply because the mission ends."

She reached for her caf, taking a measured sip before continuing, her attention returning fully to him.

"As for your question, whether I chose who I am or became what others needed, the answer is both," Ra said, the admission simple and unembellished. "I chose the path, but the path shaped the person who could continue walking it, and while that may sound like a loss of control, it is not entirely so, because there is still choice in how far you allow it to define you."

Her fingers curled lightly around the cup.

"And no, it does not ever fully turn off, but it does change," she continued, her tone steady, grounded in experience rather than theory. "You learn when to set it aside, when to let it rest, and when to allow something else to exist alongside it, rather than trying to erase it entirely."

There was a quiet pause before she continued, her gaze holding his.

"I have a life outside of the work, a family, responsibilities that have nothing to do with operations or outcomes, and while most people don't know that, it does not make it any less real or any less important, because that is where the balance exists, not in abandoning what you were, but in building something that can exist beside it."

Her attention flicked briefly to the way he held himself, the restless energy beneath the stillness, before returning to his face.

"That feeling you're describing, the one that only seems to exist when everything is at risk, isn't really about danger," she said, her voice calm but precise. "It's about clarity, because when you're close to death, there is no ambiguity, no distraction, no uncertainty about what matters in that moment, and everything else falls away whether you want it to or not."

She leaned back slightly, composed as ever, though the weight of what she was saying remained.

"What you're struggling with now is not the absence of that feeling, but the presence of everything else that replaces it, the space where you are no longer forced into clarity and instead have to create it yourself, which is a far more difficult thing to learn."

Another small pause followed, quieter now.

"You don't need the danger to find that clarity, but you do need to decide what matters enough to create it without the threat forcing it into place, and that kind of decision takes time, whether you want it to or not."

Dalvos Thrakan

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

He sat in silence as she spoke, digesting her words for long moments. Another pastry and the rest of his tea fell victim to the silence; not empty, but filled with contemplation. Even his hands seemed to find purpose in the small, simple actions, as his eyes rested on the point between her own, listening as she spoke.

Finally, he brushed his fingertips clean on a napkin, ordered a fresh cup of tea, and squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. A smile bloomed across his face, creeping like ivy until it burst into laughter. Warm, genuine laughter. "That's... Why they put you in charge, I suppose. The ability to understand, to empathize... To know someone else well enough to hold up a mirror." He held up his hands for a moment, as if in surrender, still chuckling; laughter interrupted his words, here and there, breathy and quick. "You're telling me retirement is actually more work than working? I've been betrayed! Misled, deceived!" He sighed dramatically, pushing down his laughter. "To be honest... I don't think I'm ready to retire. Not really. I see this more as a... vacation." He paused, mulling over that description as if he pondered changing it.

"A chance to rest and re-center myself. To remind myself of the good that I stand for and the evil that I fight against. A chance to bask in the light before I return to darkness. It's... easy to forget what it's like, when you're out there... What it's like to remember good and happy things. To be among friends. To not..."

He started laughing again, "Not have to drink awful liquor because so many Sith are so damned cheap they don't drink at the good bars. I'm not very much of a drinker when I have my way, but... Stars, some of the Rodian rotgut I've had made me wonder if poison would make it better for you! At least you know most poisons were made somewhere sanitary and with clean equipment. Just last month I was on Tattooine chasing down a lead about some missing people, and the bar my lead was drinking at..." He shook his head, puffing out his cheeks and blowing in an exaggerated manner. "I thought they'd gotten the tap mixed up with the engine caustics at the dockyard next door. You probably could've cleaned a fuel line with the stuff." He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to shake off the memory. "If only I wasn't so young and stupid when I created him, I might've figured out a way to become a... Oh, I don't know, some kind of roving restaurant connoisseur or something. Of course, then I'd have to hope that Darth Somethingorother was a foodie, and I've never known their kind to have good taste..." He lost himself to laughter at that point, clutching to his cup of tea as if it were a lifeline.

"You used to do field work," he asked after a moment, "Do you ever miss it? Want to get back out there and... Stir it up by hand? You must be using an awfully long spoon from up there in your office."

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah listened to his laughter without interruption, and though her own expression never opened quite as fully as his had, there was a quiet warmth in her eyes that suggested she appreciated it nonetheless, the kind of warmth that surfaced rarely, but sincerely when something managed to cut through the layers of discipline she lived behind. In a life shaped by secrecy, tension, and long stretches of caution, genuine laughter remained one of the few things that could still catch her attention simply because it was honest, unguarded, and uncalculated in a way so few moments around her ever were.

"The idea that retirement is restful was likely invented by people who never spent their lives operating under pressure," she said, her tone carrying the faintest thread of dry amusement, as though she were acknowledging a truth she had learned the hard way. "Once you become accustomed to living with constant purpose, stillness tends to feel less like peace and more like a missing instruction, something you are waiting to receive without realizing it."

His descriptions of terrible liquor drew the closest thing to visible amusement she had shown yet, a subtle curve at the corner of her mouth that lingered longer than usual, as though the memory of such places was both familiar and faintly ridiculous.

"I've noticed the same problem," she admitted, her voice softening just enough to reveal the humor beneath it. "For all their declarations of superiority, most Sith have remarkably poor taste in almost everything except dramatic architecture."

A quiet breath escaped her then, something small, almost resembling a laugh, but unmistakably genuine in its brief appearance.

"And Tatooine has always had a talent for producing establishments that make one reconsider the value of internal organs," she added, the dryness in her tone deepening just slightly, as though she had survived more than one such establishment and had no intention of repeating the experience.

She allowed his laughter to settle naturally before she answered the question beneath it, the one that mattered more than the humor wrapped around it, the one she had known he was truly asking.

When she spoke again, her tone shifted subtly, not colder, but steadier, shaped more by memory than by observation, as though she were drawing from a part of her life she rarely allowed into conversation.

"Being put in charge was hardly something handed to me on a platter," Ra said calmly, her gaze resting on him without wavering. "It happened much more naturally than that, though perhaps not more gently." Her fingers curled loosely around her cup, the motion small but grounding, as she continued. "First, I was made into an assassin, then eventually into the head of intelligence, because once people discover you are capable of surviving difficult work, they tend to continue giving you more of it until they either run out of confidence or run out of structure."

A faint pause followed, the weight of old governments and older failures lingering quietly beneath the words.

"Eventually that government died, as many have when confronted by one Sith movement or another," she said, her tone neither bitter nor nostalgic, simply factual. "And in the aftermath, I found myself leading the clandestine organization known as the Dark Hand."

There was no pride in the admission, only the composure of someone long accustomed to the shape of dangerous truths, someone who had lived inside them long enough that they no longer required embellishment.

"I worked almost entirely from the shadows while my Hands moved throughout the galaxy carrying out the work that needed to be done," she continued, her gaze drifting briefly toward the movement of the café around them before returning to him with quiet precision. "And after enough years spent operating that way, you begin to realize leadership is often less about commanding events and more about deciding which burdens you are willing to absorb personally so others do not have to."

She reached for her caf, taking a measured sip that gave her a moment to let the truth settle between them before she spoke again.

"So yes," Ra said, a faint thread of honesty entering her voice, the kind that rarely surfaced unless she chose it deliberately, "there are moments when I miss the field work, particularly the clarity of it. Out there, decisions become immediate. Consequences are tangible. You always know exactly where you stand, even when the answer is unpleasant."

A slight tilt of her head followed, thoughtful rather than dismissive.

"But there is a difference between missing something and believing you belong there forever," she said, her tone steady, shaped by the kind of self-knowledge that came only from surviving long enough to understand one's own limits and one's own evolution.

Her attention remained steady on him, her expression composed but not closed.

"I still involve myself directly when necessary," she continued, "though usually in situations where I trust very few other people to manage the outcome correctly. The difference now is that I no longer mistake proximity for effectiveness."

The faintest trace of amusement returned, subtle but unmistakable.

"And despite what many people believe, an office can be every bit as dangerous as a battlefield if the right decisions are being made inside it."

She leaned back slightly, composed and relaxed despite the subject matter, her presence settling into something both grounded and quietly formidable.

"The spoon may be longer now," Ra added, her voice carrying a soft, wry undertone, "but I assure you, the soup is no less volatile."

Dalvos Thrakan

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

"They do have good taste in dramatic architecture," he mumbled in agreement as she spoke. "Really know how to sell the aloof and brooding look."

He gave a small snort at her words. 'Either running out of confidence or running out of structure'.

"Perhaps, one day, we'll see a galaxy where our work is no longer necessary." He raised his cup to that, punctuating the silence that had followed her words - and the small snort at her 'volatile soup'.

He set the cup down, deftly rotating it in his fingers, staring into the rippling surface for several long seconds while he considered his words.

"I, ah... At first, I felt... betrayed, a little bit, by the idea of the Protectorate. It seemed like... giving up. Like saying that we had done all we could by toppling one government, and it was time to set aside our weapons, forge blasters into hammers and build ourselves a new future free of the Sith... until they inevitably crawled back out of the darkness and the cycle began anew." He paused for a moment, the silence filled with intention, with searching, as if trying to find the right words to fill that void. "I felt like the work was left undone, especially with so many... other... threats lingering in the Galaxy." He took a slow, deep breath, letting his eyes close for a moment. "But I think I had been... Out there, for too long. I started to forget that people... Need places like this." A small gesture with his hand, not just to the cafe itself, but to the whole city, a sweeping flourish on the end of the movement.

"I've finally come to realize that it wasn't giving up the fight, it was... Consolidation. Now that we're... Out in the open, our allies can be, too. We're no longer a..." He gave a small laugh, "Terrorist organization clinging to the edges of settled space, no, now we're a Protectorate. We're... Real. Valid. We don't need to hide anymore. It doesn't mean we've given up fighting in the shadows, just that we're strong enough to step into the light."

"I'm sorry it took me so long to realize that... Me, and other people like me. I've been... reaching out to some others, who were dissatisfied with the change. Trying to get them to come out into the light. Some of us have been... gone... too long, I think, but I hope that there are others who will return."

His fingers fidgeted with the cup, the tea going cold inside of it as he stared into its depths as if in augury.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah listened without interruption, her attention steady on him as his thoughts unfolded piece by piece, and when he spoke of betrayal, disillusionment, and finally understanding, there was no surprise in her expression. If anything, she seemed to recognize the path he had taken to arrive there, the kind of realization that could never be handed to someone from the outside, but had to be lived long enough to settle into place on its own.

At his mention of dramatic Sith architecture, the faintest trace of amusement touched her features again, subtle but unmistakably genuine.

"They do have a remarkable commitment to presentation," she said dryly. "Half their power would disappear overnight if someone forced them to operate out of modest buildings with practical lighting."

The humor faded naturally, giving way to something quieter and more grounded as she listened to the rest of what he said. When he finished, she gave a small nod, not approval, not dismissal, simply understanding, the kind that came from long experience rather than theory.

"We did manage to destroy one Sith Empire," Ra said after a moment, her fingers loosely curled around her cup. "That was the original purpose, at least in the beginning. Survive long enough, strike hard enough, and make certain they could not continue as they had before."

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the café around them, toward the ordinary life continuing uninterrupted beyond the weight of their conversation, before returning to him with the same calm focus.

"And afterward, we went back into the shadows," she continued, her voice steady, reflective. "Watching. Waiting. Remaining hidden because secrecy was still our greatest advantage, and because there were too few of us to survive any other way."

A slight pause followed, not dramatic, simply thoughtful.

"But now there are more Sith than ever, more fractured powers, more instability spread openly across the galaxy, and eventually there comes a point where remaining hidden stops being a strategy and starts becoming absence."

Her attention settled fully on him again, her tone quiet but certain.

"We can no longer afford to exist only in the dark. Not if we intend to shape what comes next rather than react to it from the edges." There was no grand ambition in her voice, no theatrical declaration, only the clarity of someone who had already accepted the necessity of change. "So the Protectorate became necessary."

One shoulder lifted in a restrained shrug, understated despite the scale of what it represented.

"It is a significant change," she admitted, "but not an unexpected one. Organizations either evolve when circumstances shift, or they calcify around old methods until the galaxy moves on without them."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the tea cooling in his hands before returning to his face.

"You were not wrong to question it," she said. "People who spend enough time fighting in the shadows learn to distrust visibility, because visibility usually means vulnerability. It takes time to understand that visibility can also become strength, once there is enough structure to support it."

Another pause, softer this time.

"And you are also not wrong that threats still linger," Ra continued, her tone gentling without losing its clarity. "The work was never truly finished. I doubt work like ours ever is."

Her fingers rested lightly against the side of her cup, the gesture small but deliberate.

"But there is a difference between continuing the fight and remaining trapped inside the conditions that created it," she said quietly. "One is purpose. The other becomes a habit." Her gaze held his steadily, the weight of her meaning settling between them with quiet certainty. "What matters now is that people like you are returning before that line disappears entirely."

Dalvos Thrakan

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

His fingers lightly tipped the cup back and forth, watching the tiny ripples build on themselves, like a metaphor for the Dark Hand itself.

"So, with all your years of experience... Endless hours in the field... Countless life or death situations..."

He leaned in toward her, as if asking for her confidence, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"In your opinion: the best restaurant in the Galaxy?" He held up a hand to forestall an immediate answer. "Not on Veradune."

He sat back, grinning, as if he'd played a very clever prank. "On Nar Shaddaa, there's a Shioki burrito stand tucked up against the smuggler's port on level fourteen." His eyes half-lidded as if he could taste it even now, revelling in the memory. "Pickled. Bantha. Sounds crazy, I know, but it's fantastic. I don't know what else he puts on it, but I have a suspicion Spice is included, because once you've had one... You're done." He nodded as if this were a great revelation.

"That place, to tell you the truth, is the only thing that kept me sane sometimes. He has a spicy bolta-weed sauce he can put on top that'll kick out a hangover in a couple of bites. Sometimes when I'd have to spend all night staking out some cheap slum-cantina the only thing keeping me going is the thought of another pickled bantha burrito in the morning. Me and Nolshi, the burrito-boss, we'd talk about anything and everything in the whole damn galaxy. Retired podracer, making burritos for smugglers in the bowels of Nar Shaddaa." Was that a little glimmer of romance in his eyes?

His smile became a little distant. "I hope he's still there. Some day I'd love to tell him what I actually do for a living... I wonder if he already knows. Wouldn't that be crazy? If, all this time... I'd been trying to keep a secret from him, and he'd already figured it out? But he could never tell me, and I could never ask." He laughed.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah regarded him for a moment after the question, her expression carrying the faintest trace of suspicion at the sudden shift in direction, though it softened almost immediately into quiet amusement as he leaned back with the unmistakable satisfaction of someone convinced they had posed a genuinely important philosophical dilemma.

"The best restaurant in the galaxy?" she repeated, one brow lifting slightly. "That is a far more dangerous question than most intelligence briefings."

She listened as he described the Shioki stand on Nar Shaddaa, and though the idea of pickled bantha wrapped in a burrito sounded deeply questionable on paper, the way he spoke about it made the answer almost secondary to the memory itself. Ra recognized that tone immediately. It was never truly about the food. It was about what the place represented when everything else around it was unstable.

By the time he finished, there was a quiet warmth in her expression again, subtle but unmistakable.

"I suspect places like that survive because they become anchors," she said, her voice calm and thoughtful as she rested her fingers lightly against her cup. "Not merely somewhere to eat, but somewhere predictable in a life that rarely allows predictability."

A faint pause followed.

"And people notice more than we give them credit for, particularly the ones who spend their lives listening."

The corner of her mouth curved slightly.

"My experience has been that anyone serving food to smugglers on Nar Shaddaa for long enough develops a very refined instinct for knowing exactly what not to ask."

She let the humor linger briefly before answering his original question properly.

"As for mine…" Her gaze drifted for a moment, not distant exactly, but softer around the edges in a way it rarely became. "There's a restaurant on Naboo called Over the Moon."

She did not elaborate immediately, as though the name alone carried more memory than explanation.

"It isn't particularly extravagant by galactic standards," Ra continued after a moment, her tone quieter now, steadier in a different way. "Beautiful view. Open terraces overlooking the water. The sort of place most people would overlook because it does not try too hard to impress anyone."

A faint trace of genuine fondness settled into her voice then, subtle enough that someone not paying attention might miss it entirely.

"My husband introduced me to it years ago," she admitted. "At the time, I thought it was an impractical choice. Too visible. Too calm. I spent most of the evening convinced someone would try to kill one of us before dessert arrived."

The dryness of the statement softened the admission rather than hardening it.

"No one did," she added. "Which, in retrospect, was probably the first reason I liked it."

Her fingers curled loosely around her cup as she continued.

"I kept returning because it reminded me there were still places in the galaxy where people gathered for reasons other than politics, war, or survival. Places where conversations could simply… exist without needing to accomplish anything."

A small pause followed, thoughtful rather than heavy.

"I think those places matter more than most people realize," Ra said quietly. "Particularly for people like us."

Her gaze returned fully to him, composed once more, though the warmth remained.

"And for what it's worth," she added, the faintest hint of dry humor returning to her tone, "your burrito stand sounds significantly more hazardous than my restaurant."

Dalvos Thrakan

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

He gestured around slowly, a small smile on his face. "Places like this. Places where... it doesn't really matter who we are."

He paused, peering into his cup thoughtfully as if his reflection would answer him, before he spoke again. "Naboo is a lovely place. Really lovely. Rich with history and culture. I haven't been there enough." He laughed gently. "If it would help you feel more comfortable, I could see if I could stir up an assassin or two to keep things lively? I'm sure they'd relish the challenge of it. Did you know that on Coruscant there's actually recreational assassins? You can hire them to try and kill you. Now, it's up to you to set the terms, as loose or restrictive as you'd like, but sometimes bored socialites like to have the thrill of being hunted, while also having the comfort of knowing that once they've escaped the agreed-upon bounds, they're safe from reprisal. Imagine that? Imagine being so bored you literally hire someone to take you out of your misery... Imagine being paid by the person you're trying to kill to do the deed!" He shook his head.

"It amazes me that the galaxy can fit both kinds of people... People like us... And people like them." He looked like this thought brought him a kind of hopeful wonder, rather than the pessimism it could have all too easily meant. He set the cup down, looking over the remaining pastries as if pondering whether or not any of them had made it onto his own hit-list. He finally tossed his napkin on top of the cup and neatly stacked a handful of credits on the edge of the table. He seemed... Much more at ease than he had when their conversation had begun. "I've enjoyed our talk... Ra'a'mah." He spoke carefully, as if making sure that he wasn't overstepping. "Perhaps the next time I'm back on Veradune I'll do this again. I'm sure I won't snare the company of such an august persona again... But if you happen to amble by while I'm here, you're very welcome to share my table again."

He winked. "Perhaps I'll see about meandering past Naboo, try out your favorite place." A pause. "I don't suspect you'll get the... opportunity to go to the Smuggler's Moon any time soon, but if you do... Seriously. Pickled bantha burrito."

He gave a polite half-bow as he stood, preparing to depart.

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra'a'mah listened quietly as he spoke, the faint trace of amusement lingering in her expression at the increasingly absurd description of wealthy Coruscanti hiring recreational assassins for entertainment. By the time he reached the end of the explanation, one dark eyebrow had lifted just slightly.

"You do remember the Sith Covenant controls Coruscant now," she observed dryly, lifting her cup for one final sip of caf. "I suspect allowing people to pay for assassination attempts there is considerably less recreational than it once was."

There was no real severity in the comment, only the understated humor of someone who had spent enough years around dangerous people to recognize how quickly novelty became reality in the wrong environment.

Still, the thought clearly entertained her more than she intended to admit.

"The galaxy does have a remarkable ability to contain contradictions," she continued after a moment, her voice calmer now, more reflective than analytical. "People who spend their lives surviving in shadows somehow existing alongside people wealthy enough to manufacture danger simply because they have never truly experienced it."

Her gaze followed him as he stood, and she noticed immediately what had changed over the course of the conversation. The tension he had carried when she first arrived had eased, not vanished entirely, but settled into something quieter and more manageable. That alone made the conversation worthwhile.

At his careful use of her name, the faintest hint of warmth touched her expression again.

"I have enjoyed it as well, Davlos," she said, her tone smooth and sincere without becoming overly familiar. "And despite your concern, I am not quite so august that I cannot sit at a café table when the opportunity presents itself."

One corner of her mouth curved faintly before she reached into the inner fold of her coat and withdrew a slim metallic business chit no larger than two fingers wide. The surface shimmered briefly as she placed it carefully atop the table between the empty dishes and abandoned napkins.

"There is a direct frequency embedded in that," she explained. "Not routed through assistants, ministries, or Protectorate channels. If you need to reach me personally, you may."

The gesture was simple, but not insignificant. People in her position did not hand out unrestricted contact access lightly.

As he mentioned the Smuggler's Moon again and the infamous burrito, a quieter laugh escaped her then, low and brief but unmistakably genuine.

"I cannot promise I will ever fully trust the phrase pickled bantha," she admitted, rising smoothly from her seat, "but your endorsement has at least made me curious enough to investigate."

She adjusted the cuff of one glove absently before inclining her head toward him in return, the gesture measured but warm.

"And if I do find myself on Nar Shaddaa eating questionable street food because of you, I will consider that your responsibility entirely."

There was a slight pause before she added, softer now:

"Take care of yourself, Davlos. The galaxy has a habit of consuming people who forget how to step out of the dark once in a while."

Then, with the same composed ease she had arrived with, Ra'a'mah turned toward the noise and movement of Veradune's crowded café district once more, disappearing back into the living rhythm of the city rather than away from it.

Dalvos Thrakan

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

He picked up the small metal chit, peering down at it as if she'd handed him a solid gold brick. He turned it over lightly in his fingers for a moment, and when he looked up at her, there was a fervent devotion in his eyes. Davlos, the Agent, clicked back into place, professional fervor reignited in the way he carried himself. He took a deep breath, and nodded to her crisply. "I won't abuse the privilege," he stated, lowering his voice as he spoke, finishing with a slight grin, "Madame Protector."


He dipped his head respectfully, and then made for the door.