Private Growing Intel

[Cassian Abrantes]

West Moenia
Observatory
RIS Headquarters
Shade ​

The morning light off the Solleu River always looked cleaner from this side of the city. West Moenia wasn't as polished as Theed, it was steel and glass, sharp corners and high walls but the sun still caught in the mirrored façade of the Republic Intelligence complex like a promise that someone wanted to believe in.

Cassian paused at the base of the front steps, standing in his armor feeling that light breeze against his armor, the breeze that rolled down from the cliffs. The permacrete plaza below the Headquarters was busy but orderly: couriers in slate uniforms, analysts moving in pairs, the rhythmic hum of repulsorlifts as transports came and went from the lower docks. It was the kind of motion that looked like chaos to anyone else but to him, it was choreography. Every step, every conversation, every datapad swipe had meaning.

When Shade's silhouette appeared from the speeder line, he recognized her even before she drew close.

"West Moenia's finest labyrinth." Cassian said by way of greeting, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You'll find the architecture's as evasive as the people inside." He gestured toward the rising tiers of the complex clean lines, marble inlays, and the subtle shimmer of a security field that wove itself through the courtyard like invisible silk.

"Welcome to Republic Intelligence." he added, his tone somewhere between irony and invitation. "I'll give you the scenic version first. The unpleasant bits come later."

"I'm glad you came." Cassian said with a smile.

 

[Shade]

Shade paused at the edge of the courtyard, the hum of the repulsorlifts brushing across the air like distant static. Sunlight caught against the lines of her armor — matte black swallowing the reflection, silver trim tracing the motion of her stride. She moved through the bustle without effort, without hurry; the sort of stillness that drew attention only because it refused to ask for any.


Her eyes swept the plaza, tracing the movements of couriers and analysts, the subtle hum of the transports below. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, almost imperceptible.


"Familiar," she said softly, her gaze lingering on the rise of the plaza and the mirrored façades. "I've seen arrangements like this before… tracked someone through a place almost exactly like it. The details differ, but the rhythm,the choreography, remains. It's the same."


When she stopped before him, her gaze lifted briefly to the mirrored façade before settling back on Cassian. Her crimson eyes met his, controlled, precise, yet carrying the faintest edge of memory.

"It lives up to its reputation," she said evenly, taking in the structure's symmetry, the subtle hum of its defense grid, the deliberate spacing of the guards. "A place designed to make you forget which direction you came from."

Her eyes flicked toward his armor, then back to his face, not assessing, not suspicious, but the quiet cataloguing of a professional adjusting to new parameters.

"Scenic version, then." The faintest trace of wryness ghosted through her tone. "I'll reserve judgment on the unpleasant parts until I've seen the angles myself."

She fell into step beside him, measured, matching his pace without conscious effort.

"You said you were glad I came." A pause not challenging, but curious, steady as a line drawn on glass. "Most operatives prefer keeping liabilities at a distance."

Her head turned slightly, crimson gaze catching the filtered sunlight as it crossed the plaza. "So tell me, Cassian," she added, tone quieter now, more deliberate, "which do you think I am—an asset, or a risk?"

She fell silent after that, letting her observation hang between them. Nothing more. The name of her former employer, the mission, the stakes; all remained carefully sealed behind the mask she wore as Shade.

And yet…the rhythm of this place…it calls something from memory. Not the names, not the orders, not the mission, just the pattern of movement, the pulse beneath the steps. My pulse matches it, if only for a moment. I notice. I catalog. I survive. Nothing more.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian studied her in the flicker of the morning light, the crowd's rhythm bending subtly around her as if the space itself made room. He'd seen operatives walk with quiet confidence before, but Shade carried something different discipline turned inward, pared down until only the essential remained. No wasted motion. No visible intent.

"Depends who's asking." he said finally, tone mild but threaded with that faint Naboo undercurrent of irony. The kind that made sincerity sound like another layer of disguise.

He started forward again, guiding her along the ascending steps. "Republic Intelligence doesn't call anyone a liability outright. Not until they've filed at least three forms and a witness report." he added, a flicker of humor smoothing the edge of the words. "But between you and me—'risk' and 'asset' aren't mutually exclusive categories. The best ones usually blur the line."

The doors hissed open as they approached, polished transparisteel splitting with hydraulic precision. Cassian didn't look back immediately, though he felt her presence at his shoulder quiet, alert, as if the building itself were trying to map her the same way she mapped it.

"I was glad you came." he said at last, glancing sidelong at her. "Not because it makes my job easier. But because it tells me you're still willing to walk into a place like this without flinching. That's not liability it's experience."


He gestured toward the entryway where light bent off the atrium's marble floor and the insignia of the Republic gleamed faintly beneath the security field. "Let's call it what it is, Shade. You're not here to blend in. You're here because you see the patterns most people miss. And I can't keep doing this alone, I need help. I'm not above admitting that. But in order to expand and to help me track down these shadows."

The wind shifted as they crossed the threshold filtered, sterile, carrying the faint tang of ion and polish. Inside, the hum of the city faded, replaced by the measured tempo of bureaucracy and quiet power.

"Come on." Cassian said, his voice softening as the doors sealed behind them. "I'll show you where the choreography starts."

 

[Shade]

Shade stepped through the atrium’s threshold, the filtered light catching along the edges of her armor as if even it were remembering something. The air here smelled of polish and order — a far cry from the damp stone and copper tang of the canal where their first meeting had almost ended differently.
"I’ve walked through places like this before," she said, her voice low, deliberate. "Clean lines. Hidden sightlines. The kind of architecture that makes you forget where the exits really are."
Her gaze followed the sweep of the glass overhead, tracing its precise symmetry, the hum of the defense grid beneath. "The canal had the same rhythm. Just quieter. Fewer uniforms, more shadows."
A faint curve touched her mouth — not warmth, but the barest suggestion of irony. "I was supposed to bring you to Nar Shaddaa. That was the job. I had you in my sights until the patrol came through. I thought they’d cost me the contract."
Her eyes lifted to his then, steady, sharp, the kind of look that could have been a challenge if it weren’t softened by something quieter beneath. "Turns out, they just changed the terms."
The space between them carried the faint echo of that night — water, light, and motion, the memory of their fight threaded through the stillness.
"You could’ve turned me in that night," she said, quieter now, the words deliberate, as if measured for weight. "You didn’t. Instead, you made an offer."
Her voice fell away, leaving only the low hum of the facility around them. Then, a breath later, she added, "So here I am — seeing if your Republic’s as persuasive as its recruiter."
She fell into step beside him once more, her stride silent but sure, the brush of motion calculated — though a flicker of something less disciplined stirred at the edge of awareness. His presence, steady and composed, drew her focus the way gravity did — subtle, unwelcome, and undeniable.
It was nothing she would name, not aloud. Attraction, curiosity — all liabilities, all distractions. Yet her mind, despite itself, replayed the brief image of his expression under the flickering canal lights — calm even when she’d nearly cut him down. That kind of composure left a mark.
Her gaze stayed forward, her tone unchanged, all calculation.
"Lead on, Cassian."
But when she spoke his name, it lingered in the air like the last note of a song she hadn’t meant to play — quiet, precise, and far too human. A small betrayal the Force itself might have felt.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade​

He turned toward her then, catching her gaze with his own calm, steady, but never passive. Cassian's eyes had that particular kind of attentiveness that felt like it could see through the armor without meaning to. "You could've taken a shot before the patrol came through." he said evenly. "But you didn't."

He started walking again, the sound of their boots echoing softly against the marble. "Maybe you already knew the contract was wrong. Or maybe." he added, his voice softening, "You were just curious to see how the story would end."

They passed through the first checkpoint, the guards giving crisp nods, not daring to question the presence of the black-armored woman at his side. Cassian returned the gesture absently. His focus never left her.

"The Republic isn't persuasive." he continued. "It's patient. It waits for people to stop running from themselves." His gaze flicked to her again, the faintest suggestion of warmth threading through his tone. "You came here because you wanted to see if that patience was real. I don't blame you."

He gestured to the corridor ahead, where the hall stretched long and austere, lined with dataports and surveillance feeds a place built on the illusion of control.

Their first stop with the Intelligence Analysis Center. Advanced equipment and a data processing equipment for analyzing intelligence and everything in between.

 

[Shade]

Shade matched his pace, the measured cadence of her boots carrying her through the corridor with effortless control. Her eyes flicked to the data consoles and the faintly glowing screens along the walls, cataloguing them with quiet precision. Every sensor, every feed, every blinking light was a part of a larger mechanism she had learned to read instinctively — patterns, redundancies, weak points — and even here, the Republic's architecture spoke to discipline she could respect.

"Patience," she murmured, voice even, almost reflective, "is only useful when the observer knows what to watch for." Her crimson gaze returned to him, steady, calm, but carrying the faintest edge of calculation beneath its surface. "You think I came here to test the Republic. Perhaps I did. Or perhaps…" She tilted her head, letting a shadow fall across her face, "…I simply wanted to see if you were right about me."

Her hand hovered for a moment near the edge of the console as they passed, not touching, just acknowledging the rhythm of work that hummed quietly around them. The past mission, the canal, the patrol that had let her go — all lingered just beneath her control, a faint reminder that curiosity and calculation were often intertwined.

She let her gaze drift forward to the center of the room, where analysts moved efficiently, typing, scanning, and manipulating streams of data. "Precision," she said softly, almost to herself, "is as much about restraint as execution."

Her eyes flicked back to Cassian, unreadable, composed, but something in the pause — the slight incline of her head, the subtle measurement of his expression — suggested she was quietly weighing him as she had done in the past. Not trust, not yet. But assessment. And perhaps, against her better judgment, a trace of respect.

"Show me where the choreography starts," she said finally, tone calm, deliberate. "I want to see how the pieces move before deciding where I fit."

The quiet between them was almost a rhythm in itself, two professionals stepping in sync, neither yielding, both observing — the first act of understanding in a space built for control.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade​

The doors sealed behind them with a soft hiss, cutting off the ambient noise of the upper floors. The air grew cooler, thinner the quiet of containment. The hum here wasn't the same as the atrium's; this one pulsed lower, more deliberate, like a heartbeat running through the walls.

Cassian slowed his pace as the floor beneath them shifted from polished marble to reinforced glassite panels threaded with blue conduits. Beyond the observation glass, the Intelligence Analysis Center unfolded like a living circuit. Rows of holo-terminals bathed the room in pale light; analysts leaned over projected star maps, communications fragments, trade manifests all layered, cross-referenced, and color-coded into an intricate choreography of surveillance.

"This is where the Republic sees the galaxy." Cassian said, his voice even, measured. "Every whisper that matters from Core Worlds to the edges of Wild Space passes through this floor first."

He watched her take it in the faint reflection of holo-light catching across her armor, the slow pivot of her gaze cataloguing every movement, every rhythm. She was reading it the same way she'd read the canal, the same way she'd read him.

"Up ahead." he continued, nodding toward the secured wing beyond a transparent bulkhead, "Is the Secure Archives. Restricted access only. Every mission file, every debrief, every shadow report lives there. Half of the galaxy's history written in redacted ink."

A soft chime preceded their approach to the next security checkpoint, where two guards straightened immediately, their armor bearing the Republic crest in dull gray. A sensor sweep followed precise, silent. Cassian flashed his identic chip, the air rippling faintly as the scanner recognized it.

Shade's armor caught the reflection of the barrier light as it dissolved. Cassian's tone dropped slightly, quieter, more personal.
"Most of them don't know what they're guarding. That's the irony of intelligence work everyone protects pieces of a puzzle they're never allowed to see whole."

They moved through. The hall narrowed, darker now, the sterile precision giving way to something heavier a sense of containment that lingered in the recycled air. Ahead, the reinforced doors of the Detention Block waited, cold and soundproof. Cassian stopped a few paces short, turning to her.

"This wing." he said. "Is what the Republic doesn't put on its recruitment posters. The prisoners here aren't all criminals they're variables. Some talk. Some never do. Every secret the Bureau keeps has a human face behind it."

He studied her then the faint shift in her posture, the quiet focus in her eyes. "You asked to see where the choreography starts." he said, low. "This is also where it ends. When information stops moving, it settles here."

For a moment, the silence between them was thicker than the air. Cassian let it stretch before adding, "We don't have to go in. Not yet. But you should know understanding the Republic means understanding what it's willing to keep in the dark."

He turned back toward the observation glass overlooking the analysis floor below, voice soft but deliberate.

"Come on. I'll show you the archives. We got a few more places after this."

 

[Shade]

Shade's gaze lingered on the transparent bulkhead, the pale holo-light fracturing across her armor in shards that seemed almost like projections of herself. Below, analysts moved among layers of holographic intelligence, every intercepted signal, coded exchange, and fragment of chatter woven into a seamless lattice. It was all laid bare, yet she felt the weight of what remained unseen.

Her crimson eyes flicked toward Cassian, noting the subtle shift in his tone when he spoke of the pieces of a puzzle no one was allowed to see whole. The way he had said her name — Shade — before she had ever offered it… that small detail pressed against the edge of her awareness, insistent.

"Interesting," she murmured softly, almost to herself, "to know someone has records on me…before I've even walked through the doors."


Her hand flexed at her side, subtle and controlled. A reflex born of years anticipating unseen threats. She didn't look accusatory, nor fearful. Just observant. Calculating and measuring the scope of what the Republic might hold: files, chatter, contracts...the kind of intelligence that could pin a ghost like her to a time, a place, a choice.

"I wonder," she continued, voice low and deliberate, "what they think they see. And how much is…useful."

Her gaze returned to the floor below, tracing the choreography of analysts and their projections, the pulsing lattice of galactic intelligence. Every movement catalogued, every action cross-referenced. Somewhere in that immensity, she already existed as a name, a shadow, a calculation: recruitment, observation, potential threat — the purpose didn't matter yet.

She exhaled softly, the slightest acknowledgment of awareness threading through her controlled exterior. She was Shade, visible, precise, unreadable, and now slightly unsettled by the knowledge that she had already entered someone else's ledger.

Her eyes flicked to the reinforced doors ahead, cold and soundproof. The words Cassian had spoken about prisoners as variables, secrets with human faces, pressed against the edges of her consciousness. She understood, intimately, what it meant to have pieces of herself tracked, catalogued, and analyzed. And yet the thought that he had known her name before she had spoken it added a subtle edge of wariness.


Her gaze returned briefly to Cassian, taking in his deliberate calm. The certainty in his recognition of her as Shade * before she had offered it* suggested records, intelligence, perhaps dossiers she would never see. And then, almost imperceptibly, she recalled the conversation they'd shared over dinner, the words exchanged, the silences measured, the way he'd observed her. How much more did he already know? How many fragments of her life, carefully guarded and unspoken, had he already pieced together without her realizing? The thought threaded through her composure like a quiet pulse, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.

"I wonder," she murmured softly, voice even, controlled, "what they think they know. And how much… is accurate." And then, for a fraction of a second, her thought lingered on him: with all he knows, with all he's seen and deduced, what does he intend to do with it? Was it purely professional? Or had the measure of her presence touched him in ways she refused to admit?

Her movements remained minimal but precise, each gesture a quiet probe. That the Republic already held fragments of her — actions, contracts, existence — was not a threat, not yet, but a variable to measure. Her exhale was soft, almost imperceptible, a faint acknowledgment of the truth without revealing more than necessary.

Shade remained as she always did: present, composed, unreadable — a ghost catalogued in someone else's ledger. And in that silent calculation, she remembered: had Cassian not let her go on that canal, she would now be behind these very doors. Her employer, the one who had sent her to capture him on Nar Shaddaa, remained unspoken, untraceable in this conversation. That piece of her past stayed hers alone.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade
​

Cassian watched her reflection ghost across the glass fractured by light, multiplied by perspective. From a distance, she looked like part of the display itself, another projection moving within the Republic's lattice of order. Yet every movement she made was her own, deliberate and precise, existing just beyond the reach of the system that sought to define her.

He didn't interrupt her when she spoke; the soft murmur of her words carried enough force without emphasis. Records on me… before I've even walked through the doors. The way she said it wasn't accusation it was diagnosis. Observation delivered like a surgeon's cut.

"I'd be lying if I said we didn't." Cassian admitted quietly. He turned from the glass, his reflection fading as the light caught instead on the insignia at his shoulder silver, understated, official. "You don't survive this long without someone noticing the pattern you leave behind. Ghosts leave footprints too. They just don't always know where."


He stepped closer to the bulkhead's edge, hands loosely clasped behind him, posture calm but intent. "And for what it's worth," he added, his tone softening, "The files never tell the full story. They give you the outline contracts, sightings, probabilities. The rest…" His gaze flicked to her, thoughtful. "The rest you learn by watching."

The light of the analysis floor shifted as a new data stream flared below them the galaxy rendered in pulsing points of light, every world a heartbeat in the Republic's surveillance network. Shade's crimson gaze mirrored that starlight back, a faint glint against the shadow of her helm.

Cassian's voice lowered, almost more for her than the space between them. "The Agency thinks in categories. Asset, risk, liability, containment. But that's policy, not truth. The truth's a little messier."

"I don't make assumptions based on what's in a file. I never have, even in the army. You learn about someone by working with them, seeing what makes them click, knowing them and seeing who they really are, that's why I asked you to come here. I believe I can trust you, you wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that."

He gestured lightly toward the reinforced doors of the Secure Archives, where the faint green light of biometric locks pulsed like a heartbeat. "If you want to see what they've written the story they've told about you I can show you. But once you look, you'll never unsee it. The Republic remembers everything, even the parts it shouldn't."

His gaze met hers, steady and unflinching. "Or we can walk past it. Let the ghosts stay ghosts."

 

[Shade]

Shade's eyes followed the shifting constellation of data below. The Republic's pulse rendered in light and code. Every star that flared alive in that holographic map was a surveillance thread, a secret wrapped in precision. The kind of system she'd spent her life avoiding.

When Cassian spoke again, she didn't turn immediately. His words, I believe I can trust you, settled like static beneath her ribs, unwelcome but persistent. Trust was a dangerous thing to name aloud.

Her hand brushed the edge of the bulkhead, not restless, but grounding, as crimson eyes finally met his.

"You say you don't make assumptions," she said quietly, tone level but edged with thought. "Then tell me what you have learned about me, Cassian."

It wasn't a challenge. It was a test. A question asked by someone who'd spent years being seen only in fragments...reports, probabilities, distorted truths. She wanted to know whether he saw more than what the files claimed. Whether the man who'd once let her walk away now saw the person behind the job.

When he finished, her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than intended. The silence between them stretched, filled with the weight of things neither could name.

"Thank you," she said finally, voice lower now, not soft, but sincere in its restraint. "For saying you believe that." It meant more than she would ever willingly admit.

A slight pause followed, and then the faintest curve touched her mouth, not quite a smile, but close enough to suggest understanding "But I think we let the ghosts stay ghosts. Some truths read better unwritten."

Her gaze drifted once more to the Secure Archives ahead, where the biometric locks pulsed faintly in green. For a heartbeat, she wondered what version of her existed in that room — what narrative the Republic had constructed from pieces of smoke and rumor. She imagined the file under her name: SHD-11. Chiss. Freelance. High probability for survival, low probability for surrender.

The thought almost drew a smile. Almost.

She turned back toward him, composed once more, that unwanted trace of curiosity buried beneath professionalism. But the faint shift of her eyes, the quiet steadiness of her breath, betrayed the truth: she was intrigued by the man who had seen her not as a contract, nor an equation — but as something still human, even if she was Chiss.

For Shade, that was far more dangerous than any file.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian stood still for a moment after she spoke, the faint hum of the data lattice below threading through the silence. The way her voice had shaped the word trust not disbelief, not dismissal, but careful, deliberate lingered with him. Few people ever asked what he'd learned. Fewer still meant it.


He stepped closer to the bulkhead, eyes following the slow turn of the holographic map before answering.


"I learned that you read the room before you enter it." he said quietly. "That you notice patterns before anyone else realizes there's movement. That you keep your distance, not out of fear, but because distance gives you perspective."

He looked at her reflection in the glass armor and poise, crimson eyes catching threads of light. "I learned that you don't run from danger; you measure it. That you've been on both sides of the crosshair and still haven't forgotten what it feels like to be seen through one."

His tone softened, almost an admission. "And that you don't like being catalogued not because you have something to hide, but because you want the story to be yours to tell."

The faint flicker of light from the Secure Archives brushed across her face, green and gold in alternating pulses. Cassian's gaze followed it for a moment before returning to her. "You were right about one thing." he said, a trace of warmth threading through the restraint in his voice. "Some truths do read better unwritten. But the people who live them still matter."

He cast a glance sideways at her as they walked. "For what it's worth." he said, the faintest edge of wryness returning to his voice, "The file they keep on me isn't accurate either. You'd think being a citizen of Naboo would make me less of a mystery. It doesn't."

 

[Shade]

Shade's crimson eyes flicked toward him, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across her features — subtle, almost imperceptible, like a shadow shifting in low light. She let his observations hang between them as they walked, her movements measured, deliberate, every step part of her own quiet assessment of the space and the man guiding her.

"You've learned a lot," she murmured softly, voice even, controlled. "And yet...You remain a mystery to me as well." Her gaze drifted across the Intelligence Analysis Center below, catching the pulsing holo-layers, the movement of analysts, the rhythm of data as it passed through hands, eyes, and processors. She noted how the lattice mapped patterns she could already feel: a choreography of surveillance, observation, and deduction.

"I suppose," she added, tilting her head slightly, "there's more to you than any file could ever hold." Her tone carried a hint of wry curiosity, acknowledging that what he had learned about her, the measured distance, the patterns, the instinct for observation, was precise. Yet she remained aware that the files, the projections, the analysts below, could never fully capture her.

Her hand flexed subtly at her side, armor shifting soundlessly except to the keenest listener, a faint acknowledgment of the discipline honed over years in worse conditions. She studied the analysts' movements with the same detached interest she'd applied to any mission: noting attention, redundancy, and the flow of information, cataloguing what might matter and what was merely procedural.

A faint corner of her mouth lifted at Cassian's self-assessment, the small, almost imperceptible gesture threading respect with curiosity. It was rare for her to allow even a hint of personal reaction, and rarer still to find a moment where professional interest and subtle, unwanted recognition of another's depth intersected.

"Files, analysts, predictions," she murmured, almost to herself, "all of it tells a story…but only if you know how to read between the lines." Her gaze flicked back to him briefly, steady, unflinching, yet the shadow of that small smile lingered — the acknowledgment of mystery, both his and her own, weaving quietly into the rhythm of the tour.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's steps slowed as her words lingered between them, faint but deliberate the kind that carried weight even when delivered softly. There was something in the way she said you remain a mystery to me as well that brushed close to irony and sincerity in equal measure. He wasn't sure which one she intended, but he heard both.

"If it helps..." he said quietly, his voice low but threaded with an ease that wasn't quite humor. "The Bureau has a dozen profiles that claim to know me. You're already closer than most of them."

He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. The faint light from the consoles reflected in her crimson eyes, making them seem almost metallic. "You read between the lines." Cassian continued. "That's what makes you dangerous. Not because of what you know but because of what you notice."

"The Republic needs that kind of sight." he said instead. "Someone who doesn't just follow the patterns but asks why they were made in the first place."

Below them, the holo-grid pulsed again an incoming report flashing through the lattice before vanishing into the next sequence. Cassian's eyes tracked it absently, his tone dropping to something quieter, almost reflective.

"Shall we?" He spoke as they would press on towards the last three areas to show.

The lift hummed softly as it ascended, the city's light shifting through the glass paneling in long, molten streaks. Cassian stood beside her in the narrow space, the reflected skyline gliding across his face Naboo's serenity pressed against the Republic's machinery. Neither spoke for several floors; silence, it seemed, suited them both.

When the doors opened, the air changed.

Gone was the sterile hum of the analysis decks. Here, the corridors carried the sound of motion the echo of sparring strikes, the low pulse of training simulators, the rhythmic report of blaster calibration. The Training Facilities were alive with precision: recruits and agents moving in synchronized formations, the scent of ozone and metal hanging in the air.

"This is where they learn to make the intelligence real." Cassian said as they stepped inside, the floor vibrating faintly with each impact. "Combat, infiltration, field work every analyst is required to train here at least twice a month. Keeps them from mistaking theory for experience."

He led her past the sparring rings toward a broad viewport overlooking the Landing Pad. Below, speeders and shuttles descended in disciplined intervals, the sound dampeners reducing their roar to a muted thrum. Cargo crews and pilots moved like clockwork another layer of choreography in a place built on rhythm and control.

"Every agent who leaves Naboo passes through here." Cassian said. "Missions begin and end on this pad. You can tell a lot about the Bureau by the way its pilots land."

 

[Shade]

Shade followed in silence as Cassian's words settled into the quiet between them, her steps unhurried, her gaze steady. His remark about the Bureau's profiles drew the faintest flicker at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, but something near it. A low hum of amusement, brief and dry.

"Closer than most," she echoed softly, tilting her head just enough to meet his eyes. "That surprises me less than it should." There was no boast in it, only acknowledgment. "I try to see everything," she admitted after a moment, the words quieter, almost an aside. "But even the most careful observer can miss what matters most."

When the lift doors opened to the sound of motion, the rhythmic pulse of combat and calibration. There was something in her posture that eased, almost imperceptibly. The sterile stillness of the intelligence decks had suited her mind; this space, though, suited her instincts. The scent of ozone, the low thud of impact, the focus that sharpened every movement. It felt familiar. Grounding. A location where she could be comfortable.

Her eyes tracked the synchronized flow of recruits and operatives, the precision in their strikes. "Efficient," she murmured, half to herself. Then, with the faintest lift of her chin toward one of the sparring rings, "It's good to see theory given muscle. Perhaps one day," her tone held a subtle thread of anticipation, "you and I could test that principle without things getting fatal."

It wasn't a challenge, not quite. But the way her gaze lingered suggested she would remember the offer.

She turned then toward the broad viewport, her eyes following the disciplined descent of the shuttles. When Cassian spoke again, she listened, her expression calm but attentive.

At his earlier remark, that she'd gotten closer to understanding him than the Republic itself, she inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment. "That," she said with a faint, knowing note, "tells me more about both of you than perhaps you intended."

Her tone softened slightly as her eyes drifted back to the landing pad below. "Tell me, am I permitted to keep my own vessel here?"

She looked back at him then, the question carrying more weight than simple logistics. It was habit, independence, and a quiet need to remain tethered to something that was hers, something that reminded her she still operated best when given space to breathe.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian caught the small shift in her voice the way independence threaded through the calm professionalism. It wasn't defiance. It was habit, the reflex of someone who'd lived too long in motion to ever feel entirely at ease standing still.

"You can." he said after a beat, hands clasped loosely behind his back as they walked along the edge of the training floor. "There's a private bay on the east side of the landing pad kept for off-the-record assets, visiting envoys, and people who don't like being watched while they come and go." His tone carried a dry undertone, equal parts understanding and reassurance. "I'll see to the clearance."

He stopped beside a viewport that overlooked the bay itself. Through the reinforced glass, the pad glowed under evening light, ships angled in perfect symmetry, crews moving with clipped precision. One berth remained empty open, waiting.

Cassian nodded toward it. "That one's yours if you want it. No assigned transponder, no telemetry feed linking it to Command. Just a hangar and a door." He glanced at her then, faint humor ghosting the edge of his mouth. "We'll call it your space to breathe."

The hum of sparring continued behind them: the rhythm of training blades meeting, the clipped commands of instructors, the staccato bursts from the simulation range. The sound grounded the moment, gave it weight.

"You're right." Cassian said quietly, eyes returning to the arena below. "Even the most careful observer misses what matters most. It's why we train—to slow the world down just enough to notice the things we'd overlook in the field. Why not today, after all this gallantry." Cassian said with a smirk and a smile.

 

[Shade]

Shade's gaze lingered on the empty berth through the viewport, the light catching the subtle angles of her armor. For a moment, the usual reserve softened, a faint exhalation escaping her as she processed the gesture — a space unmonitored, unclaimed, hers.

"…Thank you," she murmured, the words quiet but deliberate, carrying more weight than politeness. She allowed a slight nod toward him, acknowledging both the practicality and the unspoken trust behind the offer.

Her eyes flicked back to the training floor, the steady cadence of blows and shouts grounding her in the moment. "I appreciate this," she said softly, tone measured, a hint of rare warmth threading through her words. "The work, the practice… I look forward to it. Though perhaps not today," she added with a faint trace of humor, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

Her gaze returned to him, a subtle acknowledgment in her crimson eyes. "And I try to see everything," she said quietly, reflective, "but even I can miss details. That's why moments like this matter."

She straightened, shifting her weight just enough to gesture lightly toward the hangar. "I'll take my ship," she said, voice firm but calm, the habit of autonomy threading every syllable. "And…perhaps one day, we'll spar." Her tone carried neither challenge nor boast, just a quiet statement of intent, a promise for another time.

Her gaze softened ever so slightly as she allowed herself that rare, almost imperceptible acknowledgment of respect and curiosity, the unwanted desire threading faintly beneath her careful composure.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian watched the reflection of her armor in the glass the faint burnished gleam that caught and fractured the light, the subtle shift in her posture as she looked toward the berth. Her voice, quiet but deliberate, had the weight of something earned rather than given.

He turned slightly, motioning toward the far corridor where the lighting shifted from the cool gleam of the training decks to the deeper hues of the Sanctum. "When you're ready, I'll show you the rest of the facility. The Inner Sanctum's been converted into a training and briefing chamber a place for clarity more than spectacle." His tone softened, an unspoken understanding threading through it. "No rush. You'll know when you want to see it."

He stepped back from the window, giving her space not as dismissal, but respect. "I'll have your clearance sent to the pad. You'll find it waiting when you're ready to dock."

 

[Shade]

Shade's crimson eyes swept across the berth, the light fracturing over the burnished angles of her armor. She lingered there a moment, tracing the space as if weighing it against the discipline she carried in every movement. Then, almost imperceptibly, her gaze shifted to Cassian, calm but deliberate, measured in its acknowledgment rather than invitation.

"I'll decide when to dock…and when to leave," she said softly, her words deliberate, carrying the weight of someone used to holding all choices in her own hands. Her eyes drifted to the door of the Sanctum, the deeper hues beyond calling faintly but not urgently. She gave a slow, measured nod, the barest bend of acknowledgment. "Not today," she murmured, letting the sound linger like smoke in the quiet air. "That will come…in time."

Her posture softened just enough to hint at patience, a quiet poetry in restraint. Armor shifted soundlessly, but there was a subtle weight lifted, a nearly invisible tightening at the corner of her lips that betrayed a hint of appreciation — not for the space, not for him, but for the consideration given. In the silence between them, she was both present and elsewhere, a sentinel deciding when the moment might truly belong to her.

Cassian Abrantes