This place was fine.
Yeah. Fine. Real charming.

The bar was doing its best impression of a coffin. Low ceiling, bad air, a smell that suggested the the place was better fit for worms than the [i]'people'[/i] that frequented it. Exactly the kind of place you end up when you tell yourself you're 'getting back on your feet'. Trelvik was just getting settled in. That's what he said. Getting comfortable. Letting things cool down.

Time to move on. Get on with his life. Sure. [i]Absolutely.[/i]

It'd been years, after all. Long enough that it should've stopped mattering. That's how it's supposed to work, right? Time passes, memories fade, you stop replaying things frame by frame like you're trying to find some other reason things went down the way they did. Let it go. Seriously. It's getting [i]sad [/i]now. That's what they said. And he nodded, drank, and agreed with them - doing his best impression of a healthy person.

Maybe he'd lost his self-respect somewhere along the way. Easy thing to misplace. Slips out of your pocket when you're not looking. But it was back now. Mostly. No, [i]really[/i].

He took another drink and shot a glance over to the bartender that begged for another. He must've sunk enough credits in this place to afford a death star of his own and the owner still looked at him like he was a womp rat eating his garbage.

A figure slid up next to him. He waved away the bartender when he came over to take his order. That said all he needed to know.

"You're Noss."

Trelvik didn't look at him. "Bar's full of disappointments." He said. "I'm not the one you're looking for."

"An Alliance pilot just went down a couple of hours ago. The Imperials were expecting him, TIEs swarmed him before he could break the atmosphere. He had to put it down hard. We're not sure if he's alive or dead. The system's been sealed." he said. "Imperials have doubled patrols. Whatever he was carrying, they want it buried with him."

He rolled the glass between his palms and waited for the moment to pass. It didn't. 

The Rebel hesitated, then leaned in and lowered his voice like that made things look any less suspicious. "We could use someone who knows how to hold ground. Buy time. Someone who doesn't panic when it goes bad."

There it was. His call back to the big time. Pull the sports star out of retirement for one more game. Let everyone feel sorry for the sad sap.

"You've got the wrong guy, kid. There's plenty of old broken guns in the Rebel armory. You don't need this one."

"He might still be alive." The rebel added, almost ignoring his comment. "Command says you know him. Tyrell Omi-Ren."

Tyrell, huh? Even at just the mention of the name he was brought back to better times. Times filled with mud, and blood, and beer. Those were the days. Days when they were closer to gallant Jedi knights than whatever he had melted into over the years.

He laughed into his glass as he took another drink.

[i]Listen - if you think I could still do the job, what did I have to lose? Apart from the weight. Very funny. Ha ha. Yes, that is a fake laugh, you jerk.[/i]

He stared at his glass and waited for the urge to pass. That old itch. That voice that says you could help. Trelvik pushed the drink away and stood up. Somewhere out there was a Rebel bleeding into the dirt because someone had talked, and the Empire was tightening its grip like it always did. Civilians caught in the middle. Again.

"Point me in the direction, kid."

[hr]

Trelvik braced himself against the side of his fridge. With great effort, and no shortage of wheezing and grunting he managed to move it from its place against the wall. The bottles inside clinked and shook as it settled into place, the contents of it were primarily not, solid, healthy food.

After a brief rest he kneeled down next to the spot the fridge once stood, and pulled up a false floorboard. As if he was reaching directly into the past he pulled up an assortment of gear - gear he hadn't worn since well before he'd landed on Exaron. He'd thought about chucking it out more than once, getting rid of the past - [i]letting go[/i]. Who was he kidding.

The weapons came out first, a rifle and pistol no doubt in dire need of servicing. Then the clothes, old rebel gear he'd taken care to scratch any identifiers off after getting settled here. Lastly was the machete.

He'd named it years ago, but now after all this time and everything that had happened the name hardly seemed appropriate. He held the long blade in his hands, inspecting the flat surface of it. Finally he caught his own eyes in the scratched, dirty reflection staring back at him. As quickly as he saw himself he'd put the machete down. He wasn't in the mood for any bad jokes.

Outside, he stood in his back garden. At the top of a fence post he'd placed some empty bottles - no point wasting bad booze - and was gripping his pistol, aiming down the sight with one shut eye.

He squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked sharp and loud, far louder than he remembered, and the bottle didn't move. Not a wobble. Not a chip. Just stood there, smug and intact, almost as if it was mocking him. Trelvik frowned at the sight like the bottle had personally offended him.

He adjusted his stance, shifted his weight, squeezed the trigger that much harder. The round kicked dirt halfway up the fence, sending a lazy puff of dust into the air. The bottle remained, yet again, untouched.

He lowered the pistol and stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the worn grip. It felt smaller than it used to.  "Yeah..." He muttered. "Makes sense."

He set the pistol down on the rickety table and rolled his shoulder, working at a dull ache that hadn't existed back when this sort of thing had been easy. When lining up a shot was just another habit. He glanced back down at the pistol, memories flooding back of times long past. Failures entering his mind like unwanted houseguests. Rage bubbled up inside, he could almost feel himself physically getting angrier. Then a flash of the memory he wanted to forget the most - of his biggest failure. Of that little girls face as the detonator rolled towards her.

Trelvik slammed his fist down against the table. He grabbed the pistol quickly and swung it round, firing off one last shot.

The bottle shattered and rained glass shards down around the fence.

He let out a breath through his nose and laughed. Yeah, that fit. He'd let the fire inside die down over the years. About time someone added some fuel, he was getting cold.

He holstered the pistol and picked up the rifle, turning it in his hands. Familiar weight. Wrong balance. Like shaking hands with someone you used to trust and realising you didn't know them anymore. After a moment, he lowered it too.

That was enough.

By the time he stepped out onto the street, night had settled in properly. He'd pulled on a long duster overcoat before leaving. It hung low enough to hide what he needed it to hide: the machete strapped flat along his back, the rifle collapsed down beneath it, and the pistol hanging at his side. 

Underneath, he hadn't bothered with the old shirt. Tried once. Couldn't get it over his shoulders without feeling ridiculous, so he'd left it folded at the bottom of the floorboard. He was already mentally preparing himself for the jokes Tyrell would no doubt make at his expense when they met, no point in giving him any more ammunition than he already had.

He tugged the coat closed, set his shoulders, and started walking. Each step felt heavier than the last, like his body was arguing against his decision. He pulled up his datapad, the screen dusty and slightly cracked and switched it on. 

He didn't have much information to go on. The tracker on Tyrell's fighter had stopped bleeping long ago, but what he did have was a direction to head in, and a clock that wouldn't stop ticking. If the rebels knew about the crash, there was no doubt the Imperials did too.