Work Text:
The Blaster's Path bar is surprisingly relaxed for a hotbed of pirate activity. Or maybe it's just "their" erstwhile gang's reputation providing a buffer against the worst of the rowdiness. Whatever the reason, Theron is enjoying the break from chasing after the Revanites.
The company's not bad, either. Somehow. Lana hung around for a while but seemed distracted. She headed back to the safehouse about ten minutes ago, citing the beginnings of a plan she wanted to poke at without interruptions, and Theron was honestly sad to see her go. She's guarded, but she's got a dry, understated sense of humor that makes talking with her legitimately entertaining.
Way better than the alternative. If his allies were the boring kind of Sith, he'd be miserable. And also probably dead a few times over.
Theron stirs his drink, still nearly full in spite of how long he's had it. They might be allies, for now, but that doesn't make getting tipsy around Sith Lords a good idea.
Speaking of.
"Mind if I ask a couple questions?" says Theron. Lana plays it so close to the vest that it, whatever it is, is still in her pockets; Straik seems marginally more open. No reason not to give it a shot, right?
The Sith raises an eyebrow. "Whatever brought this on, Agent Shan?"
"Figure I could stand to get to know you a little better," Theron says. "If we're gonna be working together on this, we might as well not be strangers."
"What's stopping me from simply lying?" says Straik, smiling in a way Theron would describe as mischievous if he were anybody else in the galaxy.
This guy is just ... completely fucking unfair.
Game face on, voice pitched low and easy, Theron leans in and says, "Nothing. But I don't need you to tell the truth to learn something. Even if you're lying, that says something about what you want me to think. And that's interesting."
"Spoken like a spy." A pause. Then his smile sharpens. "A bargain, then—I will answer your questions, truly or not, if you'll do the same."
This could go so wrong. But on the scale of bad ideas Theron has entertained over the course of his career, this barely rates a mention. The ability to catch the other person in a lie cuts both ways—Straik has the Force, yeah, but Theron has his implant, and he's damn good at keeping his thoughts safely inside his own head.
And also he's curious. "You got a deal, Sith," Theron says. "Where'd you grow up?"
"Dromund Kaas," Straik says immediately. "The soggy heart of the Empire."
Vitals normal, tone casual. The joke's a nice touch—disarming, or it could be if Theron decided to be unprofessional and let himself be disarmed. "Sounds like you just love the place," he says.
"Of course. What's not to love? Mud, bloodsucking insects, face-eating predators, politically motivated backstabbing, truly hideous public art installations ..."
"I can see you’re a huge fan," Theron says.
Straik grins, showing too many teeth on the right side. "What about you, Agent?"
"All over the place. Never really settled down for long."
"My, how vague."
"Not a lie, though," Theron says.
"Still vague." At least he sounds amused, rather than annoyed.
Theron hesitates. "I grew up in the system," he says. "Wasn't terrible, but nothing really felt like home." Eight years on his own, foster home after foster home, none of them bad enough to hate, none of them good enough to cry over when he got shuffled along to the next one. Aging out, two more years drifting—Coruscant, Nar Shaddaa, Corulag, Driamorrek.
"Ah." Straik seems to process this for a moment. Then he says, "Did you want to be an SIS agent?"
"... That's an odd question," Theron says slowly.
Straik shrugs. "Some people fall into their careers. Others leap. Still others are dragged kicking and screaming."
"I wanted to help people. Seemed like the best way to make that happen." The best way he'd ever have a chance to take, at least. The other option hasn't been a real option since—well, ever, technically.
Straik searches his face for a moment. "Might be treading into no comment territory, but how did you join up? Intelligence tends to select its own candidates, but my impression is that the SIS operates rather differently."
The SIS let him sign a consent form before shoving hardware into his skull. From what he's seen, IMPINT thinks those are quaint oddities of Republic bureaucracy. "Wandered into an op, made myself useful enough that they wanted to hire me." True. Vague, again, but true. "The Force works in mysterious ways, and all that, I guess."
Straik's eyes narrow slightly. Shit. Shit. Years of hearing those platitudes and thinking he could be a hero, and now he's—no. It's just a turn of phrase. It doesn't tell Straik anything he didn't already know. It’s not like Theron’s connection to the Jedi is a big secret or anything—he really, really needs a codename—but his moment of panic is probably doing most of the real communication, here: this is an insecurity, a weakness. Free for the stabbing. Fucking empaths. And if Straik is anything like Zho, he won't let it drop—
"I suspect the credit goes more to you than to the Force," Straik says. "You earned your place."
"Um," says Theron. "Thank ... you?"
A careful smile. Small enough that it doesn't get twisted by the Sobrik smirk. Theron can’t tell if it’s calculated or genuine, and his implant isn’t showing any changes to Straik’s vitals. "Whatever the specifics, you are quite good at your job, Agent Shan."
"Bet you say that to all the spies," Theron hears himself say.
Straik laughs. "Only when it's true."
Theron clears his throat. "So how'd you wind up as the Emperor's Wrath?"
"Ooh, long story. The short version is that the job opening coincided with my former master's attempt to kill me and his ill-fated attempt to overthrow the Emperor. I was ... convenient."
"Wow. Such enthusiasm," Theron deadpans.
"Well, vengeance was certainly nice, I'll give it that. The rest ..." He trails off, grimacing slightly.
Implication: he didn't actually want the job. Which could be the truth, or a ploy to build sympathy. Straik wants Theron to believe that he's a reluctant Wrath, that he's—what, not like other Sith? Theron would almost buy it, if he hadn't read the SIS dossier, and the very long list of victims attached to it.
Time to push a little. "Seriously," he says, shifting his tone to something quieter, more real. "Is this what you wanted to be doing?"
Straik leans back in his chair. "What else would I be doing, Agent Shan?"
Evasion. Okay, then. "You tell me."
Straik seems to be having trouble looking Theron in the eye. "I can't complain overmuch, seeing as being the Emperor's Wrath led to our meeting."
"... Are you flirting with me, Sith?" Theron says.
Straik's eyes widen, and Theron's implant helpfully informs him of a spike in stress levels. "Flirting—no, I—"
This the oldest trick in the book, and the fact that he feels dirty for using it now is just proof that he's letting himself get way too chummy with the enemy. "Because I'm not entirely opposed to the idea, if that's where this is going," Theron says, letting his gaze travel over Straik's face, lingering on his mouth.
Straik looks scared. He takes a deep breath, rearranges his expression into something unreadable. "I apologize, for giving the wrong impression," he says. "But no."
"Not into men, huh?" Theron is ... almost disappointed. Which is ridiculous. This isn't even a real thing, it's just—poking the Sith to see what he'll do.
Straik stands up, keeping his hands on the table, where Theron can see them; then he takes a step back and neatly pushes in the chair. "I'll be at the safehouse, Agent."
Theron opens his mouth to protest: Wait, or Did I say something wrong?, or What just happened? But by the time he puts the words in order, Straik's already gone.