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Luthen’s antique shop was the only place where time seemed to stand still—albeit briefly. The war against the Empire never slept. The need for a strong Rebellion was constantly paid mind, hundreds of people losing sleep, scared of one deliberate mistake that would cost too many lives. The need to control variables, organize plans, and recruit people for the cause was a lingering, though often dreadful, reality.
The Rebellion meant everything to Luthen. Maybe too much, sometimes. He sacrificed his life to make it work. To fight for it. Intel was more important than the lives of men to him because intel meant a future. Information and people, like Lonni, in positions of power, meant the possibility of cutting off a single head of the Empire. It meant a chance to get one step ahead… a chance for victory.
Victory. A chance for a sunrise at the expense of his morality, and the growing possibility that he’ll never experience the fruit of the labor of millions.
The work moved quickly. People were needed, hands had to get dirty, and time couldn’t be wasted when an opportunity presented itself.
So, when the hustle and bustle of the people of Coruscant began to die down in the later stages of the night, and the hours of being in the field came to an end, time stood more still. It didn’t diminish the on-guard nature of someone like Luthen, always having to speak in code and be conscious of his identity, but it was a welcome time to drop his shoulders and let his heart not skip as often.
When Luthen entered his shop, dressed to the nines, a heavy sigh escaped his lips. There was no need for a fabricated smile for a client, a gentle tremor, or those pure-white gloves for handling any delicate artifact.
Kleya had been on the radio with him when he left the shop a day prior. She hadn’t spoken a word when he worked his way home, and he’d be lying if the lack of her presence did not arouse some kind of nervousness in his chest.
She kept him grounded and steady, prepared. She reminded him of things his mind was ready to forget, and she was level enough with Luthen to give him an earful when he deserved it—which was quite often.
Strong and smart and quick, that was Kleya. She was observant, strategic, and knew when to back out… or push forward. Having lost her own people to the Empire, it was the only fight worth working for—worth risking her life for.
A constant blur of plates spinning, knives on the floor, and panicked faces at the windows. She held much on her conscience and within the creases of her palms, more than she could ever make fully known to Luthen. It was a difficult, taxing life, but she took it all in stride, believing it to be important enough for her life.
The Rebellion wouldn’t be the same without her.
With a hand through his grey wig, Luthen approached the back of the shop. Different antiques hidden away for cleaning, personal belongings stashed away from prying eyes in case of emergency, and a comms system.
That was Kleya’s unnamed station—except on the rare occasion Luthen used it. She was smarter than most when it came to navigating different channels, and exquisite in the way she could speak to conceal any conversation from listening ears.
She wasn’t in the field often. If they were both gone, Luthen’s shop would be closed, which would spark concern among the locals and would leave their expeditions vulnerable—that couldn’t be risked. Staying behind meant suspicion remained low, and allowed her to keep an eye on Luthen from afar.
Something he didn’t require, but something that kept her in the know, and helped her rest knowing he was safe… or made her uneasy knowing he wasn’t.
Any time he returned from a mission, Kleya was always in the back either polishing antiques, inspecting them, or sitting on the radio with an exhausted arm held to her ear and an annoyed look at the lack of chatter.
Except tonight. He was alone, unfamiliarly so.
The dim light on the microscope is all that was left on. His still on-guard demeanor didn’t change as he approached the apparatus to cut the light. As he reached for the switch on its back, a figure caught his eye.
Kleya, on the far end of the counter, her head resting atop her forearms.
The radio drawer was pulled out, jutting toward her abdomen. The quiet buzz of dead frequencies was in the speaker in her half-closed fist, positioned almost entirely under her chin.
Her hair was still done up, dressed in her usual navy blue get-up, and even her dress shoes.
The consistency of her breathing told Luthen she’d been out for a while.
Repose.
A rarity. For people he knew, those he was close with, it was not a word thrown around. Mon, Saw, Cassian, Vel, even Bix.
Everyone was a fighter for the war. Field work or not, they all fought. Day and night, mission to mission, failure and failure, every victory and every standstill, fighting was what they did. How they lived.
And if not fighting, surviving. An Empire to whom they’re all wanted dead. Unsafe in public and making a better case for themselves day by day for why the Empire would want them six feet under.
For most people, there’s always some kind of a safety net. Nothing full-proof, nothing that can completely scrub away the grime or relieve all stress, but something, or someone, who aids in alleviating it.
Sometimes, that thing is a blaster. For some, it’s their spouse or child. For others, it’s their culture. Sometimes, it’s a relationship with no real label except loyalty. For others, it’s the fight itself—they’ve lived in it so long that they know no different.
And some sacrifice it all—any kind of safety net—for the greater good… or claim that they do.
Lonni heard it all from Luthen. Calm. Kindness. Kinship. Love. The things that most people fought for, he gave up on experiencing for the Rebellion. They weren’t in the cards for him, not anymore.
It wasn’t all true. Kleya—the hardest working rebel he knew, sleeping—showed him all of that. The moment only proved to himself that what he told Lonni wasn’t the complete truth, and that the small smile that crept on his face seeing her only meant the things he claimed he sacrificed have always been present, though dormant at times.
Luthen quietly drew his outermost layer, a black, enveloping cape, off his arms and opened it up. Gently, he draped it over her shoulders.
A rebel man, dedicated to the cause. The one thing he has and is damned to repeat: connection isn’t important, the mission is; love isn’t important, the mission is; personal struggles aren’t important, the mission is; family isn’t important, the mission is.
Even he cannot resist humanity.
That’s what it is after all. A fight for humanity. A fight so it continues. So that those to come don’t lose heart of humanity and what man has done in the past, and what people will continue to be capable of—the good that they can do.
An end to the Empire and all the harm it’s caused. The innocents they’ve killed. The families they’ve torn. The civilizations they’ve massacred. The galaxy they’ve torn apart.
Kleya didn’t move an inch at the added pressure and Luthen didn’t dare move or wake her. He caught her in the early morning one time and she nearly took a blade to his throat.
He reached for the switch on the back of the microscope again and cut the light. Some still crept in at the front of the shop—the surrounding skyscrapers of Coruscant and their neon lights streamed into the building, acting as a kind of faux moonlight for their closed business.
Luthen moved to their smaller radio system hidden away in the far wall. They were still waiting on a report from Cassian, and for Kleya to fall asleep meant his side was all quiet.
As he pulled the drawer out from the wall, Kleya perked up at the sound of clashing metals. Heart nearly out of her chest, she scanned the barely lit room, her eyes adjusting from the sleep she was jolted from.
Unphased, Luthen turned the monitor on and pressed the microphone to his ear, his eyes never leaving the box.
Kleya’s shoulders dropped at the sight of him, a relieved sigh on her lips. “You’re back.”
“For a while.”
“And you didn’t wake me?”
“I didn’t want to,” he admitted, turning his face to her. His eyes met hers, she looked confused. He let his arm drop to the radio. “You sleep less than I do, Kleya. You need to rest.”
He raised the mic back to his ear and pulled his attention from her, adamant for their conversation to end… for her sake.
Her face fell. In her periphery, the corner of his garb draped over her shoulder caught her eye. She brought her fingers up and smoothed the material between them. She eyed Luthen warmly, he still paying no mind to her.
He frustrated her to no end. She was a constant reminder of every quality he was slowly losing his grip on. But somewhere in that gray area, somewhere between their fake lives and so finely tuned comfortability with each other lied a degree of humanity that no one else would ever see, nor could ever guess. Offering his cape was a small action, but something that proved Luthen wasn’t an empty shell, and she, too, wasn’t immune to kind gestures.
Slowly, she turned the system off and pushed it back under the table. “Have you heard anything from him?”
“Not yet.” He glanced at her, a defeated look plastered on his face. She mimicked it, though not sure how to respond still half-asleep.
Her stool creaked as she slid off of it. “I can listen—”
“No.” He fully faced her, the microphone laying in the box with the comms. “You are vital to everything we do here. We make no headway without you, Kleya. I need you at your best.” He sighed, a crafted lie forming on his lips, as he was built to do for years. This time, he shut it down quickly, his voice quieting with an honest, exhausted desperation. “I’ll listen for him. Please.”
She saw the bits of his humanity through his gruff facade every day, but the blatant nature of this night was different. Exhaustion was piling up. Concerns were high and always rising, especially with no word from Cassian. There were always puzzle pieces to keep track of; Luthen felt he was the only one would could keep track of them all—the responsibility fell on him and only him.
Kleya threaded the side of his coat between her fingers again. “What about you?”
“I can spare a night.” He turned back to the radio and raised the mic to his ear. “Wherever you choose, as long as you rest.”
She stepped from her side of the table and approached the open hall that led into the main floor of the shop. His cloak was still draped over her shoulders as she slowly made her way, unsure of whether to fight her ongoing exhaustion and ignore Luthen’s pleas, or to let her rest rejuvenate her.
Luthen was right. She was vital, but so was rest. Without it, her abilities are lackluster, and his footing is completely lost without her strength.
They work hand-in-hand.
He turned to her as she approached the lights to exit the back. “See you in the morning,” he smiled—gently, appropriately. She reciprocated the sentiment and left him in the fading dark.