Chapter Text
Dedra swipes cold rainwater from her brow. Tasteless water slides into the seam of her mouth, trickles down her jaw, soaks the collar of uniform. Briefly she wonders if she should have worn something different beneath her hooded charcoal-gray coat.
She swipes that thought away as well. This is a work visit.
So much rain insulates and isolates. Crossing the lamplit plaza of shimmering square tiles, she hardly notices the few figures moving past her in determined straight lines, preoccupied by their own destinations. Even the cacophonous roar of water pounding against metal and stone isn’t enough to drown out the guiding voice in her head.
You’ve come this far. Keep going.
It’s no quieter inside the elevator. Unlike the smooth rise of the lift in her building, this one squeals metallically as it moves and judders as it halts, like a reluctant, resentful beast. She steps out into an open corridor sheltered by the belly of another building. Here, the rain is reduced to distant a chorus on the wind and splattered water on the stone floor. Dedra turns left, boots echoing with each footfall. She follows a path that she has only traveled once, but never forgotten.
The path brings her to a closed door. With gloved hands, she removes her hood and lets it fall heavy onto her shoulders. Her own pale face peers back at her in the peephole camera’s tiny, bulbous glass. Harsh ceiling lights make the shadows on her face appear painted on, nearly black.
She presses the call button with the knuckle of her index finger. The speaker below it emits a brief, piercing buzz. She notices, with mild self-consciousness, that she is dripping profusely, rainwater flooding the grooves of a textured floor mat. As she waits, she rolls her shoulders and moves her elbows beneath the coat, shedding rain.
Moments pass; she counts four deep breaths.
Perhaps she will hear a static-distorted voice through the speaker telling her to leave.
Six breaths.
Perhaps, she will hear nothing at all. Silence is always an option.
Ten breaths.
The door slides open with the sound of air sucked through closed teeth and Syril Karn is there, staring at her like he wishes she were gone.
She assesses him quickly. Clean-shaven as usual. His smooth forehead is crowned by waves of brown hair. He wears a long-sleeved gray shirt, tailored to his frame, with asymmetrical button closure and a high collar. Dark pants, house slippers. His hands are empty – she watches his fingers curl slightly, then twitch and straighten. First, she thinks: Do I make him nervous? Then, the heavy startling thought, a stone dropping into a dark pool: I haven’t been touched in months.
A water droplet crawls down the back of her neck, smudges itself between her shoulder blades like a kiss. She remembers his hands around her throat, and everywhere else. (Does one touch outweigh all others? Does one lie outweigh all truth? Are some transgressions too enormous to ever be balanced?)
Syril regards her warily. Meeting his cold gaze after so long is like returning home to wreckage. She opens her mouth to speak.
“Why are you here?” he asks. The low timbre of his voice creeps through her like woodsmoke. Dizzying, warm, and potent. Her memory could never do it justice.
Deliberate, practiced words march from her mouth: “Hello, Syril. I have something important to tell you.”
“Evidently,” he says wryly. “You came all this way, and in such a downpour.”
“It’s not that far,” she counters. Just over an hour on public transit. Her evenings aren’t exactly busy lately.
He crosses his arms: a clear, intentional gesture of distrust and obstinance. Before the rain began to fall, she had decided that she would leave if he asked her to. She hopes it won’t come to that. Lifting her chin, she bares her own stubborn will.
She did not come to beg.
“Important,” she repeats, “and confidential.”
“Of course.” He uncrosses his arms but his expression remains stony. Betrays nothing. “Come in, Dedra.”
The sound of her name on his lips is both victory and wound. Encouraging, destabilizing. Just the sound of it prods a hidden tenderness that she has spent months trying to fortify. She can smell the room behind him: the lingering herbaceous aroma of a hot meal, his still-familiar aftershave.
They stare at each other for a moment over the threshold of the home he made without her. She has never been inside. On a rare day off work, she stalked him from a distance. Simply gathering information. She recalls his lack of surprise at seeing her. Why are you here. Not how.
Remembering his own invitation, he takes a step back. Victory.
“Thank you.” With a brisk nod, she enters.
His apartment is small. To the left is an upholstered bench facing a holo-screen. To the right is a kitchenette enclosed by a countertop. Two tall stools sit opposite the counter. A short hallway leads to the bedroom, closet, and refresher. No windows.
Dedra removes her gloves and tucks them into a coat pocket. She unclasps the coat, hangs it on a hook near the door, then places her hat beside it. Just above eye-level, she notices a small shelf on which a spindly ghorlectipod figure sits, and beside it, a colorful depiction the size of a standard datapad. Dark green mountains over a shining golden orb, white pillars and serene blue skies, the suggestion of creatures in flight.
Palmo. Her throat tightens.
“Have a seat.” Syril enters the kitchen where the light is already on.
Dedra perches on a stool and tries to keep her spine straight. Her boots squeak on the stool’s metal crossbar. The damp collar of her uniform itches in the sudden indoor warmth. Beneath the countertop, her fingers weave together.
“Would you like any tea?” he asks.
“I’ve located Axis.”
He freezes mid-step. Their eyes meet. Bathed in the bright glare of his full attention, Dedra sits a little taller.
“You’re sure?”
“My confidence is high. He works in Coruscant under the guise of an antiques dealer. I’m going to assemble some resources and pay him a visit.”
“Quite the plan,” Syril begins to prepare water for tea. His kettle is black and spotless. “How does it concern me?”
“I believe your confirmation would be valuable. Could you still recognize his voice?”
His lips twitch with the taste of a bitter memory. “Yes.”
“Then you can join me next week.”
“You don’t have a recording?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve been circling him for months now but this is an independent investigation. I currently lack the resources for that kind of reconnaissance, and getting too close could prematurely expose my efforts.”
“Hm,” he says thoughtfully.
He moves around the small kitchen with a comfortable, fluid ease. Dedra remembers many evenings during which he would make tea in her kitchen and she would observe the process, which became shorter and shorter as he learned where everything was kept. Here, in his own space, he is graceful and efficient. As he reaches into an upper cabinet to fetch a couple of gray mugs and pale green tea packets, her eyes drift downwards. The edge of his shirt lifts, barely revealing the waistband of his trousers. Finally, he places the mugs on the countertop and looks back at her, eyebrows raised.
“Is that all?” he says.
Dedra is momentarily speechless. Syril’s unwavering blue eyes challenge her in a way only he can. Is that all? She wants to snatch a mug and shatter it on the linoleum. She wants to climb over the counter and pin him to the floor amid the broken shards. The culmination of years of searching, sleepless nights, Axis within her grasp, and he says Is that all?
“You used to care about order and justice. I’m about to capture Axis and dismantle his operation of chaos and theft. I didn’t have to extend this invitation. There are other ways of confirming my suspicions. Consulting you is simply the quickest and time is not something I’d like to waste.”
She was unaware that she had been running out of breath until the moment that she needs to inhale. Warm air crowds into her lungs and it smells so much like him that she could choke on it. But she doesn’t. She exhales through her nose and adds, “I always imagined doing this with you. That is all.”
Water rumbles from a slow simmer to a burgeoning boil as he processes her proposal.
“You’d like an answer from me tonight?”
“Preferably.”
A trail of steam seeps upward, silent and feeble, from the mouth of the kettle. It disappears before reaching Syril’s eyes. Those eyes that have seen every part of her, that have made her the object of his devotion and his hatred. Both sentiments seem to have faded. Now, his expression is weary.
“Honestly, Dedra. You come to me after so long and expect me to have the same priorities as you. The same loyalties. I’ve changed, but it seems like you haven’t. You expect me to use me and give nothing in return.”
He looks like he may say more, but the kettle’s shrill whistle interrupts him. Syril removes it from the heat and fills two mugs with steaming water. Dedra watches the teabags float and calculates what she will say next.
“I can arrange payment, if that’s what you need.”
One of the mugs scrapes across the countertop as Syril pushes it towards her.
“I’d ask for your honesty instead, but what is honesty really worth without trust?”
She had been hoping for a simple Yes or No answer. Not a philosophical discussion about loyalty and change, honesty and trust. Leave it to Syril to get lofty when she is trying to have a straightforward conversation.
“You know the ISB operates confidentially,” she says.
“That’s not an excuse to lie to me. The death of truth is the victory of evil.” He takes a tentative sip of the hot tea.
“What?” His pithy statement sounds familiar but she can’t quite place the source.
Syril’s mug lands on the counter with a soft, ceramic tap. Almost as softly, he asks her: “Do you regret what you did in Ghorman?”
Dedra holds his gaze. Ghorman. The trigger, the hand. Panoramic views of slaughter. Screams and smoke rising into the sky. Syril’s tight grip around her neck and the cold loathing in his eyes. Burnt-caf bile coughed up into the sink. Nightmares that refuse to relent. He throws her to the mob's teeth and claws. He escapes into the chaos only for her to find his cold corpse, later. Blood drips from his broken mouth when he says, Look at what it cost you.
On the counter, the gaping mug will exhale steam until it can’t anymore. Dedra’s fingers start to cramp from how tightly they are curled.
“I’m not… proud,” she says carefully. “I often wish I hadn’t been involved. That we hadn’t been involved.”
And now that she knows why the Emperor wanted Ghorman…
She forces her right hand up, grips the mug by its smooth handle and sips the minty, warm tea. The death of truth is the victory of evil. How evocative. How Syril. But trust goes both ways. Information is both leverage and liability. When she looks back up, Syril is watching her.
“Confronting Axis will be dangerous,” he says pointedly, but doesn’t elaborate. It seems that his old effusiveness has been lost along with his trust. He won’t offer more than she’ll give. She tries not to be bothered by this change.
“A tactical team will be available at a moment’s notice. I – we will be armed. All I need is your confirmation. If I’m correct, which I believe I am, there will be no second visit. I’ll arrest him then and there. I need him alive.”
“He might recognize me before I recognize him.”
“Further confirmation.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll go alone.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. It’s my initiative,” Dedra sets down the mug. “I’m not asking for commitment. When it’s over, I can pay you and we’ll return to our separate lives.”
Syril’s expression is oddly opaque as he sips his tea. Before, it was easy for her to know what he was thinking. She could usually read it on his face. Now, his illegibility is unnerving. She tries to decipher the slope of his mouth, the width of his eyes. He’s thoughtful, yes, but also hesitant and critical. Does she spot that old hunger, too, does she imagine it?
“Is that what you want?” he asks. “Separate lives?”
“It has worked out so far.”
Dedra never asked for his forgiveness because she understood his anger. Strangulation isn’t exactly subtle. After returning to Coruscant, she thought he would eventually understand how she had been forced into the project and its role. How she wasn't truly given a choice.
Instead, he acted as though the blood of Ghoramn stained her hands. As though, to look at her, he had to look through the horrid ghosts suspended between them.
Instead, he left.
His absence was like a crater that she grew accustomed to navigating. She never stumbled over it, never let it twist her ankle. After resuming her hunt for Axis, she was too busy to chase Syril as well, just to beg for his return. She knew where he worked and where he lived. In a way, letting him go made him easier to find.
“But is that what you want?” he repeats. Heat rises to Dedra’s ears. She blames the warm tea sloshing in her warm stomach. “Be honest.”
She catalogues what she wants. It’s not a long list. If Axis were locked in an interrogation cell and Syril back in her kitchen, would she finally feel a sense of peace?
We wanted to be together, she told him once, but we no longer seems to exist.
“Perhaps we can’t go back to what we had before,” she begins, “But, to be honest, I haven’t considered what I want. In that regard.”
“Well, it works for me,” he responds with a nonchalance that stings.
Dedra’s eyes narrow. “You’re saying you’ll help?”
“Yes, Dedra.”
Yes, Dedra. Such a beautiful words when spoken by Syril Karn. She allows herself another sip of tea. "Good."
“And when you know what you want, let me know,” he continues.
“That’s yet to be determined,” she says, hardly hearing herself over the unanticipated thrill of his agreement. “Your service to the Empire is appreciated.”
“I’m not doing this for the Empire,” he says, sharp and clear. His blue eyes smolder with a familiar intensity. “And I’m not doing it for credits, either.”
She provides a neutral, “Noted,” in response.
When he speaks again, his voice is gentler. Almost resigned. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you in. I wish I could look at you and feel nothing. But now that I know what you’re about to do, I can’t – I don’t want you to get hurt. So I’ll come with you. And if we don’t see each other again once this is over, I’m alright with that. Like you said, it’s worked out so far.”
She nods. There’s the effusiveness that she remembers from him and she suddenly doesn’t know what to do with it. His Yes, Dedra still thrums through her, reverberating like a struck bell. All of the other words he said will settle deep in her mind and resurface to steal her sleep later. But now, it’s getting late, and she has her answer.
“Alright,” she unhooks her com link from her belt. “We can exchange contact information to discuss further details.”
“As long as your number hasn’t changed, I remember it,” he says he regards her. She remembers how the insistent focus of his gaze would often precede the pressure of his touch and her body reacts with an involuntary shiver.
“It hasn’t changed,” she confirms.
“Well, mine has.”
She offers him her own comlink. “Reprogram your contact, then.”
Syril lifts the device from her hand so that their fingers don’t touch. Dedra’s palm tingles with sudden lightness. The comlink feels somehow heavier when he returns it. She reattaches it quickly to the belt with a carefully enunciated, “Appreciated.”
Satisfied that everything has been ticked off her list, Dedra shifts to the side and slips somewhat awkwardly out of the stool. By the time her boots hit the floor, Syril is right beside her.
“You need to leave now?”
She straightens her tunic. “I have work in the morning.”
“Of course.” He takes her coat down from the hook and holds it open by the shoulders. This, too, is a familiar gesture. She remembers mornings when he would help her into her coat, kiss her temple, skim his fingers along her waist and whisper something sweet into her ear. Thank you for last night. You look beautiful. I’ll be here when you get home.
She turns her back just enough to allow him to assist her. Sliding her hands into the sleeves, one after another, she notices that the fabric is still slightly damp.
“Good night, Dedra,” he says, voice low and near behind her. Dedra suppresses a sigh.
With a steadiness that surprises her, she responds, “Good night, Syril. I look forward to our collaboration.”
“As do I.”
She frowns. “I thought you regretted letting me in.”
“That's yet to be determined.”
The door opens with a whoosh. A chilly, wet breeze rushes impatiently into the room but the distant chorus of the rain has faded into near-silence. Coruscant is never truly silent. Syril recedes further into the warmth of the apartment as Dedra takes a moment to put on her hat and gloves. She notices him watching her fingers extend into the black leather.
With nothing more to say, she gives him one final nod and leaves.
Another whoosh and the door closes behind her. Mint tea lingers on her tongue. She lifts the hood back over her head. In the deserted, shadowy corridor, her lips stretch into a smile.