TheBridge

Matt eyed the two men warily as they approached their little group in the pub.

He was aware that Piett had already spotted them, because the Captain had thumbed the safety off of his blaster under the table about twenty seconds previously. General Veers lounged deceptively, long legs stretched out and casually crossed, but he too had one hand resting on the seat beside him, inches from his blaster.

Matt didn’t think the two strangers looked like they wanted trouble, but then, he’d been in situations like this before where he’d been wrong.

The Captain always said ‘discretion is the better part of valour’ and Matt wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but basically it was always be cautious.

“No,” Veers stated flatly once the two men were within hearing range.

The taller one, a man with dark skin but greying blonde hair, sighed quietly.

“General, we just want to talk.”

Veers turned and hurled his mug back into the kitchen. It shattered satisfyingly, spraying multiple surfaces with the caf. Immediately, small droids sprang forth to clean up the mess and he sank back against the sofa, covering his face with one hand.

He didn’t do things like that. He waited for a moment, fearing he might have woken Matt, but the boy was very tired and this suite was well built. He hadn’t heard.

“Sorry,” he muttered to the tiny grey droids. One of them chirped at him as they finished cleaning the evidence of his rage.

He got a fresh mug of caf and moved slowly back to his chair and his schematics.

He should have got Firmus off the damned ship sooner.

He should have resisted his slide into moral lethargy.

Been able to stand up to people like Malustan no matter the cost.

In this moment, he desperately wished he could talk to Myra. Lay out his fears and guilt before her and hear her calm voice. The ache of missing his wife joined his turmoil.

What would she say to this?

“You should know,” Piett continued, “That I can still have nightmares. And it is better if I tell someone else. Makes it ah….less real. If that makes sense.”

“What do you have nightmares about?” Scraps whispered, relaxing a little and letting his head rest on Piett’s shoulder.

There were a myriad of answers to that question.

“Many things,” he sighed. “But…”

Rilla dying in his arms. Over and over.

The awful, soul destroying fear of anticipation before his back was shredded…

Losing Max in any number of ways…

“...I can take comfort in one thing,” he decided upon. He didn’t need to add fresh horrors to Matthew’s imagination.

“What?” the urchin asked more drowsily. Piett was struck by the trust he was receiving in this moment. He thought about how the child had followed him and Veers. How he’d helped them get away.

“In all the terrible things, I have not dreamed that I was the villain,” Piett replied.

“You did what you could,” Veers said into another silence as voices were raised raucously in the background and some local band thumped away in the corner. “There’s no guilt to be felt here, Firmus.”

Piett raised those expressive eyes to his. “I know that in my head, Max,” he answered, face infinitely sad. “I just—”

“We keep doing what you set out for us to do,” Veers told him. “We are helping people like that kid. Hells, you literally helped that kid. But we can’t solve all the galaxy’s problems. So we get to our next shipment. Which, as I recall, is a ridiculous amount of blue seed corn.”

Piett nodded and finished his drink. “Yes. You’re right.”

They paid and walked slowly from the cantina into the late afternoon with an overcast sky.

“And may I point out, we managed to have a quiet drink, no bar fights or—-” Veers began.

“Halt!”

The modified command through the stormtrooper’s mask froze them both in their tracks.

“You were saying?” Firmus muttered grimly.

They swam the short distance back to the rough stones which held the wharf, but by the time they reached these, Veers was at the end of his endurance.

He reached an arm only to slip back into the water and there he clung to the lowest stone, shuddering.

“ Max ,” Piett said in low, concerned tones. “Force damn it. You should have told me it was this bad.”

“Worked…through worse…” Veers told him through clenched teeth. He was unnaturally white now–-the spots of his fever standing out starkly on his cheekbones.

“Yes well…” Piett shut his mouth on his response, realizing that he would do the same and hypocrisy wouldn’t help them in this moment. He clambered back into the water and strained to help push Veers up far enough to get a footing.

“Come on,” he encouraged, taking deep gulps of air before sliding under one of Max’s arms and gripping it tightly. “Next step.”

He was in reasonable shape once more after all these months of hard work, but Veers was significantly heavier, and not able to help all that much. The first challenge was getting up onto the wharf. Finding transport to the Griffin was the next because he needed their medical supplies and a warm bed for his friend.

“Please, Max,” he urged, heaving himself upward and striving to take Veers with him, half draped over his back.

And that was deeply unpleasant—the network of scarring flared into new pain, taking it up from the constant low levels he just lived with.

The whirring click of a DC-17 sounded close to Piett’s ear and he froze at the edge of the wharf, raising his eyes to scuffed black boots. His own blaster was at his thigh and his hand was not close enough to slide Veers’ out of its holster.

“All right,” Dex said, leaning back in his chair and regarding Piett. “So you come to me. Don’t tell me you’re looking to get into the smuggling business because…”

He paused as Piett and Veers glanced at each other. Then he snorted.

“Oh Force . Really? Well you’d be amazing—you know the routes and how to avoid pursuers…”

“Dex,” Piett interrupted firmly. “Not like that. You really think I would just…turn to crime?”

Dex sighed. “No. I realize it’s you. What did you have in mind then, Captain?”

“Technically,” Max said, helping himself to another cut of meat, “It is crime as defined by the Empire. But we’ve decided to ignore that.”

The Nautolan grinned widely. “Have you now, General? Well, I’m certainly not criticizing.”

“We want to help those that can actually use it,” Piett continued. “Smuggle food, medical supplies, generators. That sort of thing. Basic necessities to worlds hurt by both the Empire and the Rebellion.”

Dex’s tendrils waved gently around his face. “Mm. You realize there’s no money in such endeavors, Piett.”

He sipped his wine and nodded. “Why do you think I wish to do it?” he asked mildly. “I will be happy if Veers and I can cover our expenses and living necessities. I want to actually help people. I don’t need to get rich.”

Piett waited while Sergeant Havell calmly removed his binders in Veers’ office.

“Thank you,” he told the man, stressing the ‘ou’ sound. Max had pointed out that having a less obvious Axxilan accent may help them in their escape attempt and it was a tool in their arsenal if Piett could sound like a different person.

Piett had countered that having an Axxilan accent in the underground galaxy they were striving to enter would actually be more useful. It stung him to hear that Veers felt his natural tones would be a handicap.

“Not denying that in the least, Firmus,” Max had replied, holding up his hands, his grey eyes kind. “But if we are to pose as Imperial officers at some point—and I confess I already can think of numerous scenarios where that will be likely—-then it would be very handy to have you sounding as Core as possible to avoid suspicion. Particularly in the immediate aftermath of our escape. They’ll be looking for an Axxilan, not a Core worlder.”

“Sorry,” he’d sighed, doing his best not to itch at his healing back. It would only make things worse and the skin was still very new and tender. And he shouldn’t take his insecurities out on Max. “What ya say makes sinse. Ah’ll ah….Ah’ll nade help though.”

Veers had grinned. “Happy to coach you in sounding like a pretentious snob, my friend.”

“I’ve been doing more research if you will. On Axxila. The history and its relation to the Outer Rim. Things that occurred with the incursion of the Hutt Empire and other cartels. Some obscure tsiologist was rambling about the delightful awakening of the senses with an Axxilan blend he claimed was better than caf.”

“ Tis better than caf,” Piett told him automatically and humor danced in the General’s eyes.

“Well. You’ll have to pry the caf from my cold dead fingers, Firmus. But. I agree the smell is very pleasant.”

Pleasant.

It was everything .

It was a home Piett hadn’t physically set foot on for years. It was one of the only soothing luxuries on his desk in his small office aboard his old ship. It was the only remedy available as he lay burning with fever or hacking out a lung with various childhood maladies. It was shared stories on a roof. It was comfort and companionship.