Shadows and Shades (#4 Post-Order 66 Series)

Shadows and Shades - Part 9

The next few days dragged on at an agonizing crawl. Crosshair had contacted Ba-Ran to tell him that they'd had a death in the family and would be off world for at least a week, and the Gran had been surprisingly agreeable to their prolonged absence, even passing along condolences. That appeared to be the only part of the entire situation that would be simple. They'd heard nothing about the future of their mission yet, and Crosshair just hoped Hunter and the others would make up their minds before they burned through Ba-Ran's good graces. He'd contacted his brother once since Howzer had left, and it appeared that the base's leadership was torn on whether or not to scrap the mission. It was apparent that something was going on that was likely worth investigating, but with Rampart in the vicinity, there was an added degree of risk that made everyone wary. Not to mention Nisa, who we haven't even told them about yet.

In what was barely a consolation, the bruising on his face had faded to a pale yellow, and the cuts where Saw had split his eyebrow and lip had healed and seemed unlikely to leave scars. Unfortunately, Iden's demeanor towards him seemed to be thawing slower than the snow on the ground outside. He'd slept in the bedroom one more night, but moved to the couch after that, insisting that it made sense so Iden didn't have to keep sneaking into the room to use the dwelling's only refresher at night or in the morning. She'd argued at first, but eventually yielded, apparently deciding that continuing to push the issue would require too much interaction with him. While it was clear that she was still angry with him, there was something else with her that just seemed... off. There were times where she regarded him with sadness and disappointment, which was expected, but there was also something else he couldn't identify. At least she hasn't been afraid of me since that first night. The look in her eyes as he'd towered over her was something that now haunted his dreams along with the faces of Saw Gerrera's crew.

During the day, they didn't necessarily avoid each other, but the once comfortable silence that had hung between them now felt stifling and awkward. Crosshair had tried to start a few conversations, but Iden didn't appear willing to engage with him. When he'd finally asked her why she wouldn't speak to him, she'd snapped that she needed time to think, flinging her coat around her shoulders and disappearing out the front door into the cool Raxus air. He'd stopped fighting her about leaving the dwelling after the first day, knowing it would only become another argument. He wasn't sure exactly where she went, whether she was still meeting with her sister or not, and frankly, he wasn't certain he should know. The advice he had to offer her about her sister certainly wasn't something she was ready to hear, but the words bounced around in his head nonetheless.

She's an Imperial by choice. There's no chip in her head controlling her actions. Some people aren't worth saving, and if this is what she chose, then I'd count her among those better left behind.

But Iden doesn't need to hear that from me. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

After the fifth day, he couldn't take it anymore. He was exhausted, having hardly slept on the uncomfortable couch while his mind raced with worry and want, and judging by the bags under Iden's eyes, she wasn't sleeping either. If there was a way to help her 'thinking' along, whatever the outcome, he was willing to do it, even if it meant things weren't going to end in his favor.

Pulling on a coat and a cap, he headed to the market. Due to the setting in of the winter season, most of the vendors had moved inside, and while he had only the barest inkling of a plan, he was relieved when he found everything he needed before heading home. He set the ingredients out on the counter, tapping his foot as he stared at them with more trepidation than he'd ever felt before a battle. Finally, he poured himself a shot of whiskey, throwing it back, and wiping his mouth.

This is nothing. You've faced down thousands of clankers. This is just dinner.

Pulling a metal bowl from a cabinet, he dumped some flour into it before cracking a half a dozen eggs into it, picking the shells out from the first one and slowly perfecting his technique to where he only had a single shell fragment make it in by the last one. Staring at the utensils in the drawer, he selected a spoon, stirring the mixture for a while before he started to feel like something was off. It's too thin. Maybe if I keep mixing it. His arm began to ache, and his frustration grew alongside desperation as he started to worry if this plan would fall apart in the first ten minutes.