Chapter Text
In the infinite expanse of the galaxy, all things were bound together, irrevocably linked by the Force. To ignore its will was futile, to defy it was impossible. Those who embraced it could connect even the most minute thread to create a tapestry of possibilities. Every single facet of one's life was created precisely when it was meant to be, assembled together with care and precision. For such a being, chance encounters were not coincidences — they were inevitabilities crafted by fate.
Or at least, that’s what Jedi Master Ngani Zho had said once or twice.
Maybe when he was a kid, Theron Shan would have been more apt to believe in that sort of thing. But with how much consideration the Force had given him, he was pretty sure it had better things to do than concern itself with him. The only fate was what he made with his own two hands. It was the way it had always been, and the way he had learned from experience, it would always be.
For example, it wasn't some grand master plan of a mystical all binding energy that had brought Theron to the Esseles today. No, it was a chance fluke that he'd been able to get a seat on this flight out of Carrick Station after he’d had to resort to public transport to remain inconspicuous on his latest mission rather than use his own ship. Normally a more luxury transport such as the Esseles would be out of the Republic Strategic Information Service’s meager travel budget for its agents, especially when there were far more affordable, and overcrowded, shuttles heading to Coruscant.
Theron had just been a bit lucky, getting the ticket by being in the right place at the right time. The seat had been originally booked by some corporate executive who had forgotten to cancel, and he’d overheard the ticketing agent trying to call the man to discuss with him what to do. Wanting to avoid the cramped, uncomfortable shuttle flight, he'd offered to take the seat at an incredibly reduced price, and the agent jumped at the offer.
And now, here he was, settling into a plush recliner seat that seemed to almost mold itself around him, like it had been crafted just for him. If the beds were anything like this chair, it would probably be the best sleep of his life. First, he just had to make it through the standard safety talk, and then he'd be left to his own devices.
Having heard this spiel about a million times before, Theron pulled a datapad out of his pocket and did his best to get absorbed into it so he could block out the bored droning of the crew when the time came. This flight was probably as close to a vacation as he'd get for quite a while, and he intended to fully enjoy it. He had almost succeeded at tuning out his surroundings when the astromech at his side let out a high-pitched whistle in greeting.
Theron and M-6 had been working together on several missions together and the little astromech was probably the closest thing to a consistent partner Theron had within the intelligence agency (if you didn’t count Jonas Balkar — and for the sake of his own sanity, Theron didn’t). He did his best work alone, and his record and reputation spoke to that. So the Director of the SIS tried to put Theron’s considerable skills to good use by not saddling him with the dead weight of another agent who would just slow him down.
Being employed by the Republic’s intelligence wing, M-6 typically kept to himself, so when the normally solitary droid seemed to let out almost a delighted noise of greeting, Theron couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow, letting his gaze drift away from his datapad to see what the fuss was about. An unfamiliar silver astromech happily let out a chirp in response as it wheeled over. Theron gave it a once over, but nothing particularly remarkable jumped out at him. It was a T7-series astromech, although its design was clearly an older model. A little curious, but nothing warranting the almost fannish glee coming from his own droid.
“You lost or something?” he dryly asked the newcomer.
The T7-unit answered with a whistle, and Theron was familiar enough with droidspeak to be able to mentally translate. Apparently, the droid was attempting to find an open seat for its owner. He offered it a shrug, showing the open seat next to him was available. In what Theron assumed was an affirmative response, the droid let out a cheerful beep before happily rolling away to find its owner. He shook his head and returned his attention to his datapad.
M-6 let out a series of beeps and whistles that more or less translated to “Do you know who that astromech is?”
Theron ignored the question — because no, he didn’t, nor did he care — and valiantly tried to focus on the text on his screen, but the soft padding of boots against the plush carpet heralded the approach of another person. There was a lightness to the steps that indicated a grace and assurance of their owner — and if Theron had to guess from the sound of the stride alone, the individual was shorter than him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of dark blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail as a human woman settled into the seat next to him.
When he glanced over, he caught her doing the same, tilting her head to look at him quizzically with a slight smile. Due to his training, it was almost second nature for him to immediately catalogue and profile her. She had bright and inquisitive blue eyes, which seemed to take in everything they saw. A scattering of freckles graced her nose and cheeks, and despite her somewhat petite frame, she seemed athletic and toned with the lean musculature of a dancer. She was probably a few years younger than him, twenty at most, he guessed. There was an air of eagerness about her that could have been charming for most people — but he knew better than to place his trust in a single glance.
The Republic and Empire might no longer have been formally at war with each other, but all the Treaty of Coruscant had really done was start a now ten years long Cold War between the two superpowers. Both sides had a very robust and active spy network, and one of the first things drilled into any young recruit to the SIS was that any stranger could secretly work for the Empire. Agents were trained to be hyperaware of their surroundings at all times, picking up on the most minute details. A little healthy paranoia went a long way to keeping you alive, not to mention keeping intel safe.
However, the likelihood of this young woman being an Imperial spy was extremely low. He took in the distinctive brown and gold tunic commonly worn by Knights of the Jedi Order, as well as twin lightsabers clipped to her belt. For most people, the sight of a Jedi was a novelty, an uncommon occurrence even before the destruction of their temple on Coruscant during the last days of the war. Now that the Order had retreated to Tython and become even more insular, it was a downright rarity. Again, for most people.
Theron Shan wasn’t most people.
He schooled his expression so that the instinctual glower and groan wouldn’t come out unbidden, even if the thought of having to make small talk with a Jedi made him want to abandon all thoughts of relaxation and luxury and fling himself into the nearest escape pod. Although that knee-jerk reaction was probably just a little on the melodramatic side. As usual, the Force was not pulling strings for him — it was laughing at him.
All of this happened in a millisecond, and the Jedi gestured to the seat she had taken with the hints of that little smile still quirking at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you. I was beginning to think that I would not find a seat before the safety briefing started.”
Theron gave an inarticulate grunt as a reply, trying to fix a look of practiced disinterest on his face. His experience in the field taught him that ignoring people usually worked, and once they realized you weren't going to speak to them, they would usually lose interest and get distracted by something else. It was one of the easier ways to go about unnoticed while still in plain sight. He made a show of pulling his datapad up to his face as an unsubtle reinforcement that he wanted to be left alone.
“These accommodations are very nice for a transport.” At first, Theron wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, but in the periphery of his vision, he could make out that she had turned to address the silver astromech at her side. “I do not know about you, Teeseven, but I am not used to this kind of luxury.”
The T7-unit let out a series of beeps as a reply that seemed to express something about the luxuries of Senate travel, that were nearly drowned out by a positively embarrassing whistle of glee from M-6. Theron lowered his datapad just a fraction at the commotion to fix his own astromech with an annoyed stare. M-6 either didn’t notice, or care, and spun his bronzium domed head around as if his socialization circuits were almost overheating.
“Oh? I didn’t realize you were so political.”
Another whistle implying it was a long story. Somehow, that seemed to amp up M-6’s overreaction anymore, which Theron thought was nearly impossible at this point. He was almost — almost — tempted to ask what the deal was, when that thought was interrupted by the oblivious Jedi’s continuing conversation with her own astromech.
“Either way, I think we should thank Master Satele for booking this passage for us. I’m sure this will be much more comfortable than taking a public shuttle.”
The whistling agreement of the T7 unit was drowned out by the walls of the wide room seeming to close in at the mention of the Jedi Grand Master. The next breath Theron drew in came as if from star systems away for how little oxygen it seemed to bring into his lungs. A memory of a blinding desert sun, the sands of Haashimut crunching under foot, rose unbidden, but he clamped it down. He blinked once, twice, and expelled the breath forcefully as he pushed his mind out of blind reaction. The past was in the past.
Thankfully, no one had seemed to take any notice of his initial reaction, as the Jedi and her droid continued their conversation, and there was a soft beep from the implant in his ear signaling an incoming message. A second later, a message in text from M-6 was superimposed over his normal vision. In the field, they used this silent way of communication to avoid being overheard, although from the contents of the message, Theron suspected that his droid’s reasons had nothing to do with skullduggery.
That = T7-01!
This time, when Theron fixed the droid with a look, there was no need for words. The high arch of his brow effectively communicated the message of “And I should care because?”
M-6 gave an annoyed whir of his dome before a reply appeared: T7-01 = legend among SIS astromechs for the GenoHaradan case!
Wait. Theron’s brow furrowed. Was this… he quickly pulled out his datapad and tapped out a message that was transmitted back to the droid: Are you fandroiding out on me right now? If you don’t calm down, you’re going to fry your circuits.
M-6 let out an annoyed flat beep and Theron had to quickly move his foot so it didn’t become victim of the astromech’s treads as he determinedly rolled on by to boldly introduce himself to what Theron guessed was the droid equivalent of a celebrity in their midst.
M-6 gave the Jedi a cheerful beep in greeting before turning to his metallic hero and the two astromechs suddenly devolved into an indecipherable series of happy sounding chirps in what may have been the most obnoxious droid conversation known to man. Normally Theron could keep up with even rapidfire conversations between droids in binary, but it was almost as if they were speaking in some kind of code as it just rendered as gibberish to his ears.
His confusion must have shown on his face, as the Jedi frowned ever so slightly as she turned back to him. “It appears that our astromechs have become fast friends.”
“That’s one word for it,” he grumbled as the barrage of beeps and whistles assaulted his ears.
“Have we met before?” Her brows drew together into a deeper expression of contemplation.
“No.”
“You just… look familiar somehow.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said brusquely, acutely aware of her scrutiny and the possibility she was mentally comparing his features to that of Satele Shan. “Just have that kind of face.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie, but nor was it the complete truth. As far as humans went, Theron was a fairly unassuming individual at first glance. It suited him well. He had the kind of face that allowed him to blend in easily with a crowd, or slip into a role as needed for missions. Pleasant enough to look at, but not necessarily striking enough to immediately be remembered. In fact, his most distinguishing features were probably the cybernetic implants visible on the left side of his face. However, even those were fairly unobtrusive compared to others in the galaxy. He was the type of person who was easily forgotten, someone who could get lost in the cracks with no one really noticing or caring. It was the story of his life.
Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it because the frown lines eased as she extended a hand out to him in formal greeting. “I do not believe I introduced myself earlier.”
Theron stared at the hand proffered in his direction, then back up to the guileless expression on the Jedi’s face. “Do you normally introduce yourself to random strangers?”
“Some might say that a stranger is just a friend you have not yet met.”
Even though he probably should have, he didn’t bother stopping the snort of derision that escaped him. “Look, Jedi—”
“I am a Jedi, but that is not my name.” He just stared at her, which she apparently took as an invitation to continue, as if that was the next logical step in this non-conversation. “It is Greyias Highwind.”
“Well, that’s a mouthful.”
“My friends like to call me Grey.”
“Okay, Highwind,” he corrected himself, but if she had a reaction to his intentional brusqueness and use of her last name, it didn’t show, “so I know your name now.”
Undaunted, she flashed him with a winning smile that was brighter than the Haashimut sun. “And if you tell me yours, then we are not strangers anymore, are we?”
“That’s not how that works.”
With the air of a man done talking, he pointedly and forcefully brought his datapad to bear, as if holding it in front of his face would shield him from this awkward attempt at socialization being thrust upon him. On the clock, and on mission, he might have forced himself to go through the song and dance, come up with some cover identity on the spot if he didn’t already have one in place. But for once, he wasn’t working, and he really didn’t want to put forth the effort. Especially not for some Jedi that apparently was close enough to his mother to be on a first name basis and also chummy enough that the Grand Master bought her tickets on a luxury transport.
But apparently all of this was too subtle for the now most irritating Jedi that he had ever met to take the hint. “I disagree.”
Apparently, he was being too subtle. Theron dropped the datapad down and fixed her with a look. “About what?”
“That we’d be still be strangers.”
“Well, someone is strange here, and it’s not me.”
“I mean, you are acting a little odd and cagey,” she prodded.
“Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you.”
“But… you are?”
This entire conversation had gone off the rails so quickly, and Theron wasn’t sure how he’d wound up on the defensive after such a stupid, simple question. “Who I am is not any of your business.”
Those expressive eyebrows rose in surprise and maybe a hint of irritation. “I did not realize it was a state secret to ask for your name.”
“Yeah, that’s right, it’s classified.” Theron shot back, so much sarcasm practically oozing from his tone that any reasonable person would realize that he was joking.
“Classified?” she echoed in an almost teasing tone that grated even more on his nerves. “Is that a first or last name?”
“Ha ha.”
Theron closed his eyes and sat back in his seat, relishing in the way the plush material gave way and molded to his body. It was going to be a long flight, he could tell.
The overhead lights dimmed, indicating that the crew’s precheck was almost complete. He cracked an eye open, daring a glance at her. She had one elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting on a lightly balled fist as her eyes sparkled with mirth. Her wide smile emphasized the almost cherubic nature of her features. With the rosy cheeks, the crinkling of the freckles across her nose, for a moment he was struck by how young and innocent she looked. Then she spoke and shattered that illusion.
"So mysterious." Yeah, she was definitely mocking him at this point. Which was probably better than her studying his features with any closer scrutiny and comparing it to the mental image she had of Satele.
A loud ding over the ship’s speakers heralded the start of the safety briefing.
“Saved by the bell,” he said sarcastically.
She shook her head at him and dutifully turned her attention to the nearby screen that went over the safety procedures. She seemed duly distracted by the boring list of emergency protocols. Small mercies. Having been on enough starliners to know the whole thing by heart, Theron tuned it out, choosing to once again try to focus on his datapad.
A trill from his side let him know that M-6 had caught some of the conversation, and apparently the astromech didn’t approve of their little standoff. Theron really could not care less what the droid thought, and endeavored to ignore that too.
As the briefing wound to a close, the gentle hum of the engines starting up filled the cabin, and the ship drifted away from the station’s docking ring. He felt his own body pushed back into his seat as the ship accelerated, the chair once again molding itself to his body. In the viewport, the single dots of stars stretched out into lazy lines indicating that they’d reached travel speed.
Another overhead ding preceded the announcement, giving passengers the all clear to move about the ship. Theron took the chance to beat a hasty retreat and put as much distance between him and the nosy Jedi. With any luck, he'd be able to find a nice quiet spot on the ship where he could get some peace.