Private The Name That Pulled Me Here

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith let out a low chuckle, the kind that stayed in his chest more than his throat, and inclined his head in a half-bow that was just this side of theatrical.

"Damn," he said lightly. "Guess I should start charging for consultations. Or at least stop pretending I don't enjoy being right."

He nudged the credit chit back toward her with two fingers, not refusing it outright, just acknowledging the dance. "You're not wrong, though. I probably would've paid either way. Old habit. Easier than arguing with fate."
He lifted his glass once more, finishing what remained before setting it aside and signaling subtly toward the bar.

"For the record," he added, tone easy, "I'll take a whiskey on the rocks. Nothing fancy. If it doesn't taste like it could strip paint or solve a problem, they made it wrong."
A beat, then a faint smirk crept in.
"And if I wake up tomorrow with a headache and regret my life choices, I'll call it nostalgia."

He settled back into his seat again, posture looser now, shoulders easing as if he were finally letting the chair do some of the work. His gaze returned to her, curiosity genuine and unarmed.


"So," he said, quieter but no less steady, "when you actually get a free day... no broken tech, no data screaming for attention... what do you do with it?"
There was no expectation riding the question. Just interest.
"Everyone's good at surviving," he added. "I'm always more curious about what people choose when they don't have to."

Ana Rix

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana watched him for a moment as he settled back, the looseness in his posture registering the same way everything else did not as a vulnerability, just as a choice. When she answered, her voice stayed even and warm, the cadence unhurried.

"On an actual day off?" she repeated lightly, as if testing the idea. "I usually disappear."

She lifted her glass again, turning it once between her fingers before taking a small sip.

"Somewhere quiet," she continued. "No terminals, no feeds, no one expecting answers. I walk. Read old hard-copy books that don't ping or update or ask for my attention."

A faint smile touched her mouth, softer than before.

"Sometimes I sit somewhere high and watch traffic patterns," she added. "Ships, people, weather, crowds. Not for work. Just to remember that everything keeps moving whether I'm involved or not."

She set the glass down gently.

"And when I feel like being indulgent," she said, a hint of dry humor slipping in, "I cook something complicated that takes too long and doesn't optimize for efficiency. Just because it can."

Her gaze returned to him, open but measured.

"It's less about escape and more about choosing stillness," she finished. "Survival's a skill. Rest is a decision."

She tipped her head slightly, mirroring his earlier curiosity.

"What about you?" she asked. "When no one needs you to be Ironwraith, who do you let yourself be?"

The question wasn't probing. Just an honest offering, returned in kind.

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith let the glass settle in his hand, swirling the amber liquid almost absentmindedly as he considered her question. He took a slow sip before replying, the weight of the day and years pressing into his tone without sounding heavy.

"When the demons aren't talking in my head," he began, voice low, almost conversational rather than formal, "I read. Old mission files, holonet reports they've deemed okay for the public. Just… the records of what's been done, what was called legal, what the brass thought mattered. Helps me remember the line between decisions and consequences."

He set the glass down, fingers brushing the table as he leaned slightly back, letting his gaze wander over the low lighting and the muted crowd without truly seeing them.
"If I'm not doing that, I'm usually servicing my gear," he added with a faint, self-aware chuckle, glancing at his helmet and belt still on the table. "Nothing fancy. Just making sure it'll survive me when I'm not paying attention."

Another pause. A slower, quieter sip.
"And if I ain't doing either of those," he continued, a softer tone threading through the words, "I walk. Just walk. Think about the life I've led, the mistakes, the choices. Reflect. Maybe see a sunset if I'm lucky. Those are the rare days I let myself just… exist, without the name, without the expectations. Just… me."

He shifted slightly, resting one arm along the back of the chair, his posture easing a fraction, though the vigilance never fully left him.
"Not fancy. Not heroic. Just… necessary."

Ana Rix

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana listened without interrupting, giving him the same attention she gave systems that mattered. She didn't rush to fill the quiet when he paused, letting his words sit where they landed. When he finished, she took a small sip of her drink, the bright punch cutting cleanly through the heaviness of the moment before she set the glass down again.

Her expression was thoughtful, not softened by pity, but by understanding.

"That sounds…grounded," she said. "Necessary, like you said. A way to keep yourself intact instead of just functional."

She leaned back slightly, shoulders easing, eyes still on him but no longer searching. Just present.

"A lot of people never learn how to exist without the role they were given," Ana continued quietly. "They just swap uniforms and call it growth."

Another small sip, then she tilted her head just enough to signal the shift from listening to asking.

"So," she said, tone easy and genuine, "what does a good day look like for you?"

There was no trap in the question. No expectation of depth or revelation. Just curiosity, offered cleanly, the way one professional recognizes another when the armor is set aside—if only for a drink.

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith took a slow sip of his whiskey on the rocks, letting the burn settle in his chest before he answered. The bar hummed softly around them, the muted amber glow of The Copper Wake reflecting faintly off the surface of the table and his helmet resting beside him. He absently shifted it, adjusting the strap so it wouldn't get in the way, and let his fingers brush against the cool metal of his belt, a habit he hadn't fully shed yet. Relaxing was still… new.

"A good day," he said after a moment, voice low but steady, "is when things go smooth. No firefights, no surprises, no trip to the MedBay because someone decided to test your luck. Hell, even waking up without a hangover counts." He gave a short, dry laugh, taking another sip before setting the glass down with a faint clink.

He tilted his head toward her, curiosity threading his tone through the calm. "What about you? What's something you won't compromise on?"
As he spoke, he let his gaze drift over her, noting the ease in the way she carried herself, the quiet certainty that came with doing work that mattered. He'd seen a lot of people bend, break, or pretend, and there was something about her that didn't just read as competent, it read as real.


"Me," he continued, shrugging slightly, "I don't compromise on my own honesty, and the integrity of the people I trust to watch my back. Skills, focus… you slack on either out there, and it's not just your ass on the line. That's the hard part about it, life doesn't give a damn who's bleeding if you weren't sharp enough."


Another sip, and he leaned back a fraction, letting the corner of his mouth lift in a ghost of a grin. "Everything else," he added lightly, "is negotiable. But not that. Not ever."

Ana Rix

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana listened without interrupting, her glass resting lightly between her hands as she let his answer finish unfolding. She took a small sip of the Ion Pulse Elixir, the bright sweetness cutting cleanly before the punch followed, and set it back down with an unhurried motion.

When she spoke, her voice was calm, steady, and a little warmer than before.

"I don't compromise on agency," she said simply.

She met his gaze, not challenging, just honest.

"Mine, or anyone else's. I won't take work that strips someone of the ability to choose, and I won't stay in a situation where my own decisions are being quietly overridden."

Her fingers traced the condensation on the glass once, a grounding habit rather than a tell.

"Information has weight," she continued. "It changes outcomes whether people want it to or not. If I'm going to move it, read it, or act on it, then I need to be the one deciding how and when. No invisible hands. No convenient pressure disguised as necessity."

She paused, then asked, her tone quiet and genuine.

"What makes a day feel finished for you?"

A faint smile touched her mouth, not sharp, not guarded.

"For me, it's simple," she continued without hesitation. "When I can close my shop, power everything down, and know that what I touched today is settled. No loose ends tugging at the back of my mind. No decisions deferred to tomorrow because I was afraid to make them."

She lifted her glass slightly, not quite a toast, more an acknowledgment.

"If I can sit somewhere like this afterward," she added, "with a drink I chose, in company I trust not to rush me, then the day did what it needed to do."

The bar's low hum filled the pause that followed, comfortable and unforced.

"Everything else is flexible," she said lightly. "Routes change. Plans fail. People surprise you. I can adapt to all of that."

She leaned back slightly, posture relaxed but present.

"But if I ever feel like I'm being carried instead of choosing to walk," she finished, "that's where I stop."

A beat, then softer:

"Those are usually the best kind of days. The ones that let you rest without looking over your shoulder."

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith swirled the whiskey in his glass, letting the burn trace a line down his throat as he leaned back slightly, the weight of the day settling into his shoulders. He didn't rush his words, letting them form in the quiet around them before he spoke.

"When a day feels finished," he began, voice low, measured, "it's when I can finally lie down and my mind will let me. When the demons don't talk for a while, or at least stay quiet long enough for me to catch a breath. And if that doesn't happen, then it's when I can sit somewhere with a drink and know the person across from me isn't going to use the silence against me." His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, more observation than complaint. "Trust makes the pause worth it."

His hand drifted instinctively to his belt, hesitated, and then rested there, a habit from years of carrying more than he should. With his other hand, he adjusted the glass slightly, as if aligning it with the moment rather than the table.

He lifted his gaze to Ana, curiosity threading his steady expression. "What's something people often misunderstand about you?"


The words weren't a challenge. They weren't a test. They were an invitation, offered carefully in the quiet hum of the bar, a rare pause in the chaos of everything else he carried.

Ana Rix

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana didn't answer right away.

She let the quiet breathe, fingers loosely circling her glass as she listened to the last of his words settle. When she did speak, her voice was calm, steady, and unguarded, suggesting choice rather than ease.

"Most people think my distance means I don't trust them," she said. "It's usually the opposite. I trust people just fine. I don't trust momentum."

She glanced down at the table for a moment, then back up, expression thoughtful rather than defensive.

"If I take a step back, it's because I want to see where things are actually going before I move with them. On Echelon, that reads as normal. Here, people sometimes mistake it for suspicion."

A faint smile touched her mouth, brief but real.

"I don't pull away because I expect betrayal," she added. "I pull away because I've learned how quickly good intentions can turn into noise."

She took a small sip, then set the glass down with deliberate care.

"So let me ask you something," Ana said, her tone soft but direct. "When do you feel most like yourself?"

The question wasn't pressed. It was offered in the same way he had offered his own.

She didn't wait long before answering it herself.

"For me," she continued, "it's when I can disappear into the net without anyone needing anything from me. No urgency. No stakes. Just information flowing past, patterns emerging, connections forming because they want to, not because I'm forcing them."

Her eyes softened slightly, the closest thing to nostalgia she allowed herself.

"That's when I'm not guarding anything. Not my name, not my time, not my exits. Just listening. Absorbing. Letting the stream carry me instead of pushing back against it."

She leaned back a fraction, posture relaxed but present.

"That's when I know who I am," she finished quietly. "Everything else is just context."

The bar's low hum filled the space between them again, unhurried, waiting.

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Iron Wraith did not answer immediately.
Not because the question caught him off guard, but because it deserved the same respect she had given the silence before it. He let it settle, the low murmur of the bar threading through the space between them, the weight of memory shifting into place with familiar ease.

When he did speak, it was measured. Unhurried. Honest without being exposed.
“In the field,” he said at last. His voice was calm, almost neutral, but there was something settled beneath it. Certain. “That’s when I’m closest to myself.”
He didn’t elaborate right away. Instead, he turned his glass a few degrees on the table, the motion idle but deliberate, as if aligning a sight picture only he could see.

“Under fire,” he continued, “or lying still for hours with a rifle braced, waiting for a moment that might never come. Those are very different kinds of quiet, but they do the same thing to me.”
His gaze drifted, not to the room, not to her, but inward.

“When the adrenaline hits, everything unnecessary falls away. There’s no room for noise. No second-guessing who I’m supposed to be or how I’m being read. Just distance, wind, breath, timing.” A pause. “Clarity.”

He glanced back to Ana then, not searching her expression so much as including her in the thought.
“In those moments, I’m not carrying history. I’m not anticipating outcomes. I’m exactly where I need to be, doing exactly what I trained for.” A faint, almost wry edge touched his voice. “People assume adrenaline means chaos. For me, it’s the opposite. It’s focus.”

He leaned back slightly, posture easy but grounded, armor metaphorical rather than visible.
“And when it’s quiet in a different way, off the clock, no threat vectors, no objectives, that’s when I read.” He gave a small shrug. “Good books. Real ones. The kind that don’t rush you.”

There was something telling in the way he said it, like it wasn’t an escape but a continuation.
“Same principle,” he added. “A narrow world. One thread at a time. No one demanding a response before the thought finishes forming.”
His eyes settled on her again, steady, attentive.
“That’s when I’m not performing anything,” he said. “Not the role, not the reputation. Just presence. Awareness.”
A beat passed.
“I think,” he finished quietly, “that’s why your answer makes sense to me. Different environments. Same instinct.”

He didn’t push the moment. Didn’t try to claim understanding beyond what was offered.
The hum of the bar resumed its place around them, the space between them no longer empty, just shared.
Iron Wraith let another beat pass, then shifted slightly, not away, not closer, just enough to signal a turn in the conversation rather than an advance.

“What brings you peace?” he asked.
The question was simple. Unadorned. Not probing for weakness or leverage, just offered, the same way hers had been.
He didn’t rush to fill the space after it. Let it breathe.

Then, as if acknowledging that some questions were easier to answer aloud than to hold unanswered, he continued, voice still even.
“For me… it’s knowing where I stand at the end of the day.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the tabletop, thumb tracing the edge of his glass, then lifted again.

“That when everything’s done, when the field goes quiet, when the mission’s logged and the adrenaline burns out, I didn’t compromise the things that actually matter.” A pause. “That I stood by the people I chose to trust. That I didn’t turn my back when it would’ve been easier.”

There was no pride in it. No self-congratulation. Just fact.
“My work isn’t clean,” he said plainly. “It never will be. But peace comes from knowing I didn’t cross my own lines to get it done.”
He leaned back a fraction, shoulders settling, as if the thought itself carried weight he was used to bearing.

“If I can look at what I did and say it aligned with my morals, protected the people it was meant to protect, then I can live with the rest.” A faint exhale. “That’s enough.”

His eyes returned to her, steady, present.
“That’s what lets me sleep,” he finished. “Even when the world doesn’t.”
The quiet returned, but this time it felt intentional like a door left open rather than a wall held in place.

Ana Rix

 

[Ana Rix]

Ana didn't interrupt him. She didn't rush to fill the space when he finished.

She sat with his words the way she sat with data that mattered, letting them settle, letting the shape of them become clear before she touched them. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, steady, and warm in a way that didn't soften the truth so much as ground it.

"Peace, for me, comes from knowing I did the best I could with what I was given," she said. "Not the best possible outcome. Not the cleanest one. Just…honest effort, applied where it mattered."

She glanced down at her glass, then back up, eyes thoughtful.

"Most days don't end neatly. Information moves, people make choices, and consequences ripple, whether I like them or not. But if I can look back and say I didn't ignore a better option out of fear, or convenience, or fatigue…that's enough to let the day rest."

A faint smile touched her mouth, subtle but sincere.

"Even in a dark galaxy, I try to end on a positive note," she added. "Sometimes that's a solved problem. Sometimes it's just not making things worse."

She leaned back slightly, then tilted her head, turning the conversation with the same care he had.

"So let me ask you something," Ana said. "What tells you a situation is about to go wrong?"

She didn't leave it hanging long before answering it herself.

"For me, it's silence where there shouldn't be any," she continued. "Gaps in the stream. When inputs stop arguing with each other. When everything lines up too cleanly, too quickly."

Her fingers traced the rim of the glass once, a small, habitual motion.

"Real systems are messy. People hesitate, contradict themselves, and overcorrect. When that friction disappears, it usually means something's being hidden, or constrained, or forced to behave."

She met his gaze again, calm and open.

"That's when I slow down," she finished. "Because that's when the next decision actually matters."

The hum of the bar settled around them once more, unhurried, the kind of quiet that didn't demand anything, only awareness.

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Iron Wraith didn't answer right away.

He rolled the glass once between his fingers, the ice shifting with a muted clink, eyes distant in the way of someone used to measuring space before committing to it. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, shaped by experience rather than emphasis.
"When things are about to go wrong," he said, "they get easy."
He glanced toward the edge of the bar, not really looking at it, more at something remembered.

"Enemies don't give up cleanly. Not the ones worth worrying about. If resistance collapses too fast, if patrols thin out without explanation, if everything feels…open," a faint, humorless smile tugged at his mouth, "that's when I know something's waiting."
He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the burn settle before continuing.


"Quiet isn't calm. It's held breath. In the field, you learn to trust friction, bad intel, hesitation, overcorrection. Real operations are messy. When all of that disappears, when the path clears too neatly, I slow down. Because that usually means I'm being invited instead of pushed."

He set the glass down with deliberate care, then looked back to her, gaze steady.
"So let me ask you something," Iron Wraith said. "What does loyalty mean to you?"
He didn't leave the question hanging long before answering it himself.

"For me, loyalty isn't blind," he continued. "It's chosen. It means I don't walk away when things get inconvenient. I don't trade people for outcomes, and I don't rewrite my standards because the math says I should."

A pause, measured.
"If I give my word, it holds," he finished. "Even when it costs me."
The bar's low hum filled the space between them again, steady and unforced, like a perimeter holding, for now.

Ana Rix