She seems to be in the minority. Kriff’ssake— Next thing he knows, he’s being tackled from behind, but admittedly, he’s not angry about it. Just happy to see a friendly face, really.

“‘Soka,” he replies with a smile – a weary smile, but an entirely genuine one nonetheless. “Sorry for disappearing like that, but I just had—.” How best to put it? “. . . things to take care of.”

Why does everyone automatically assume that’s a euphemism for murder? He had an unfinished mission from before. He 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 it.

/ hi. apologies for the inactivity lately, i’ve been quite busy with the last few assignments i have for this term, as well as a muse that’s been all over the place. i’ve not forgotten about the replies and such i owe here; will do my best to get to them in the coming days.

He’s had. . . a 𝐝𝐚𝐲. He needs a kriffin’ drink.

And with that, the previously-dozing veteran is now sitting bolt upright, azure oculars wide open, muscles tense. “Wuzzgoin’on?” Yes, he’s 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 now.

At the sight of the familiar togruta, Ostinn instantly relaxes, exhaling a breath as he allows his instinctive military training to take a back seat yet again. “. . .oh, right. Yeah, hey – sorry; 𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕.” A tiny yawn, and he sits up straighter. “Everything okay?”

It’s okay. He’s always on-guard, really, he was just having— Just a bad dream, that’s all. “What for?” The former professor enquires, brows furrowing slightly; now it’s his own turn to be bashful. “Have you got news, or something? Has something happened?”

And she thought he was bashful 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆. Ostinn’s cheeks now turn vibrantly scarlet, and all he can do is hope his beard covers the worst of it. People don’t often come to see him, to 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦. “—oh. Er, well, 𝒉𝒊 then. D’you want a drink or something?”

Is cleaning his blaster; doesn’t even flinch, nor need to look up – he can already sense who it is. “And how can I be of service to my favourite Togruta?”

“Who says the answer can’t be both?” A cheeky grin as he glances briefly over his shoulder, as he’s clicking the cooling cell back into its place. Rhona isn’t far away – dozing nearby in the corner, and Ostinn proceeds to set the blaster down. “So, what brings you?”

That causes grey-blond eyebrows to raise, and the soldier turns to face her a little more properly, head canted to one side. “You came * 𝒂𝒍𝒍 this way just to see me?” He enquires, arms folding over his chest for a moment. “Are you serious?”

“Because it’s a ( 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐝 ) question. No one else does it,” he points out, giving her a pointed look as he turns his chair to face her, leaning back somewhat against the backrest. “I just find it 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱 to believe that someone like you is simply here for * 𝒎𝒆.”

He just doesn’t understand the appeal, is all. “. . .you just said you’re different from everyone else, and then that you’re * 𝒏𝒐𝒕 any more special than anyone else in the same breath,” he points out cheekily, a playful grin on bearded features. “. . .so, which is it?”

So, is the First Order dead yet?

Deep cover’s a bitch.