Private Tick Tick Boom!

[Frea Sheplin]

There was a moment when the engine stopped. It wasn’t entirely outside of the realm of her control, but not entirely because of something that Frea had done either. The whir of her motor died down and gravity became a little bit more palpable in a terrifyingly terrific way. The adrenaline spike was real as her muscles stung from the gentle tug of the handlebars of her bike that tried to escape her grip entirely. The exhaust puttered out for a moment as her body lifted from the seat. She flicked the ignition once and nothing happened. Her hand began to lift off of the grip before she gripped it tight again and flicked again. Nothing.

Nah, this wasn’ it. A motor failure was not how Frea Sheplin died. Her brows furrowed and she revved it one final time and watched as the bike’s fuel tank smacked across her helmet and crushed the darkened visor. The engine fired off again and sped into the alley. One hand on the handle, the other on the helmet to tear it off and discard it on the sidewalk. From the tickle on one side of her head she could tell that something was pouring out of the side of her face, but the time was a-tickin’ so there really was no time to check.

The ride came to an end, Frea locked the engine up and proceeded on foot. At first at a slow pace, eventually at a sprint as she jumped from obstacle to obstacle. The girl liked speed, there was no doubt about that.

Eventually she broke through the door of the delivery point with a satisfied smirk and tapped the device on her watch to stop the timer. 4:33:201, most of which was a problem with the engine of an unmarked vehicle that was not hers. Yeah, when the unnamed employer with the unmarked vehicle wants an untampered message delivered, you sorta made a habit of not asking a lot of questions. Usually because it’s a hot commodity and you are being closely monitored or because the authorities are on it.

Both use cases were dodgy at best but the pay was good if you made it in good time. Frea checked the expected time of arrival and realized that she had cut off a good five minutes. Mostly because unlike more than a few others she wasn’t afraid of the ‘gravitational shortcuts’, as the neat little jack in her forehead clearly proved.

Frea groaned and winced as she slowly poked around the growing bruise. She would need to have someone check that. There was definitely some glass in there. Frea smeared her cheek before she stepped out into the street and pulled the hood over her head to cover her face and sneaked into a nearby clinic. There were a few scattered souls in here. The medical supplies in the front were scarce but the shelves weren’t empty. There was no real need to book a time, things were as they were. Frea flopped down into a chair next to someone that quite obviously was the doctor at work.

“‘Sup chief?” She spoke and let her lips thin into a champion’s smirk. “Just need some uh, glass removal and I’ll be out of your hair. Sound good?”

Cordé Sabo

 

[Cordé Sabo]

“Ah!” Cordé was belatedly startled. The combined brisk entrance and obvious cranial stress from Frea Sheplin elicited the delayed jumpstart to her reaction.

Was she chief?

She glanced about the room quickly, there was just the receptionist who was looking over at them wide-eyed, and one patient flipping through a holomag. Or, had been. They were also looking over at the young woman with the hood over her face.

She was chief.

If this were on the field, she would have instantly launched into action. But someone clearing their throat from behidn the desk reminded her that this clinic had protocols, and while volunteering, Cordé tried her best to follow the rules she didn’t set. It was only a few hours a week, and this was her last week.

“Glass removal?” She questioned, and in preparation, traded the datapad she’d been updating for a pair of gloves and a sterile cloth.

“Can you remove your hood first for me and tell me what happened?”

At this point, the receptionist was out of their chair and making their way over with a datapad to collect information.

"Any bacta allergies we need to know about?"

 

[Frea Sheplin]

"Mmm, I'd tell you what I did, but…" Frea squinted as she took her hood off and her lips pulled towards her cheek as she let out a small but clearly amused chuckle. "I'd have to kill you."

She eyed the doctor for a while longer, took in the shape of her face, the way she seemed to react to this probe into who she was before Frea dropped the act and started talking shop as if it was nothing. Her attention bounced around the room.

"Avoid compounds that rely on the reaction between Oxyperidrine and Tripheradine for immediate pain reduction." Frea nodded and looked back at Corde. "They cause rashes, although we can do this with or without anesthesia matters little." Her shoulders lifted with a gentle shrug. "You lear—" Her vision blurred for a moment. She closed her eyes and weathered the spike of pain that slithered its way across the inside of her head. "You learn to phase through it."

"It's a concussion. Maybe. I took a bit of a hit to the head." She drew a circle in front of her face with her hand. "Evidently."

"Don't suppose good behavior gets me a discount?"

Cordé Sabo

 

[Cordé Sabo]

Once the hood was removed, Cordé leaned over the woman's head. Amidst her white hair, sprinkles of glass were wedged into fleshy, bloody bits. She frowned, and closed the distance to start combing through the delicate parts, mentally counting the the number of pieces she'd expect to see on a tray in a few minutes. There were a few pieces she could — ah, yeah, pinch out with fingers, and the rest would take tweezers.

"I'd have to kill you."

Whether or not the threat was serious piqued her interest. A shady deal gone awry? Was it worth the SIA's interest? Or at least the Marshals?

"You could try." Cordé smiled back, "I'm going to start removing now. Tell me if it hurts" — and pinched out the largest piece that'd wedged itself along her hairline.

"Do you have a name, dear?" The secretary asked, nosing over the edge of their datapad and blinking at Frea while she removed her hood. They'd taken note of the compounds that were risky, and were starting to build a file. "We have to get all our patient's names for our records."

Cordé made another face that communicated the unsaid clearly at the same time Frea said evidently.

"Concussion isn't out of the question. Do you remember losing consciousness at all?"

"Don't suppose good behavior gets me a discount?"

And then another face because this wasn't jail. But it could be if...she...found out what happened with Frea and activated the Marshals.

"Good behaviour's what gotcha in here in a rush like this, hm? hold on, this might sting a bit." She pressed the corner of a cloth against the widest wound she'd plucked open. "We should probably move out of the waiting room.."

"Just need your name, dear." The secretary insisted, dedicated to upholding protocols.

 

[Frea Sheplin]

Frea continued to look at the doctor that investigated her wounds. She was pretty as a button, yet clearly tough enough to handle herself. The kindness usually went hand-in-hand with being a doctor Frea had found, at least outside of the military check-ups she had once attended at regular intervals. It was blue on blue for a moment, one pair of eyes trying to figure out who the other was — and it was up for debate which was which.

"Ha-haaa!" Frea exclaimed in seeming bemusement that in reality was to hide the shock from the air that quickly poured into the now open wound where there had once been a piece of shattered glass. "That hits a spot."

Her lip began to purse and fold under the pressure of her teeth bearing down upon the wax-draped skin of her lips. That harsh pain brought something else to the table, something that would struggle for the top spot of 'what part hurt the most?' The clear winner was the wound that had blood pouring out of the side of her head, but at least it was made a little bit more manageable. Few things were — after all — as real as the sensation of pain.

"Yeah, it's—" Frea began to stand up and the pain spiked again. She plain forgot what the receptionist had even asked. "I tripped and hit my head, the visor split open along with my head."

"Reagan Ridley." Frea Sheplin said and signed the thing with her real name instead of the given fake name. Not that it was all that easy to see. Cursive was as cursive be.

They moved into a proper treatment room. Sterile, clean, perhaps a bit more appropriate for plucking around underneath the skin of someone who had a dozen small cuts across her face. Frea took a seat on the nearby padded slab of metal and gave the doctor her most pretty smile as if to REALLY push that whole idea of a discount. Money wasn't a problem, but it could also ideally be made even less of a problem no matter the situation.

"I don't know about bad behavior, but… Yeah, maybe good behavior wouldn't have put me here." She laughed with a grin that quickly turned upside down into a pained grimace as another piece of glass was plucked from her skin like a feather from a fowl. Another groan and hiss blew through her bared and gritted teeth. "Argh-ohhhh, you never get used to that!"

Frea took a moment to regain her breath.

"Been a doctor long, Miss…?"

Cordé Sabo

 

[Cordé Sabo]

All the noise that came with the natural process of stinging, stitching, dabbing and plucking was enough reason to give them a more private room. It would make people waiting to get treated uncomfortable. And while Cordé knew what she was doing, she was used to being in a rush and the adjustment of time and patience took a lot to get used to.

“Yeah, tripping? You must have been running pretty fast to have impact this deep.” Cordé mused aloud, hoping to continue stringing Reagan along to some more information. “Some of this stuff is pretty lodged in.” Another wiggle to freedom, and another tink as the bloody glass met the silver tray.

She couldn’t help but chuckle at Raegan’s apparent coping mechanisms through the bites of pain. Some patients just sat numbly whimpering, this was much better.

"Been a doctor long, Miss…?"

“Oh, heh, not long at all.”

The secretary eyed them both intensely, as if swearing Cordé to secrecy, before leaving the room.

“Actually, not at all. I’m not a doctor yet. But these volunteer hours’re helping me get closer.” She paused, assessing all the spots that seemed to be removed and dabbed.

“Don't worry. I promise I'm qualified in most but title. That's how you get your discount."

She'd worked quickly, but there was still the concern about a concussion.

"I’m going to check in on this concussion situation, okay? You’ll see a bright light. I need you to follow it as best you can with your eyes.”

 

[Frea Sheplin]

Alright, so that wasn't a name given at all. Seemed Miss Doctor either deliberately avoided giving one or just plain forgot. It was a red flag, but given the situation there could be a very valid reason for such a flag to be the color it is. It still poured from the side of her head and was soaked up by a once-white rag doused in sterile agent.

"Oh, well, you're doing— Gaaaahhhh." Frea exhaled and chuckled again. "Good. It's all good. This is nothing compared to the old nurse droid back at DFHQ."

"They called…" She exhaled again and grinned back at Corde. "They called her Maggie Mangler for a reason."

She let her hand rest on her chest for a moment to feel her heartbeat and rest her nerves. In a strange way this was all bringing back happy memories. Mostly from spars and training exercises that had been a bit too intense but also a time when her day-to-day life went beyond getting a consistent adrenaline high and making some money off of it. The discipline, the lifestyle as a whole; it brought a smile to her face and she seemed to drift off into her memories only to be ripped back into reality by another shard being pulled out of her face.

This time Frea said nothing. Her teeth gritted and she pushed through it. The teardrop was arguably because of the pain, but which pain that was for was up for debate. She wiped it away and slowly nodded as her eyes trailed behind the light before her. It took focus to really lock onto the thing, which was a bad sign even to Frea. Something up in that old noggin up there wasn't quite how it was meant to be.

The door opened and Frea straightened her back. A man stepped in and seemed to whisper something to Corde.

"New directives." He hissed to make sure Frea did not hear. She did not. "Fun fact, they posted these less than ten-fifteen minutes ago."

There was something in his hand, and much like the cat with its curiosity, Frea could not stop herself from looking at it. She recognized the package immediately. Her eyes locked onto it before she glanced up at the man who had already noticed her staring. There was no denying the spark in her eyes that told all of it to a trained eye. She had seen that package before. The man's eyes narrowed for a moment, looked over at Corde before he smiled and left the room.

"I… Won't ask." Frea laughed and watched the door close. She immediately turned towards Corde. "About the package, that is. Was that a partner of yours?"

 

[Cordé Sabo]

“That sounds like several degrees of malpractice.” Cordé assessed from the memory Frea Sheplin shared with her. It sounded condemning, but she was smiling.

From left to right then left again the little white light moved. Cordé watched through it to see how her patient’s blues navigated and dilated. The little swell of salt around Raegan’s eyes did not go unnoticed, but she was more concerned about the visible delay that happened when Cordé swapped directions with the light. It was like her nose was an actual barrier, and she saw the eyes focus and refocus before following suit.

She did her best not to make a noise of concern. And if she did, it was outshone by the knock that came before the door opened.

“Excuse me.”

Information came in two forms — words and a neatly wrapped parcel. She was left with both when the fellow exited the room.

“This came much earlier than I was expecting.” Cordé apologised and dropped the ocular inspector into the open pocket on her lab coat. With both hands she turned the parcel over once, twice and frowned. There was a splatter, tiny, barely the size of a fingerprint, of blood on the outside.

That was weird.

“A partner’s an unusual choice of words.” Normally, Cordé tried to keep her volunteer hours separate from her employers — but ever since starting work with the Intelligence Agency, there wasn’t much in her life that was private. Whether that was good or not remained to be seen. “Did he look like a partner?” She tapped the package and set it down.

“I’m worried you have a concussion and are seeing things.” She tilted her head to the side and looked serious. “This is a normal side effect to blunt force trauma at the scale you’ve experienced.”

A few seconds passed, and she gave a small smile and held up a hand.

“I’m kidding about the hallucinations, but there is a concerning delay in your optical response. I can give you a prescription to help with the pain, but it won’t last more than a few days. You definitely have a concussion, which requires a lot of rest and a lot of actually good, restful behaviour.

Have you been concussed before? You..should probably tell me. Repeat traumas mean the severity could be worse..”

 

[Frea Sheplin]

Frea opted not to respond to the first half of all that was going on. To some extent she was definitely joking about the partner thing. At least to the extent that Frea knew that he was a should-be partner-in-crime given the fact that she was the one that had just delivered the package in a small dropbox, and now that package was in turn delivered to its actual recipient. Coruscant was a small world and all that. People had their reasons.

"Oh, so these sparks between us," Frea asked and drew a straight line between herself and the would-be doctor. "Are just a figment of my imagination then." She chuckled and tried to shake her head but stopped due to the pain that it caused. "Sad to hear it, Jane."

Frea had picked up on the secrecy, and even if a name had been given there was precious little trust to be had that it would have been a real one. The package had shown Frea that much. This clinic could have been a front for all she knew, but the sooner she poked holes in the fabric of that lie the sooner she too would have someone poke holes in the back of her head, and she quite liked having her skull and its contents intact. Frea straightened her back and spoke candidly.

"Look, you've already connected the dots here, miss Doe -- or rather, you should have." Frea said and pointed in the general direction of the package with a slight groan. "A woman stumbles into your clinic with blood pouring from her—" The world got brighter for a second. Frea froze and began to slowly blink it off. "I…" She stammered and chuckled, clearly panicked. "Okay, I was… Saying something."

Her eyes wandered around the room. The package, the woman, the man, the clinic… Right.

"The glass is from the visor of the helmet that your organization provided with the delivery vehicle." Over the course of the explanation there was no denying that she was turning more and more pale. "I pride myself on control, just ask…"

"Ask…" Something was wrong, she could feel it.

"Flight-Lieutenant…"

"... Qellian Auraeli. Vanguard Squadron."

 

[Cordé Sabo]

Good thing Cordé's hands were empty of the package, so she was free to brace Frea Sheplin 's shoulders. She hadn't lost that much blood, had she? That, or this was definitely not her first concussion.

From the tokens of information, the new story however, vehicle, visor — the impact of the trauma was significantly more than just a misstep and tumble. Her frown was deep, and concern knit her brows low.

Vanguard Squadron were heroes of The Alliance. Which meant, at least, that Cordé and this Raegan were working for the same government. The same Defence Force.

"Explains why the delivery was so much quicker than usual, if you're addicted to speed." She was trying to fill the empty silence with anything that her patient could respond to.

Her grip on Frea's shoulders didn't ease, but she shifted to help support and suggest she ease back by adjusting the pressure. "Relax, but try and keep your eyes open for me. Just for a bit longer.

Should I call Quellian Auraeli now? Ask her to help get you home safely? I can guarantee, pilot, or not, you will not be driving yourself anymore today."

 

[Frea Sheplin]

"I…" Frea chuckled and let in a deep breath. "I wouldn't say addicted, just… Dependent."

It was a joke that seemed better in her head, which was admittedly also more shaken than it was stirred. She looked at Corde, this 'Jane Doe', and began to close her eyes but quickly shot them wide open again at the doctor's request. The firmness of the examination bed was difficult to ignore. It felt almost like someone had wrapped a strip of bubble-plasti around the coldest piece of metal that they could find.

But then, this was Coruscant so it most likely wasn't too far from the truth to assume so either.

"N-no!" Frea shot up into an upright position and reached out to physically stop Corde. "I—" She exhaled and grunted in pain, hand latched firmly onto the doctor's shoulder before it eased up. "We are not really on talking terms, I think."

"Look, I was DF, but not anymore." Frea coughed up. "All of my former friends are, my family are, but not me. Not anymore."

"I was—" She tried to speak but felt off. A rumble in her throat, an increasing dizziness. She tried her best to hold it back, to push nothing but the words she desired to speak. It was clearly a losing battle. She hurriedly pointed to a nearby bucket.

"I was in Van—"

Sounds clearly parted her lips but they were not words, they were moans, groans, and a whole lot of sniffles and whimpers. Her entire body shook by this point and it grew clear even to Frea that she had never quite reached this low of a low point before. Out of all the lowest of lows she had been, this was undoubtedly the lowest. Puking a small breakfast's worth of content into a bucket in front of a doctor with no-one in her immediate vicinity that would ever really care to lift her up again.

And now she had to hold off from doing the thing that kept her from thinking about it? Yeah, no, maybe death was a preferable solution to all of this after all. The thought made her chuckle at how pathetic it sounded the second it had come up. And yet, she was clearly not holding on all that well. Frea felt the way that her eyelids hung heavy over her eyes to obscure her vision.

"I think I'd like that…" She groaned as she wiped the corner of her lip with the top of her hand. "That bacta bath now."

Cordé Sabo

 

[Cordé Sabo]

"Okay," Cordé eased, and settled her hand over Frea's.

"We don't have to —" but the assurances fell short of what the ex-pilot needed. Sounds that shouldn't have been within reach of a fully conscious person started to bubble out of the white-haired patient's mouth, and her brow started to grow wet. It looked like Frea Sheplin was about to be nauseous, and Cordé reacted instinctively to produce the nearest receptical she could reach. It was barely fast enough for the girl to empty into.

So much for some easy glass removal and a minor concussion. This was fast coming something more full-blown.

"Not a bacta bath," Cordé offered with a small smile, trying to assuage Raegan/Frea's concerns, "but rest for sure. You're going through the early motions of a severe concussion." And maybe some repressed trauma, but psychology was outside of Cordé's skillset.

Only when it was a physical problem could Cordé treat it. A brain injury was treatable, to an extent, and she tried to feel as comfortable as she could within those parameters. But the grief and panic that seemed prevalent in the half-formed sentences of her patient sent a trill of sympathy through the would-be doctor.

She doubted that just talking about it would help.

On the top shelf of the room's cabinet, Cordé stretched for it, failed, had to drag a step ladder, and finally retrieved what she was looking for.

"Drink this," she instructed, "In lieu of full submersion or bacta-dependency, this is kolto juice. It'll help with some initial relief and balance. Avoid any more headache and nausea at least.

We should see the effects within five minutes. Drink it now.

Look, Raegan, from what I'm seeing, you're going to have to check yourself out for a few days. Spend time in bed with the lights off, catch up on a lot of rest. I can prescribe some basic medication to help with the pain, or help you sleep, but I'd like to make sure you take it, and that you ween yourself off your dependence for speed for a week or two."

Cordé stopped talking, drew in a breath, held it, and let it out.

Despite herself, she asked: "How did you get mixed up in delivering anonymous packages?"

 

[Frea Sheplin]

There was a moment when Frea stared at the other woman as she reached for something at the top shelf. It was like a small scene out of a comedy flick; the short person sketch. She tried to smile but the queasiness stopped her. By the time that Cordé sat back down again was around the time that Frea seemed to sway back and forth out of her presence in the room. She had experienced concussions before, but they never really felt this big.

She wrapped her hand around the cup and looked at Cordé for a moment before she closed her eyes and downed the whole thing. The taste was like something out of a Tatooine backroom. Salt and dust mixed with fermented water still tasted better than this. It was an opinion that was very clear as Frea's face began to twist and turn into a disgusted grimace.

At least the recovery instructions were very clear. Frea looked at Cordé as if she just delivered some of the worst news imaginable. All sleep and no speed made Frea a dull girl. That was how others lived, that was never in her life a lifestyle that she would adapt. It was a surefire way to lose your edge and there was no way in hell Frea wanted that. She was a pilot, a damned good pilot at that, and the second she stopped was the second the rust began to set in.

So, as to Cordé's question…

"Because I am the best pilot that the Vanguard Squadron ever saw?" She groaned and shifted her hold of the bucket in her lap. "I reached Vanguard-2 for a reason."

"I was top of my class, I excelled at the drills and their tests. The only reason they fired me was because the new top brass is afraid of people who can see opportunities and take them." It was very clear that even talking about them pissed Frea off. Her brows threatened to cover her eyes entirely until they fell off of her face. "They call it being 'out of line' and I call it being in perfect control of my vessel and them being scared for a life that is not theirs to control."

"So yeah, this whole racing and package delivery thing was more a side-hustle. Something to do in my downtime to ensure I never let myself get sloppy." Or reach an old age where she wasted away in a home somewhere, but Cordé did not need to hear that. "It fulfills a need and that's that."

The rant came to an end. Silence filled the room for a moment longer before Frea let out a sigh and looked over at Cordé.

"And it's Frea, not Reagan." She said and raised her brow. "You have actively avoided answering the question before, but I don't suppose you happen to have a name of your own?"

 

[Cordé Sabo]

The kalto juice seemed to be working. That, or pride elbowed its way through illness and rose above all that had threatened to entirely consume Frea Sheplin . Cordé listened patiently while Frea talked, depositing the upchuck into the sink that was built into the white countertop and running the tap to rinse out the smell.

Vanguard-2 sounded prestigious, but Cordé didn't know much about Starfighter grading systems. All her education had been focused elsewhere, but Frea filled in the gaps with her story.

"The kalto seems to be working." She observed absently, amusedly, and leaned against the countertop as Frea continued her story. Top of her class, drill aficionado, everything sounded too good to be true. Save for the recklessness.

Which was surprising. Cordé'd always been told that starfighter pilots were adrenaline seekers in metal coffins each time they went out. They had more ways to die than the average soldier. She was about to ask about it, but instead, her eyebrows popped up at the acute sass coming from the ill-stomached patient, and for a moment, her expression was placid before turning into something of a tight-lipped simper.

"Inactively." Cordé corrected, and held up a hand. "That was a mistake." She spent half a thought blaming it on Frea's delirium. "I was prioritizing your treatment."

She looked forward to the day people would be content with calling her doctor. Or Doctor Sabo. But for now she'd settle for "Cordé."

Keeping Frea talking was good for two things; Cordé's intel, and Frea's recovery. Plus, it was easy. The girl seemed to like to talk about herself.

"Sounds like you were discharged, then." She concluded, leading the sentence but tried to keep it open for correction. Which, at this point, she was pretty confident Frea would have no issue doing "Are side-hustles your schtick now, or are you looking for something more full time again?"

She paused, keeping herself in check. She still needed the hours to compelete her doctorate. And, as a patient, Frea could be asked for random feedback by her professors.

"After your recovery, of course."

 

[Frea Sheplin]

"Right, if you prefer the 'official' term for it." Frea sidestared a hole into the wall for a moment before she turned back to answer Cordé's questions. "Look, I know that you are working for someone or something that values discretion and secrecy. Regular people don't order… I don't know, stethoscopes over a secure line like that."

"Yeah, my side-hustle became my main hustle, but I am not quite made out to be a back alley doctor here." Frea chuckled as her head began to feel ever so slightly lighter. "But since you are asking…" She pondered it for a moment. The words had almost parted her lips on their own and she was playing catch-up. "I suppose?"

"Not much of a cloak and dagger kind of person, but even I need money. Provided that we are talking money, of course, and not some… Force cult that pays in… I dunno, hugs and exposition?"

"What is the job, Cordé?"

 

[Cordé Sabo]

Whether or not Frea Sheplin meant for it, Cordé bristled at the mentioned of a back alley doctor. This clinic was legitimate! At least in terms of credits and hours — and it was the one with the most action because of its location. If she were somewhere within the federal district, or more city-centric, she'd go insane. Her claustrophobia would take over.

At the mentioned of a cult (it was obvious what they were alluding to) Cordé's immediate repugnance turned into a laugh.

"It would be medically irresponsible of me to overstimulate your brain right now and talk about the future and it's implications — but, cults, it sounds like you have a history with exposition? And, if I can guess the galaxy-wide cult, Jedi?"

 

[Frea Sheplin]

Laughing still hurt a little but Frea did it anyway. The gentle throb against her temple as she tried to stifle her small cough and laughter gave away how right Cordé was and it only got more obvious by the time she began to nod while swallowing a mouthful of water from a nearby cup.

"Yeah, some dumb kid had tried to buy their way into a local circuit by trading in a bunch of those… Hollow-Chrons?" Frea shook her head and smiled. "While I don't doubt that their weird juju magic and nausea boxes are valuable, it'd still mean that it put a lot of heat on some of my favorite tracks."

"Naturally, being the good person that I am, I saw it fit to return these items so that nobody got hurt. Which, you know, to Jedi seem to mean 'Oh, so you want to sell out your friends?'" Frea's head shook ever so gently and she grinned. "Nah. It would have been the right thing to turn them back in to their owners again, even if I do not necessarily agree with who they are. Because, you know, in the end I am only ever as good as my word these days."

She wasn't sure what compelled her to do so, but Frea turned side to side before she leaned in with a whisper.

"You know, some days it's not difficult to blame this whole war on them either. The whole thing is a religious battle if you ask me."

 

[Cordé Sabo]

Holocrons. Cordé menally corrected Frea Sheplin , but didn't interrupt. The details or proper pronunciation of the apparent-tender didn't matter. Frea didn't need to know they were ancient esoteric devices both the Jedi and Sith used to store information. Yet another similarity between the two Force cults that were, honestly, sometimes, pretty indistinguishable aside from one's affinity for altruism.

Cordé wound herself up in her thoughts, and almost missed the punchline of the story. Holocrons used as tender to pay the entry fee for a race, Frea didn't want the attention (probably meant an illegal race) and returned them to the Jedi for some sort of exchange.

If Cordé was going to suggest Frea as a SIA recruit, the white-haired pilot was going to need to be less ready to talk so willingly. Cordé's bedside manner wasn't that appealing.

Her ears perked even more at the conspiratoral whisper that floated from the metal table to the doctor-in-training leaning against the counter.

"Most of the galaxy's history with war would agree." She answered cautiously, and refilled Frea's glass with fresh tapwater. The kolto juice'd been slurped up.

"The Second Great Hyperspace war was initially the Sith targeting the Jedi. That's why the Alliance split from them when Coruscant happened. And everything that was suffered leading up to Tython..." She sighed.

"As a pilot, you ever do much work with The Jedi? Or against Sith, for that matter?"

 

[Frea Sheplin]

"I was a military pilot," Frea laughed. "I was paid to protect those that I cared about from threats that could see them hurt. It didn't go much further than that."

The white-haired woman looked straight into Cordé eyes one more time. There was anti-forcer sentiment in there then. Maybe not a full-blown 'death to all would-be messiahs' as much as a disapproval of the amount of space that such a minority of 'gifted' Alliance citizens were taking up. It wasn't as unusual of an opinion as one might have thought. When the only reason someone was noteworthy was because they possessed a real, somewhat palpable power over everyone and everything around them it was hard not to paint them in a bad light. Jealousy, fear, and ignorance went far in turning the tides against groups of people.

The question here was which one of them Cordé would fall under.

"Everyone is equal in dogfighting. The force will only help you so much when you are being barraged by a hailstorm of turbolasers." Frea shrugged and put her hand on her forehead. The dizziness was letting up, at least a little. She blamed the initial spike on the adrenaline letting up. "The rest is just a matter of skill."

There was absolutely no denying that Frea was aware of her own skill. She wouldn't have been in this room if she didn't.

"What about you?" Frea asked and looked towards the door where the others were. "Meet many Jedi or Sith in your line of work?"

 

[Cordé Sabo]

Between the kolto juice, reflecting on the past, and tip-toeing into controversial perspectives on the Force-enabled, the side-effects of Frea Sheplin 's concussion seemed to be lessening.

"That makes sense." Was all she said to the plain explanation Frea gave for her job, and all else who met her on the field. The average dogfight wasn't normally survived, but Cordé suspected that skill was probably a little sharper for someone who had the ability to foresee a few extra steps before they happened. She didn't say this.

She also did not disclose much more information on her true line of work.

Instead, she chuckled and gestured about the spartan room. She chose to respond to meeting Jedi or Sith in her line of work as the medical side of her. Not the...side of her that hunted them.

"As this?" She pulled at the collar of her lab coat, "No, not many Jedi get treated at clinics or hospitals. They have their own treatment centres."

Well, there had been one Jedi she'd helped on Empress Teta. Sion Lorray had been her first and only Jedi treated. And only because he'd saved her life. And she'd only done enough to keep him stable and transferred off planet and into the hands of...Jedi healers. Of course.

"I work as a field medic sometimes for more experience," Actually a bit reversed. This clinic was for more experience, not the other way around. "—with The Defense Force. Everyone's a little less picky out there, so, one Jedi I guess.

And I would never treat a Sith."