Lost, Interlude

Author's Note: It doesn't go at the end of the last chapter, the start of the next, and it's too short to be one of it's own. So I'll call it an interlude.

Disclaimer: What do you think?

One Week Afterwards

Later, Ankerra would swear to anything you liked that she had no idea where she'd been for the next few days. She remembered dragging the bodies of her  adopted father and brother to a less than respectable crematorium (the proprietor had been very surprised to hear she wanted urns, when most of his customers wanted the ashes scattered so thoroughly no one could identify them). She remembered finding a pilot to ship the urns and their armor to Racin'rang on Mandalore for far more than the distance warranted. She remembered calling 'home' and telling her uncle that Jaris and Kas Skirata were dead. And then... she had no idea. A Rodian arms dealer said he'd seen her on the docks and assumed she was on spice, a couple of two bit thugs gave her looks suggesting she'd done something to scare the osik out of them. All she could think of was the fact that the world seemed too damn loud, and suddenly she was walking into the cantina. The place looked like to had never been shot up- it certianly wasn't the first time it had made a quick recovery. She sat down and ordered three shots of Corellian whiskey, just like usual. Someone brought the drinks, and Daasi, the Twi'lek waitress Kas had flirted with incessantly, tapped her on the shoulder and said she was sorry.

Ankerra looked at the glass in front of her, and the two she'd set across from her, and then it hit her. She was waiting for them. Waiting for them to walk in and take their drinks and talk about the next job. A lead weight dropped into her stomach as she finally, truly realized they weren't coming. Her head began to throb, and she realized she hadn't so much as disinfected the graze on her ribs she'd aquired a week ago. Why was she still sitting here anyway? She had things to do. She was damn lucky her side hadn't festered, this armor needed repairs like a fish needed water (and she had no idea what had happened to her helmet). And, she thought, viewing her surroundings with renewed distaste, I need to get off this planet. Nar Shaadda was a oozing sore on a distasteful portion of the galactic anatomy, and nothing good had ever come from her being here.

She dropped a few credits on the table and walked out without touching her drink. She lingered for a moment in the rain, mentally planning a new course.

"You know," she said to no one in particular "I should look up Tam. Haven't seen him in an age."

When things fell apart, you packed up your gear and moved on. Ankerra Ordo was used to it by now.