DS Daiquiri

I wish I could get drunk. I really, really wish I could get drunk, I thought as I looked over the bar, lined with tired pilots and smugglers and Czerka flunkies and Sith hopefuls. Sure, it would solve absolutely nothing, and probably cause me trouble. But drunks are supposed to forget, to be distanced from whatever painful memories they possess. Things are supposed to be simpler to the intoxicated. Doubts and inhibitions are supposed to vanish like a raindrop out on the Dune Sea.

Bastila... Bastila, Basling, don't die. Please don't die. I need you. I need you so badly. You made me that way. Why would you do that? It hurt, just the tiniest twinge of pain, but it hurt to breathe. What hurt more were the doubts, the second-guesses, the memories surfacing through me, edges raw and unanesthesized. I longed for that veneer of perfect calm and certainty and purpose that her presence brought, a veneer that I hadn't even noticed until she was gone. As if I was complete. As if I was whole.

Whole, and not a shattered wreck cobbled together for one purpose. Whole, and not a patchwork creature, not a malformed hybrid of Revan and Bastila who remembered two things with lit-by-love clarity - being cradled and cooed over by Bastila's father, and sneaking out to watch meteor showers with the little-kid version of Malak. Whole, and not one of only two people on the Ebon Hawk who was shaken to the core by the realization that all that I had strived for was for naught. I had fallen as Revan, a prodigy, one of the bright lights of the Order. How could I manage as Kyta?

It didn't help that Carth, for all his bold glances and words about "purpose", had started acting as if I was a known spy, a traitor. I hadn't actually known, before, that he'd even started to look at me that way; intentionally or not Bastila's presence had made it harder to see his infatuation. And without her nearby, making me more confident, I didn't know how to discourage that limerence without looking like even more of a monster. I wanted to be his friend and confidant again; I didn't want romance or loathing or any combination of the two.

It didn't help that Canderous thought this was a fine opportunity to completely forget that I had any name but "Revan" and a great time to pester me for my accounts of the Mandalorian War, never mind that I didn't even remember ninety-eight percent of it. It didn't help that HK, unasked, kept comparing me to the Revan who had built him. That Jolee's stories now seemed tailored to apply to me. Why couldn't they be like Mission and Zaalbar and T3? Admittedly none of the three really had reason to be all that interested in the woman I had been, but still. Mission was a bit more careful in the way she talked to me. That was the only difference in her attitude; the other two did not seem affected at all.

And then of course there was Juhani. Juhani, Juhani, with the mercurial Cathar temper and the smoldering yellow eyes that watched me when she thought I wasn't looking. Juhani of the long, tortuously painful confessions and heartfelt stories, with the predatory feline walk and the pointed, wary ears. Juhani, whom I had taken into my arms as she not-quite-cried, overcome by grief and accusation as she blamed me for the destruction of Taris. Who had forgiven me. Juhani, there when I needed her, needed someone. So like Bastila, and so very, very different.

It also wasn't good that people besides my crewmates and some of the Jedi and... Malak... knew who and what I had been. I was fairly certain that none of them would spread the word. But a stranger, a Twi'lek calling himself "Ziagrom", had approached me shortly after landing here on Korriban with an offer. Weapons, and armor, and personal energy shields, all of them exclusive, all of them for sale to Lord Revan. To me. That was the reason I had entered this dive in the first place.

But if Ziagrom and this Rodian I was supposed to speak to knew about the continued existence of Revan, who else did? Should I be on alert for bounty hunters and assassins? Or saboteurs, for that matter? What could I do about them, though, other than be wary?

From out of nowhere, the thought formed, acerbic and biting, reminding me of someone whose name and face still were blurred. I won't do anything at all if I don't stop moping. Cut the self-pity. I shook my head. My inner voice, unaffected by emotion, was right, as always. The past is frozen, the future unformed. All that life is is the moment. Live in it. Hunt the day, don't chase the night. If I'm not careful I'll swamp myself with platitudes and metaphors.

Automatically I checked the guise that Jolee had taught me; the way that I hid my presence and orientation in the Force from anyone who might see it. The last time I'd come to Korriban I hadn't had this guise, but Bastila had not yet freed me, and so I had been befuddled and confused. Except for one called Lashowe, the Sith had ignored me. Yuthura Bann had taken one look at me and said that no positions remained for a student of my "caliber". "Perhaps you could return once you've resolved something? The Sith do not allow doubters," she had said.

Well, I was back. And the guise told any watching Sith that I had gone over to the Dark Side and was ready to carry away any power that hadn't been bolted into place - and then return with bolt cutters to take up that. No matter the cost.

I realized that the bartender, a somewhat oily-looking Twi'lek, was eyeing me. Had been for a while. Of course. I've been lingering for a lot longer than I should without ordering anything. Ah, what the hells. Even if I can't get drunk, I can drink and fake it.

Sidling up, I insinuated myself into a seat that looked a bit less battered than the others, raising my arm in the nearly-universal gesture for "Come here". His other customers occupied, the bartender all but minced over and looked at me expectantly, using a cloth to polish some kind of mug, like bartenders everywhere across the galaxy.

I glanced at today's specials with a raised eyebrow. "Dark Side Daiquiri? Suicide Slammer? Coruscant Crusher?"

The bartender- yes, leered was definitely the word. "With patrons like these and a bar called 'The Drunk Side', it's pretty well a requirement, ouri dehile. You'd think that was obvious."

"I'm not your girl," I replied in an absent tone of voice. "Exactly what is a 'daiquiri', anyway? I haven't spent much time in bars recently."

"Too bad. You've missed out on a lot. A daiquiri, a good Dreshdae daiquiri anyway, is sweetcane by-products distilled into rum and mixed with fruit juices. Crushed ice, too." He was being unnaturally talkative for a bartender, I realized. Bastila... Bastila would have been suspicious. People don't take interest without some reason.

"The hells. I'll try one." If four mugs of Tarisian ale had bothered my stomach and my bladder more than my head, I doubted a little rum could do worse. Damn those implants. I wish I could turn them off, just this once. I imagined that I could feel them, hard little mechanisms at my throat and protecting my organs, filtering out toxins from my arteries and converting them to stuff like urea. All very well if I didn't want to get drunk but not drunk enough so as to pass out and hurt myself.

"On the rocks or straight up?" He smiled unpleasantly at my blank look. "You are an innocent, aintcha dehile? You want it with or without ice?"

"Uh... with ice. Please." I glanced at the board and set a chip worth five credits on the metal of the bar. The oily Twi'lek made it vanish and put my order together in front of me.

Little globes of ice almost to the rim of the glass, a good helping of cream-colored sweetcane slurry, some kind of odd purplish syrup, and of course the rum. He mixed it with a long-handled spoon and shoved it across the bar's surface into my hands.

The glass was frosted with cold. It was also a lot cleaner than I would have suspected. Sipping at the daiquiri - it was far too sweet, but had a faintly intriguing bitter undertaste - I reevaluated the bar. The whole place was much cleaner than I would have thought, given the ragged state of the clientèle. I mentioned this as discreetly as I could to the waiting barkeep.

"Ahhh, dehile, only the best for our lords and masters, you see? The Master never comes in here. But some of his students... and his apprentice..." Before I could stop myself, I reached out in the Force and prodded him. The words tumbled out of the Twi'lek's mouth like mynocks abandoning a ship that was about to explode. "Oh, she's a sweet one, that Yuthura. Strong, too. But so cold. Too cold. She always orders a Huttese ale, extra ice. Nothing hot to melt her frigid heart, nothing sweet to balance her sting. Bitter and sharp to match her tongue, eats through the mug like she eats through favorites." Apparently worn out by the stream of honesty, the barkeep shut his mouth and wiped his mug, but stayed where he was. He hadn't noticed the prod. Very few people did.

Suddenly I was tired of the man. "Isn't there another bartender who works here? A Rodian- Mika Dorin, or something like that? Ziagrom sent me." I remembered the other barkeep, barely. The first time I'd come to Korriban, I had barely been able to think without Bastila. Her control over me had been so absolute that I could hardly function at all, alone.

Bastila... The worst part was that I knew I could forgive her for it. For anything. She had been afraid, after all, and that control had eventually, accidentally, loosened. We had become friends. But would my forgiveness be mine, or something she had built into me, that I couldn't help? Was part of my need really for her as a person, or was it all because she had chained me to her?

The leering bartender was speaking. I cursed myself for drifting off like that. "-but in a couple hours my shift will be over, hey? You being an innocent and all, maybe I could show you some of the more interesting attractions for a-"

"Excuse me, but I think someone over there wants a refill," I interrupted rudely, not at all interested in a proposition. The man twisted to look, then all but glided away to serve his customer, but I thought I heard him cursing me under his breath. I drained my glass swiftly and stood to leave.

Well, Mika Dorin isn't here just now, it seems. I'll have to come back later. I wonder where I might find Yuthura?