Like That
ALDERAAN
Drystan lounged on the bench, a plastic cup in hand, the bendy straw bobbing faintly as he sipped. It wasn't the most impressive seat in the vast hall, but it was available—and sometimes simplicity was enough.
He watched the crowd drift past, a current of well-dressed civilians flowing between boutiques whose windows gleamed with promises of refinement: hand-carved furniture, rare imports, glittering jewelry, and above all, clothing. High-end, immaculate clothing. Exactly what had brought him here.
He tugged at his plain black shirt, fitted close against his frame. Breathable, water-resistant, impossible to snag—perfect. He owned dozens of them, ordered in bulk straight from the factory. His black pants, equally unremarkable, carried the same utilitarian function. Together, they were everything he needed: armor in all but name, and versatile enough to wear anywhere. He had coats, suits when required, and even a few white shirts tucked away for the rare occasion.
By every measure that mattered to him, it was the ideal attire. Efficient. Reliable. Battle-tested. Yet here he sat, staring at a rack of silk jackets in a boutique window, and wondering—just for a moment—what he might look like in one.
It was laughable, almost insulting. He had stood unshaken in the middle of battlefields, smiled through storms of lightning and steel, stared down Sith Lords without blinking. But the thought of trading his dependable uniform for something stitched in satin and arrogance? That stirred a discomfort he couldn't quite place.
It was ironic—absurd even—that a man who lived for combat could be undone by the prospect of "fashion." But that irony was undeniable, and it gnawed at him. For once, it wasn't the shadow of death or failure that tested him, but the idea of being seen in clothes that weren't purely his own.
He sipped his drink again, straw squeaking faintly against the lid. This was harder than fighting.
Quinn Varanin
