Kaiden Rohn
Fallen Soul
![sci_fi_bar_recovered_by_bradsuttonart-d72oa3f.jpg](http://img09.deviantart.net/ecc5/i/2014/018/4/3/sci_fi_bar_recovered_by_bradsuttonart-d72oa3f.jpg)
Coruscant.
He raised some eyebrows when his ship landed here. He hadn't been back to Coruscant in years- but out of habit, he used his Republic clearance. They let him in, and he was referred to a therapist when he walked through the spaceport. He made his way deep into Coruscant, going down to where he was raised as a boy...and he made his way there.
Where it ended. Where it began. Where it lived. Where he lived, where in essence, he died. Kaiden Rohn stood outside The Trooper, or what, was The Trooper. Where The Trooper had been, the bar that Havoc Squad and many other Republic soldiers, commandos, pilots called a second home away from the barracks. It was also special to Kaiden Rohn, who, became Commander Rohn in the backroom of the bar. The One Sith had quickly shut down the bar, and killed the staff when they resisted them in the invasion. It pained Kaiden to see it in decay- not that it was really ever in such a great condition to mark it as beautiful or even well-put together, it had it's charm, usually found within the rodents that played a territorial war over the scraps left on the floor. But he wasn't here to crack open a beer among the ghosts.
He wasn't here to share a memory or start a revolution.
He came here to pay his respects, and maybe one other thing. Maybe it was time. He'd find out when he finished the bottle of Coreillian whiskey. He sat down, thinking about all the people in his life that eventually found their way to a grave, or lost to the galaxy.
Steph Zenima- the only girl that he could've loved.
Kitt Solo. The only girl who knew his Sithese secret. Met his parents too. And his sister.
Willa Isard. Scared him.
Dish. Boom-boom expert.
Atticus. Pilot. Havoc's pilot.
The twins. Quirky Jedi.
Miles Varden. A tolerable man.
J. Reaper. Great soldier.
Azrael. A wayward pupil.
Too many to count. He stopped thinking about names and the numbers of people he lost after a while. He popped the cap off the bottle and laid the gun next to it. He looked at the gun through the liquid at the bottom of the glass as he took a long swig. Maybe he put it there so anyone who might've followed him here. Maybe the round in the chamber would end up being for himself. He hadn't reached out for anyone. Didn't know anyone. Everyone he ever loved was gone.
He didn't have a Republic anymore. Protectorate was a joke nowadays. Right now, all he had was the whiskey and the gun. And he had been seeing things sober for far too long. Maybe all it was going to take to finally go through with it was enough whiskey to shut down his kidneys. All it was gonna take was a bit more courage to finally doing it. It had crossed his mind a lot. Why bother living when there wasn't a point? Day in, day out he had to find a purpose. Some days he didn't even get out of bed. Middle-age was coming close, and all he had to show for the halfway point in his life was pain, loss, and failure. No memorials for his dead squad. No memorials for the dead soldiers that once frequented the bar. And if he went through it, there was damn sure not going to be a memorial for him.