Kallus stepped out of the Rebel Commander's office feeling… he was not entirely sure. Happy would not be the correct word to use, and Kallus was not sure he could recognize the emotion were he ever to feel it. Relieved, perhaps. The leaden weight of choice had been lifted from the former Agent's shoulders, allowing him to move more freely with his head held just a little bit higher. Though, something still held Kallus from tipping his chin fully upward, an unknown weight that pressed down on his conscious, anchoring his heart and mind from feeling any of the elation he was due. And he was due: from a botched escape attempt, to certain death, to an interrogation, then finally being forced to associate with children—Kallus had, with the exception of a few particular occasions, never felt so stressed in all his life.

With his acceptance into the Rebel ranks and his time serving the Empire behind him, he ought to be feeling something beyond an obscure sense of trepidation, the origin of which he could not place. Yet the feeling persisted, even as R2-TIK beeped some generic congratulatory remark at him, remark Kallus ignored, too busy analyzing his own mysterious emotions to pay any mind to a machine.

Lingering in the hallway with two unnamed guards staring at him would not do him any good, however, and so pulling himself from his thoughts, Kallus turned sharply from the door. He used facing movements as he marched down the hallway and the guards snapped back to attention as he passed them. Raising an inquisitive brow, Kallus spared a moment to be mildly surprised by their military bearing. From what he had personally observed of the Rebellion, beyond the titles they carried, its members possessed none of the qualities found in a typical army.

Perhaps there was some hope for them yet.

He and the astromech journeyed in silence, a trend Kallus hoped would continue once they reached the room. They made short work of their trek and soon Kallus was coming to a stop in front of an unmarked door, waiting patiently for the mechanoid to roll to his side and key in the door's controls.

R2-T1K opened the door without a word and Kallus wasted no time stepping inside. However before he could take a single step further a powerful scent invaded his nose, overwhelming his olfactory senses and causing his nostrils to flare. He coughed once before covering his face; the aroma was unmistakable.

Garazeb Orrelios.

A sudden thought sent a jolt through his body, causing a wave of self-derision to ripple through him as he pieced together the obvious.

"This is Captain Orrelios' room," he said aloud to no one.

The droid answered him anyway, whistling an of course, because of course they were in the Lasat's quarters. All the signs had been as glaringly obvious as its owner's xenophilic nature. The scent, strange toiletries, that hideous lamp, and the fact that Orrelios had displayed free reign of the room and knowledge of its contents whilst Kallus had showered—The ex-Agent would have smacked himself for his lack of insight were he any less dignified; a mental berating would have to suffice.

So caught up in his own internal dilemmas was he, that Kallus had not been aware of his own vigilance slipping— he had woken up in an unknown room and not once thought of whom it belonged to.

Forcing himself to breathe past the smell, he wondered what other glaringly obvious details regarding the Rebels and their base had he missed throughout the day? He had scanned the hangar bay, taken note of its inhabitants, but he had not detailed its layout, a crucial step when entering an unfamiliar space. The ship he had assisted the children in loading; what were its specs? Beyond the two who had drawn attention to themselves—the slant-eyed boy and the stuttering female—what did the other four youths even look like?

With his body no longer broken and his head no longer concussed, Kallus no longer had an excuse for his non-existent observational skills and overt emotionalism.

Kallus had been lost before, unsure of his place or purpose. He was still unsure of the latter, but that was to be expected when Mon Mothma had withheld what the former Agent's position with her army was intended to be. After declaring his loyalty to the Rebellion and wish to join its ranks, the Commander had smiled, as though she had known his decision before he had ever uttered a word. She then refrained from commenting further on his new status and ordered him to continue as he had been, at least until she and her Generals could discuss among themselves what his new role would be.

So motivated had he been to begin his new life as a Rebel, Kallus had forgotten one of the few truths he had learned within the Imperial army— upon beginning any new endeavor, be prepared to hurry up and wait.

He rotated his head slowly from left to right, taking in the state of disarray Orrelios' room was in. It looked much like Kallus had originally thought the Lasat's living quarters would look: messy, foul smelling, and with gaudy decorations. But the room had not looked as it did until after the Imperial had enraged the Rebel Captain to the point where he shirked his duties off on a crew mate and disappeared. So very much unlike the dedicated Rebel Kallus had come to know during his years spent hunting the alien— and it was entirely his fault.

How typical, it seemed even when trying to win the alien's favor, Kallus was unable to do right by Orrelios.

Well then, the former Agent's first day as an official Rebel could start by fixing the mess he had created, starting with Orrelios' room, then the man himself. It was possible, Kallus had certainly undertaken more difficult tasks as both an ISB Agent and as Fulcrum. There was some hope for him to still mend his relationship with the alien. That is what the Lasat had told him, after all, to not give up hope so easily. Kallus would clean the Rebel's room for him, then find the man and apologize for his earlier behavior. And though Kallus was still unsure of what exactly he would be apologizing for, the ex-Agent knew himself to be a good enough liar to pull of the deceit successfully. He would then inform Garazeb of his decision to officially join his cause, thus removing the Imperialness for which the Lasat so seemed to resent him for. Alexsandr could not change the reality of what he was, deep down, but he could change the Lasat's perception of him. And as Kallus had been told repeatedly during his training to be an ISB Agent, perception is reality.

So long as the Rebels did not see Kallus as an Imperial anymore, then he was not one. Not where it mattered anyway, in the eyes of Garazeb Orrelios.

Motivation regained, Kallus set himself upon his self-assigned task.

He moved methodically about the room, bending over to grab and gather the haphazardly discarded clothing in his arms. It was all large, wrinkled, and smelled something foul. Folding an alien's clothing and cleaning his quarters was a task well beneath a man of Kallus' talents, but he piled the clothing on the berth and began doing so anyway, snorting when R2-T1K rolled next to him with a pair of what he assumed to be Garazeb's undergarments: a small black pair of briefs. Surprising, to say the least.

Kallus had thought the man simply wore none at all.

He picked the undergarments up off of the astromech's helm and folded them first, carefully placing them onto the Lasat's bed. His movements were robotic after that as Kallus lost himself in the mundane task, with only a mildly annoyed frown tugging on the corners of his lips upon picking up one of Orrelios' garish one-pieces. However the large alien squeezed himself into such a tight outfit, Kallus had no wish to know. How to fold such an article of clothing, however, would have been beneficial knowledge to have.

As he worked, the astromech made repeated attempts to assist the Imperial while he worked. Its attempts were predictably futile and Kallus grew quickly annoyed with the constant bumps against his legs as the droid obnoxiously asked what it could do to help.

Kallus quickly shooed it away to a corner, pretending he did not hear its dismayed whines as it went.

Droid dealt with, the Imperial continued methodically about his task, though he was only able to stave off his inner doubts for so long. He was only halfway complete with his undertaking when thoughts of his own recent behavior and mistakes began creep into his mind. Kallus tried staving them off, but it was difficult, with nothing but the simple folding of cloth to distract him. His mental barriers had been whittled and broken down the same as his body had been under Admiral Thrawn's destructive ministrations. The only difference being that his body was much easier to repair than a decade's worth of carefully laid bricks that had stood between the ex-Agent's actions and his emotions.

He angrily finished folding the shirt, setting it down sloppily on top of the others, a frustrated scowl settling on his face as he picked up a pair of short black briefs. He folded them, only just barely resisting the urge to wrinkle the undergarments into a tight ball and toss them; at the droid, preferably.

Was this what becoming a Rebel would entail? Focusing on one's own petty emotions to the point where the rest of the world's details blurred? The Rebels Kallus was most familiar with, the crew of the Ghost, were certainly no sticklers for detail, often missing even the most basic tells of a trap or when their little undercover schemes had been found out. Even Orrelios, with those expansive eyes of his, seemed to lack situational awareness, especially during their time together on the Genosian moon. The Lasat had not even noticed it was a moon they were on and not the planet itself.

Though, the alien had mentioned something about getting a sense of humor at the time, so perhaps… a joke then?

Kallus shook his head as he continued to fold, exasperated with the absurdity of it all.

Whatever mysterious spell had gripped his mind would need to be broken before he could make himself of use to the Rebellion. His skills lied in subterfuge and manipulation, and a penchant for setting traps. He needed his mind sharp for that, not lost in a mist of his own unfamiliar emotions and a haze of uncertainty. And with his body no longer broken, head no longer concussed, Kallus no longer had an excuse for his overt emotionalism.

Even during his youth, Kallus had not been an overly emotional one. Outbursts of juvenile anger and general disgust with his own lot in life were the only way his young self had expressed any kind of sentiment. His behavior aboard the stolen Rebel craft and when Garazeb had guided him to the hangar bay reminded the Imperial too much of his teenage self.

He took slow, deep breaths, his nausea over the Lasat's scent dwindling with every inhale. The alien scent was familiar in a way Kallus could not place. During his time on Lasan, the sky had been ashen and the air thick with smoke. The Lasats' natural odor was negligible when compared to the scent of their burning flesh.

A shudder wracked him and Kallus closed his eyes, clenching his hands over a pair of partially folded trousers. He inhaled for two full seconds before stopping and holding the air within his lungs until they burned, releasing it only once the memories receded to the back of his mind.

R2-T1K whirred in worry and Kallus smiled in spite of himself. Meddlesome machine.

The moment passed, and he continued with his chore, allowing his actions to answer the droid's concerned calls. Grabbing, folding, and placing the laundry with stiff movements, Kallus would use the mundane task of folding the Rebel Captain's clothing as a means to clear his mind, to reclaim his objectivity and reason, and to remove his mask of neutrality. Not because he intended to be more open with his emotions, but because a mask was not required when it only reflected his true face. Kallus may have abandoned a corrupt cause to join a more righteous one, but that was no reason to leave his professionalism by the wayside.

With his objectivity restored, completing the mere task of cleaning a dirty room was short work and it was not long before he was placing perfectly folded clothes into drawers. And though he did not know which ones they specifically went into, he was certain the room's owner would appreciate the gesture of good-will all the same.

He placed his hands on his hips and looked about the room, double checking for anything else that might have been moved out of place or needed a slight touching up. Kallus wanted Garazeb's quarters to be flawless when the man returned to them, as though the Lasat had never been angry enough with the Imperial to wreck his own living space.

Finding nothing out of order, Kallus then turned to the droid, expression purposefully blank.

"Do you know where Captain Orrelios is?"

It swiveled its poorly painted helm in a no.

He sighed. "I did not think so."

Searching an unfamiliar base for the alien would be time consuming and could potentially prove to be fruitless. Kallus would have to think of another way to track the Lasat down. A communicator would have been useful, but he knew the Rebels did not quite trust him enough for that. Or at least, he hoped they did not. It would be both an insult to the prior threat he posed and to the Rebellion's own security measures.

Which, considering how easily he had managed to steal a ship from right under their noses, were practically nonexistent.

"Would you happen to know where Captain Syndulla is?" He asked the droid.

If he could not go directly to Orrelios, he would find him through proxy. Syndulla was the one who had given Garazeb permission to take liberty and was likely to know where the man liked to spend his free time.

Its high pitched binary yes grated on Kallus' nerves.

"Then take me to her," he commanded.

The droid's frame rattled in its excitement at finally being useful and Kallus twisted his lips disdainfully. Perhaps once he found the Twi'lek, he could return her outdated droid. The thing's faux cheerfulness was incessantly annoying, to the point where Kallus almost felt like he was dealing with a child.

R2-T1K swiveled its helm once more before turning and abruptly exiting the room, leaving Kallus to march quickly after it. They traveled through the passageways, traversing a similar path to one Kallus had walked before. It seemed the mechanoid was leading him to the hangar bay. Reaching the hangar did not take long at their hurried pace, and soon the two of them found themselves surrounded by Rebel workers.

He would have preferred if none of the workers approached him, as he was not in a conversational mood and though they were now his allies, he had no time for them or their trivial talk. Finding Syndulla, then Garazeb was his one and only priority at the moment. Greeting his new compatriots could wait until the only Rebel who truly mattered no longer cursed the former Agent's very existence.

Near a work bench close to the building's left wall, stood Ezra Bridger and Sabine Wren, fiddling with some foreign silver contraption beside a work bench, completely unaware of the Imperial reluctantly approaching them.

He glanced sharply down at the R2 unit and it swiveled its helm from left to right, fretting. Apparenly Captain Syndulla had told the astromech she would be in this exact location at this exact time. Well, apparently not.

It began apologizing profusely, its whines and beeps coming out louder the closer they came to the two youths.

"Quiet," he hissed.

They would soon be in hearing distance and he did not want to give the teens any inclination as to how important finding the Rebel Captain was to him.

R2-T1K fell silent as instructed and they continued forward toward the youths. The odds of them knowing Orrelios' location were just high enough for Kallus to endure their company long enough to ask after it.

The teens were working in silence, and though it was Bridger who noticed his presence first, it was Wren who addressed the Imperial, the boy nudging her with his elbow and alerting her to his arrival. She wiped the grease from her wrench with a cloth and placed the silver device down onto the work bench. She then tuned to him, wrench still in hand, expression curious.

"Ag— Kallus?"

He nodded once. Yes, that was his name.

"It's good to see you moving around on your own..." She smiled at him and Kallus was taken aback by the Mandalorian's friendliness, though he did not outwardly show it. "Was there something you needed?"

Bridger stood silently beside his crewmate, glaring at the ex-Agent, his hostility as palpable in the air as the moon's humidity. The corner of Kallus' lips quirked as he met those stormy blue eyes; taunting the boy and drawing out a more vocal reaction to his presence would have been an easy task. He would have to remember the way the boy was looking at him later— so he could plot the different ways he could turn that vitriol around on the Padawan and use it against him.

For Kallus already knew being declared an ally would not be enough to protect him from the force wielder's wrath.

He turned his attention away from the boy and back to Wren, nodding once in acknowledgment.

"Would you happen to know where Captain Orrelios is?" He inquired.

"You're looking for Zeb?" Bridger questioned back, eyebrows raised.

Kallus' lips thinned at the redundant query. If he were not looking for the Captain, why would he be asking for the Lasat's location?

Rather than point out the Padawan's stupidity, he replied.

"Yes, do you know where he is?"

The young man's lips thinned as he apparently thought over his answer. Bridger shrugged, opening his mouth to reply, but the Mandalorian interrupted him.

"I don't think talking to Zeb right now is a good idea." Wren looked to the blue haired boy standing next to her before refocusing her gaze on Kallus. "He's not in a good mood."

Oh really, Orrelios was not in a good mood? How ever would Kallus have known without Wren's helpful insight? He looked down his nose at the two teens. The warning given did not deter him, as it had only proven one thing—they did know the Captain's location. There was no other reason for them to avoiding the question with useless cautions.

"Where is he?" He asked, ignoring the Mandalorian's counsel.

The girl placed the wrench she had been holding in a pouch on her belt, scowling as she clipped it shut.

"Look, I've been where you are now, I know what you're thinking—and you're not thinking like a Rebel."

Kallus scoffed. "You're an army, not an ideology."

Her eyes narrowed and the Mandalorian crossed her arms over her chest, leaning forward as she put her notorious attitude on full display. "That's just it, you see the Rebellion as just another weapon pointed at a problem. But it's more than that. It's a family, it's hope."

He cocked a brow, disbelief evident in his expression and posture.

"Look," Wren continued. "If you go to Zeb as you are now, you're just going to piss him off more. Stars, you're pissing me off and I don't have half the temper Zeb does."

A debatable statement, the demolitionist was a Mandalorian after all. Her kind were prone toward aggressive and violent behavior. Nothing in the young woman's file, during all the years he had chased her, had ever suggested she was any different from the rest of her people.

Done with her unfounded claims, Kallus crossed his arms over his chest, voice coming out on the hard edge of demanding.

"Where is he?"

He and the Mandalorian matched glares, neither one of them willing to budge on the matter.

"He's on the roof." Bridger suddenly piped up, though the youth sounded anything but well intentioned.

"That's… strangely helpful of you, Bridger." Kallus responded, warily. His caution was warranted, as the Padawan's helpful smile deliberately stretched into a vicious smirk.

"Maybe I just want to see him throw you off it."

Kallus' eyes narrowed further, but he did not begrudge the teen his animosity. Out of all the Rebels, he had expected the most resistance from Bridger as the young man had proved on multiple occasions to be the most petty, impulsive member of the Ghost crew, and with a Mandalorian and Lasat as his competition, that was quite a feat.

"We shall see." Kallus nodded to them both and as he turned to leave, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Wren elbowed her young companion in the side, whispering something furiously into his ear.

Kallus waited until he was out of earshot of the two children before he chuckled.

His mirth at the teens' squabbling was short lived, however, as R2-T1K began chittering, the noise sounding eerily similar to an organic's chortle. He cast a disapproving look in the mechanoid's direction and the sounds ceased.

"Droid, where is the lift to the roof?" He continued to walk as he talked, unwilling to stand still in the still busy hangar bay, lest some unwitting Rebel decide to approach him.

The R2 unit whistled, spun once, and then wheeled off in a different direction. Kallus cursed under his breath as he hastily followed after the machine. Apparently he had hurt its feelings. Which was quite impossible as, for one, all he did was look at the bloody thing. And for two, droids did not have feelings. They possessed a pre-programmed A.I. that had the behavioral patterns that had been programmed into it. That was all.

Angry as it acted, the machine still leads him to the roof's ladder. It was tall, much taller than the one Kallus had scaled on the stolen Rebel craft, but he did not dread the climb.

"Wait here for me," he ordered without looking at the droid, reaching out to grip the ladder's closest rung.

Taking a deep, determined breath, he began his ascension, climbing upwards at a steady pace that did not even cause the Imperial to sweat.

He quickly reached the top and poked his head over the roof's edge. Hazel eyes scanned its surface and the former Agent had the troubling thought that he had been duped. There was no sign of the Lasat's bulk on the roof, for it would have been obvious were he atop it. Orrelios stood out even on an industrial planet's busiest street; his silhouette should have been perfectly outlined against the slowly sinking sun's orange glow. Yet Kallus saw neither hide nor hair of the alien.

Internally cursing Ezra Bridger and the malevolence of teenagers, the Imperial lifted a foot to begin his descent, only for it to pause midair. Loud hacking, rough and full of fluid stopped him, and brown eyes guided toward the source of the coughs, narrowing as they laid upon the creature he had sought after, which was laying its side and wheezing.

A deep frown settled over his face. Kallus had not thought to search the roof's base, had not expected the Rebel Captain to be laying on its hard surface hacking up a lung and appearing altogether unwell. Should he leave and return with aid? Orrelios looked to be in need of assistance, but Kallus was no medic and certainly no expert on alien ailments. There was very little he could do in way of helping the Lasat. But then… If he were to be the one to offer help first, perhaps Garazeb would be grateful? If the former Agent left and returned with others, there was no way for him to claim that the offer of help had only come because of the Imperial's insistence.

As Kallus deliberated with himself, the coughs slowly dwindled down until only silence and the low hum of Rebel activity below could be heard.

His head had turned down while in thought and his brows had furrowed, but a gruff snort pulled Kallus from his internal consultation. Then, an even gruffer voice, sounding rough and worn, called to him.

"This ain't no free show—Get up're go away. Can hear ya thinking from all the way over here and it's killin' my buzz."

Kallus' brows shot up. "Buzz?" He parroted.

The Lasat then reached for a bottle to his left, wide and brown, and shook it. There were no markings on its glassy surface and one could only make out its slowly sloshing liquid contents by straining the eyes. Kallus' own honey-brown orbs widened upon realizing what it was within the container, for even without markings, the context in which it had been presented made it obvious.

"You've been drinking," he said, voice full of disdain. And to think Kallus had been worried for the lush.

"Yeah, got a problem that, Imp?" The alien spoke with not one iota of shame to be heard, but the challenge in his voice? That, Kallus heard clearly, like the striking of a bell before a boxing match. The former Agent's eyes narrowed in answer and he pulled himself up off the ladder and over the roof's edge. Very well, if Orrelios wanted to strike at him with words, so be it. Kallus would handle anything the Lasat threw at him and by the end of the match, he would be the one standing victorious. His winnings?

The Rebel no longer shooting him murderous glares, as he was currently.

"Not at all, you are off duty, after all." He spoke casually, covering his earlier disgust with the Rebel's hedonistic behavior well. Letting on that he disagreed with any of the other's life choices from here on out would do nothing to regain him the man's favor. If he wanted back into Garazeb's good graces, he would perform the act of acceptance, and tedious as the act might be, no other had inspired him to put on a good show quite like Garazeb Orrelios.

"You telling me Imperials do somethin' improper as drinking when they're off the clock?" The man said it disbelievingly, pulling the bottle closer to his side as Kallus closed the distance between them.

Kallus weighed the decision to remain standing or to seat himself beside the larger man; ultimately, he decided to lower himself to the ground, crossing his legs as he did so.

"Some of them yes," he answered carefully.

"But not you," Orrelios clarified.

"… I was never inclined to partake, no."

"Che, figures—can torture a guy but drinkin? Now that's crossin' a line."

Even with the Rebel being the one splayed out on the roof's surface, bottle in hand, and drunkenly slurring his words, it was Kallus who suddenly felt a fool. He turned sharply from those hazy, hateful eyes and glowered at the ground. It would seem even while inebriated, the Lasat had good aim. Kallus would have to do better; the next hit would not land and if it did, he could not afford to let Orrelios see its impact.

"I never considered… it was not so much a line as a job that needed to be done. I did not drink because I do not enjoy alcohol's effects; I did my job following similar logic."

"You enjoy torturin'." The Lasat said, voice laden with disgust. And it was then Kallus finally remembered, Lasats have claws.

The accusation tore at him, striking the former Agent somewhere deep. The alien's strike was particularly injurious, because he was armed with the truth. Kallus had enjoyed inflicting both psychological and physical pain upon any traitor unfortunate enough to be captured by him.

Kallus swallowed, his voice coming out in a guilty whisper.

"I'm not with the Empire anymore."

The Lasat's reply was not immediate and Kallus felt the stirrings of hope that it would be enough, but Orrelios was not so merciful.

"Oh yeah? S'that what you tell people while you torture 'em?"

His next blow did not land, not as intended, but the fact that the Rebel Captain had thrown it at all was enough.

"I do not torture… at least… not for some time."

Orrelios cocked a large purple brow at him and Kallus felt compelled to continue.

"Not since I took the title of Fulcrum."

Garazeb pushed himself up just enough to where he was leaning back on his elbows, face level with the Imperial's.

"Oh yeah, an' why's that?"

"Because there was no need for it and… I understood it would not align with your ethics."

Not the Rebellion's, as Kallus knew full well the atrocities Saw Gurrera and his pet Lasat were willing to commit. But Orrelios was of a different breed than the mercenary, one Kallus was willing to adjust his behavior to appease.

"What, you quit torturin' cause I don't like it?"

The Lasat perplexed him and Kallus tilted his head in response, expression baffled.

"What other reason would I?"

His answer set the other off in a stringent of alien curses that Kallus could scarcely tell apart, though he did manage make out a single karabast. Then suddenly a bottle was being shoved in his face.

"Drink."

Kallus reared his head away from the bottle. "I beg your pardon?"

"If you're gonna be up here, yer gonna drink. So drink."

He tried pushing the bottle from his face, but the alien's arm did not budge. Kallus scowled.

"I am not an Im…" But he was. "… I joined your Rebellion. I'm officially a Rebel. Your insult no longer holds relevance."

Orrelios smiled at him, nasty and full of pointed teeth.

"Oh, but you're still an Imperial n'all the places it counts."

Kallus breathed rapid, heavy breaths through his nose, anger simmering just beneath his calm veneer. The man had landed another blow. It was infuriating.

"You're angry at me for something I have no control over. What I am, was, is not something I can change."

Orrelios smirked and waggled the bottle in front of the human's face.

"Don't think control's what you're lackin' here, Imp."

Enraged by the other's unreasonableness, Kallus snatched the bottle from Garazeb's hand. It would not occur to him until much later that it was because Orrelios had allowed him to.

"If I drink this will you stop calling me that?"

"What, Imp?"

"Yes," he seethed.

Kallus respected Orrelios. Was it too much to ask the sentiment be returned?

"Dunno, why don't you take a drink and find out?"

He gawked at the man. "You are impossible."

"Alexsandr," the Rebel called, eyes turning serious.

"What?" He inquired, his grip tightening over the bottle's neck.

"Take a drink. Or get off the roof."

There was far too much seriousness in that statement to be said by a drunk man.

Nigh on a decade has passed since Kallus last touched alcohol. The substance had been a constant during his teen years, before and even shortly after he had joined the Imperial Army. Not until he had found his place within the army had he understood the toxin for what it was: a crutch, one that had been violently kicked out from under him during his final two years in Academy by a peer.

Alexsandr never picked it back up. Not even after Onderon. His coping methods had taken a different, darker turn…

Still, if it was Garazeb who was asking him, offering the ex-Agent an olive branch in the shape of a liquor bottle, then what choice did Kallus have but to accept? Besides, he had been able to drink an entire bottle before feeling even the mildest of liquor's multitude of effects on the human body during his teens.

Older as he was, a few sips would hardly be enough to impede his judgment.

"Very well," he conceded.

Garazeb grunted and Kallus looked from the Lasat to the bottle he held. Its top was not very wide, not enough to suggest the drink came from the alien's own culture. Everything the Lasats created for themselves tended to be larger than that of a human equivalent. So it was unlikely the beverage would poison him.

The alcohol's fumes rose from the bottle's open mouth, filling his nostrils and causing the minuscule hairs in his nose to curl. His stomach rolled in disgust and Kallus grimaced just as Orrelios called him out on his hesitation.

"Gonna take a drink're what? I don't got all day."

Kallus' eyes narrowed. Yes, technically the Lasat did have all day—he had been given the entire day off by Captain Syndulla. But rather call the alien out on his blatant lie, Kallus took a deep breath, then took a drink.

The glass was warm against his lips and the liquid inside slid smoothly past them. That was where the smoothness stopped. The instant the liquid touched his tongue, he recoiled, gagging as he forced more of the foul tasting substance into his mouth. He did not swallow it, he could not. His tongue was pressed to the back of his throat, stopping the liquid from going down.

He wanted to spit it out, but again, he could not. Orrelios was watching him, judging him.

He removed the bottle from his lips the same moment he swallowed down the liquor, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth as he choked. It burned, and a hot trail of liquid fire slithered down his esophagus and Kallus suddenly understood it had not been sickness causing the Rebel to cough so harshly before.

The liquid reached his stomach, and even that became heated and Kallus hunched over to keep himself from retching. He removed the hand covering his mouth and sputtered, coughing horribly, eyes watering.

Gripping the bottle tightly, he turned to glare at the Lasat, only to freeze as hazel met yellow-green. The other's eyes… they were far too serious to belong to a drunk man.

"Too much for ya?" The Rebel challenged.

"No," he responded, throat raw.

Orrelios reached for the bottle and Kallus did not stop him, allowing it to be taken from his grasp. The furred man held the bottle close to his chest as he considered Kallus, ears flicking.

The human reached up and wiped away some of the alcohol and spit that had landed on his chin during his sputtering, unwilling to break away from the Lasat's stare even as his eyes watered.

Their shared gaze lasted for all of another twenty seconds before the alien looked away, and Kallus felt a swell of triumph rise in his chest. While he had not delivered a blow against the Captain, he had successfully blocked anymore from the Rebel from coming. At least for the time being. He would use the temporary reprieve to come in close, slip past the other's defenses.

He smirked, leaning forward as his eyes roved over the alien's relaxed form. The Lasat tensed under his gaze and Kallus' grin widened, the tips of his canines showing.

"Are you satisfied?" He asked, voice lilting in almost a tease.

Garazeb's ears drew back at the Imperial's tone and he leaned forward on one elbow toward, thick purple lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Not even close, Imp."

Kallus' smirk dropped and his brows shot forward in an angry scowl.

"You said if I drank you would no longer call me that."

The Lasat snorted. "Ya took a sip, last I checked that ain't drinkin'."

Kallus' eyes narrowed. "You were hardly specific, how was I supposed to know what you qualify as the appropriate amount of drinking?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and braced for whatever mockery Orrelios was sure to throw at him. The man was being completely unreasonable. One sip of that foul liquid was already more than Kallus would ever ask of anyone in order to prove themselves.

'S'a Rebel thing, wouldn't expect ya to understand."

Orrelios then lifted the bottle to his mouth and threw his head back as he drank, throat bobbing as he swallowed. When he was finished, he lowered his head back down and blew out a satisfied breath of air, smirking as the Imperial as he did so.

"Now that's a drink. Think you can keep up, Imp?"

Kallus huffed through his nostrils. The Rebel was goading him, though for what purpose, he had no idea. His response to the alcohol would not change after repeated drinks, its flavor would not suddenly change the more he poured down his sore throat. What could Orrelios possibly hope to achieve by urging the former Agent to drink? Intoxicate him? But why, so he could point and mock Alexsandr once he became inebriated?

Possibly, and the more Kallus thought over the idea, the more plausible it seemed to him.

The bottle was once again held up to him, and Kallus hesitated before grabbing it and pulling it to his chest, eyes the brown bottle warily.

Garazeb Orrelios wanted to see the former Agent intoxicated, to see him acting like a Rebel.

He sighed, grimacing as he came to a decision. Not that it had been a difficult one to make, Kallus already knew that he had been desperate for the Captain's acceptance before ascending to the rooftop. He had simply not realized how desperate, willing to do almost anything Garazeb asked of him to keep the Lasat from looking at him as he was now, with derision and distrust.

"Very well, if that's how it must be." He said it while looking into the bottle's opening, quiet enough to be speaking only to himself, but he knew the alien heard.

His stomach clenched, anticipatory, as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

The alcohol slid into his mouth and Kallus quickly pulled the bottle away, clenching his teeth. He swallowed the liquid down with a pained grimace. It burned just as much as it had the first time, but expecting the pain, he was able to better control his reaction to it. He still wanted to spit the foul substance back out, to wipe its taste from his tongue, but he refrained. All too aware of the large yellow-green eyes watching him, he forced the drink down. His hand clenched painfully tight around the bottle's neck, the bones in his fingers straining.

Kallus stared directly into the Lasat's eyes as he finished his drink and he held the bottle out to the other man, leaning forward from his place on the ground.

"Your turn," he wheezed out.

Orrelios regarded the Imperial with a raised brow before giving him a slow smile.

"Yeah, s'pose it is."

Kallus' eyes narrowed at the sudden soft tone, but he did not question it. If two drinks of that disgusting brew were enough to appease the alien's tempter, he would not be the first to complain. Perhaps now that the Captain appeared more at ease around him, he could try sliding in closer so that he could slip past the man's defenses completely.

Slowly, with an intentional air of nonchalance, Kallus uncrossed his legs.

"What is this, anyway?"

Garazeb reached out and took the bottle, their hands touching for the shortest of seconds. Kallus' breath hitched and he tried to focus on the feeling, but it was over too soon. He still did not know if the Lasat's fur was as soft as he suspected.

"It's Cortyg." Orrelios said, as though it were obvious.

When the human showed no signs of recognition, the Rebel elaborated.

"Wookie brandy."

Kallus' jaw dropped.

"That's not meant for human consumption!" He practically shouted, fear creeping into his mind as he wrapped and arm around his middle. He was going to need a stomach pump, maybe some anti-bacterial medication as well.

Orrelios merely chuckled in the face of his panic, waggling the bottle in front of the Imperial mockingly.

"Usually yeah, but this here's not your normal Wookie brandy. It's something special, watered down, they brew up t'sell to other races." The Lasat leered. "Relax, Alex, I'm not trying to poison you."

Kallus closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his panic receded.

"You always drink strange liquids you know nothing about when offered, or am I just special?"

The Lasat was still smirking when Kallus reopened his eyes. He looked directly into them, expression humorless.

"You're special…" Garazeb's grin slipped and Kallus tilted his head forward, a small smirk of his own forming. "… And it's still your turn to drink."

Orrelios opened his mouth, appearing as though he wanted to speak, but said nothing. Instead the Rebel lifted the bottle to his wide mouth and took a long drink, closing his eyes as he did so. Kallus' smirk widened and he used the opportunity to scoot closer to the Lasat. He managed to move forward several centimeters before Garazeb finally removed the bottle from his lips, coughing as he did so.

A single finely trimmed brow rose. "You clearly do not like the brandy any more than I, so why drink it?"

The Lasat wiped his mouth, eyes narrowed as he held the drink back out for Kallus to take. Voice gruff as he asked— "Why do you?"

Reaching out, Kallus took the bottle without answering. And then without a word, threw his head back and took another drink, surprising himself by how easily the alcohol slid down his throat compared to the first two times, though it still warmed his stomach.

He once again held the bottle out for the Lasat to take, only coughing mildly.

"Your turn," he hemmed.

"Not gonna answer, then?" Orrelios took the bottle.

"Are you?" He queried.

Garazeb looked from the human to the brandy.

"Maybe," he murmured.

Kallus' lips thinned and he scooted just a little bit closer to the other.

"Is it because of me?" Kallus prodded. If he could pinpoint the exact cause of the Lasat's anger with him, he could take measures to correct his behavior, fix it so an incident like this never occurred again.

Before answering him, the Rebel took another drink of the brandy and Kallus watched as the other man's hairy throat bobbed with every swallow.

When Garazeb pulled the bottle away, the fur on his lips was wet. Alex licked his own, swallowing. Silence permeated the air around them for several ling minutes, neither man willing to be the first to break.

It was Kallus who broke first, unwilling to allow childlike stubbornness to prevent him from accomplishing his goal.

"Garazeb, I can't fix this if you don't tell me what is wrong."

Kallus could not change who he was, only how he was perceived. If only he knew how the Rebel Captain truly saw him.

"An' just what is this, Kallus?" The Lasat growled. "We didn't try to kill each other once— you think that makes us friends?"

"No." Kallus' answer came with no hesitation. He had never been so presumptuous. Hopeful, yes, but… He leaned in closer to the larger man, words coming out a hushed whisper.

"But, I think we could be."

He reached a hand out to take the bottle from Garazeb, their hands touched once more and Kallus lingered, feeling the Lasat's short purple fur. It was soft. He forced back a smile.

"Tell me what's wrong."

Orrelios allowed his grip on the bottle to loosen and Kallus pulled it to himself, holding it close to his chest. He swayed slightly from side to side as he waited for the other's response, suddenly finding it difficult to remain still.

Would… Did he need to take another drink before Garazeb would answer him? He eyed the bottle warily, he did not want to take so much as another sip of the brandy, but if it would loosen the Lasat's tongue…

"Everything." Orrelios muttered. "Everything's wrong: the Empire, Chopper Base, you."

The Rebel rolled until he was on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows with his head lifted as he looked at the Imperial through dilated pupils.

"We lost everything 'cause of one man. Thought I'd gotten used to what that felt like…"

Kallus froze, ice gripping his heart at the accusation. The truth of it sent a chill down his spine and suddenly, even in the humid heat of Yavin IV, he felt cold. Perhaps one more drink actually was in order, if only to warm himself back up.

Quickly, Kallus did just that, not even coughing as he returned to holding the bottle close to his chest. The edges of the human's vision blurred and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear it away.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, gaze focused solely on the alcohol in his grip. "I never meant…"

Kallus swallowed spit, tasting the brandy on his tongue.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, voice hoarse.

A furred hand entered his line of sight, and the bottle was roughly ripped away from him. Startled, he looked up to see Orrelios rubbing the back of his neck, scowling.

"Karabast…" The man took another quick drink from the bottle before turning his gaze to the Imperial. "I didn't mean you."

"But you said…"

"You're a different problem." Garazeb clarified. "An' Chopper Base? That's all the Empire, s'all Thrawn."

Kallus bit his lip. "But had I not tried to contact you—," he was cut off.

"Thrawn still woulda found us and we'd 'ave had even less of a warnin' than we did."

"Then why…" He trailed off, sucking in a breath through his nose, trying to organize his jumbled thoughts. They were so hazy and out of reach, thinking any deeper than what appeared first in his mind was proving to be inordinately difficult.

"… I should hate you," Orrelios softly admitted. "Even putting Lasan behind me, you're not a good man."

Kallus nodded, agreeing with the alien's logic completely.

"I'm not and you should."

He slid closer.

"But you don't hate me, do you?" It was a bold statement, but the liquor gave him courage and Kallus slid even closer to the larger man. The Lasat's ears drooped and Kallus had his answer.

"I'm not a good man, Orrelios, but…" He reached for the bottle. "…I want to be."

He could practically see the Captain's defenses as they crumbled. He smiled, slow and easy, running the tips of his fingers up and down the bottle's length. The glass felt so smooth…

Garazeb watched his movements as though mesmerized, and Kallus' eyelids drooped. It was time to land an attack of his own.

"I could be, with you…" He lifted the bottle, eyes never leaving the Rebel. "… As my friend—you're a good influence on me."

He took a drink.

Orrelios watched him as he took a large swig of the horrid liquor, his eyes never straying even as Kallus lowered the bottle, placing it on the ground. With the other watching him so intently, the former Agent felt his confidence grow and he moved closer, close enough for to easily reach out and touch the Lasat's head, if he so chose.

"I want you as a friend, Garazeb."

The alien breathed heavily from his strange nostrils before finally sitting up properly, sliding to sit on his rear with one leg stretched out

"And you always get what you want, huh?"

"No," he corrected. "During my time as an Agent, I never once caught you." And he had wanted to, badly.

Orrelios reached out for the bottle, looking pained.

"Karabast, but ya have."

He frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

The Rebel shrugged and Kallus wanted to snatch the bottle back from his too large hand and demand an answer. But that would not be seen as very friendly, so he refrained, his eyes narrowing.

"Does that mean you will be my friend?" A better outcome than Kallus had anticipated, something he had certainly hoped for, but not something had been foolish enough to actually think plausible.

He moved in closer, coming between the other's spread legs. He needed to see every minute detail of the alien's face as he thought. He needed to. He could not explain exactly why, but he was certain of its necessity.

The Lasat leaned forward, his breath coming out in hot puffs against Kallus' face.

"I don't make friends with Imps."

Anger flared within him at the other's use of the slur. The man had agreed to stop calling him that. His own breath came out in warm pants as he glared harshly at Orrelios, their faces far too close for the alien to properly receive the full force of it.

"Do not call me Imp."

The heat in his words earned Kallus a toothy grin from the Lasat.

"What'd ya prefer, then? Imperial trash?"

Kallus seethed and impulsively reached for the liquor bottle, only for Garazeb to hold it high out of his reach. He swayed as he stretched for it, just barely managing to keep his unstable form from falling to the side.

"Why are you like this, now?" He questioned, angrily. "You should not have been so kind to me if you were just going to take it away!"

An ache in his chest formed, thinking how the Lasat had mirrored Kallus' own thoughts of what he truly was.

Imperial trash.

Cruel had never been a word the former Agent would have ever associated with the Rebel Captain, but that was the only way he could interpret Orrelios' insult. Fury and hurt swirled within Kallus' chest and he knew the alcohol had already begun taking effect. His mind was becoming hazed, unable the process but the rawest of emotions. Soon he found himself forgoing his plan of careful strikes and could only think of making the alien hurt as he did. It was only fair after all; it was Garazeb's fault Kallus was in this situation to begin with.

The Lasat surged forward, baring his teeth in an angry snarl.

"Why. Are. You. Here."

Kallus moved his head back, fearful of what would happen should those sharp teeth snap.

"I told you," he ground out. "Because it's the right thing—,"

"Tell me the truth, Kallus! Not that slag you told the Commander."

Orrelios' breath was thick with the scent of alcohol and his own natural stench. The Rebel was likely more inebriated than he appeared, not that Kallus had any basis to tell a sober Lasat from an intoxicated one. Not that he was fairing much better.

Several seconds passed without an answer from the former Agent and Rebel sharply turned from him, but not before Kallus could see the look in the other man's eyes. It hit him like a blow to the gut, that look, forcing the truth from his mouth as though he were vomiting it up.

"I'm here because you're right."

He could salvage this. Even if it took laying strikes against himself. Anything to wipe that look of hatred off Garazeb's face. Anything.

"I'm a horrible person, an unrepentant liar, torturer, murder," his words came out in a rushed slur, and still Orrelios did not look to him. Kallus continued on. "I don't deserve a second chance, not from you."

His hands shook and he clenched them, struggling to retain the emotional control he was known for.

"I don't regret anything I've done to you Rebels, not really. I was doing my duty, it was never personal." But then Bahryn had happened, and his life had not only been spared, it had been saved, by a Lasat.

"But I regret Lasan." The Rebel's right ear twitched, the first sign the furred man had been listening to the ex-Agent's tirade. He surged on.

"I regret what I've done to you. I regret what I did to Rafeel, even though the scum deserved it."

Finally, Orrelios spoke to him, voice coming out low and heated.

"If he deserved it, why do you regret it?"

"Because you hate me for it!" Kallus spat, livid. Orrelios was being purposefully obtuse. He had to know perfectly well the effect he had on the Imperial. He could not claim to be the sole reason for the former ISB Agent's defection and not know what that implied.

Kallus cared for him. As a victim, as a friend. In retrospect, it should disturb him, how much he desired the alien's acceptance. But he was not of a mind to analyze those strange thoughts, he did not know why he did, he only knew he wanted.

Friendship, acceptance, tolerance, anything the Lasat was willing to give him. Anything but his hatred, or worse, apathy.

"… Why does what I think matter so damn much to you?" Orrelios sounded as lost as Kallus felt.

"I don't know," he replied tiredly.

It earned him a grunt from Garazeb as the Lasat rolled to face him.

"Karabast… you're hopeless."

You're so quick to give up hope.

"Yes, I suppose I am." Kallus chuckled, finding his own pathetic state more humorous than he probably should have. It was well worth it, though, as the other's look of hatred had been replaced by one of resignation. The Rebel Captain had come to a decision of sorts.

"I don't get you, Kallus." Orrelios confessed.

"That makes two of us," Alexsandr replied. Yet another thing they had in common.

An uneasy silence filled the air.

"… It's not just you an' me here, ya know. You're part of somethin' bigger than just two people." Garazeb told him, breaking the silence.

But you're the only one that matters was the impudent reply Kallus wanted to give, but even in his inebriated state he knew such a claim would not go over well.

"I know that," he snapped instead.

"Yeah?" The Lasat questioned. "Coulda fooled me."

He rolled his eyes. "As if that's such a difficult thing to do."

Kallus had already done so, multiple times, even after he had fled the Empire. Still, he bit his tongue against speaking further, already regretting the barb. He needed to keep the nastier part of his personality in check around the Captain. But Garazeb had a way of getting underneath the human's skin and pulling reactions from him in a way Kallus had never before experienced.

It made controlling himself around the Lasat decidedly difficult, the liquor pumping through his veins no doubt doing nothing to help matters.

"I don't believe ya, you know. Not that you're really here for the Rebellion and not some sorta sudden guilt you're feeling after realizing your precious Empire isn't everything you believed it to be."

Kallus' expression hardened, both at the sliver of truth in the statement and its phrasing. "It's no longer my Empire—what do I have to do to convince you of this?"

Becoming Fulcrum apparently was no longer enough to convince the Captain of his commitment.

The Lasat regarded him for a few short moments, eyes roving from his seated form, to the trees, to the slowly setting sun behind them. An ear flicked forward and the man's gaze lowered, looking over the short ledge on the roof's edge.

"You're part of a Rebellion, so let them know it." The Lasat nudged his head to the side, directing Kallus' gaze to the edge of the roof. "Make it loud."

He scoffed. "What are you suggesting? I shout my defection for the entire hangar to hear?"

How absurd.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm suggestin'."

Kallus shook his head, eyes going wide in disbelief.

"You cannot be serious."

Orrelios grinned impishly at him, melancholy forgotten in the wake of Alexsandr's obvious discomfort.

"As a massacre."

Kallus' nostrils flared.

"That was low."

The Lasat's grin stretched.

"You gonna do it?"

He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest in frustration.

"I betrayed the Empire. I'm here with you, with your Rebellion. Is that not enough?"

The other man's arrogant expression never wavered.

"Nope."

Kallus threw his hands up, exasperated.

"You are impossible."

"That's not an answer, Imp."

He wanted to punch that smug expression right off of Orrelios' face. Instead he leaned forward, getting dangerously close to the other's sharp-toothed mouth.

"You will never call me Imp again," he growled.

"Those your terms?" Garazeb purred mockingly.

"Yes," Kallus seethed before pushing the alien away from him. Smirking when in his inebriated state, the Lasat didn't have the bearings to catch himself and fell flat on his back with an oof.

He sniffed, served the arrogant drunkard right.

Kallus staggered to his own feet, the world spinning around him. Odd, he had not thought Yavin IV's orbital rotation to be quite so fast. He hunched forward, placing one hand on a knee and the other on his forehead in an attempt to steady himself and regain his balance. It was partially successful. He stood straight and bile rose up in his throat, both from nerves and the sudden movement. Honestly, Kallus should not be as nervous as he was. He had stood in the presence of Lord Vader without so much as a nervous twitch.

The opinions of some Rebel peons should not cause such anxiety within him. It was the brandy, Kallus reasoned, making him susceptible to such weak feelings. Brows furrowing in concentration, he recalled the havoc alcohol reeked on his emotions being one of the many, many reasons he had given up the substance during his youth.

"Alright," he breathed. "Let's do this."

He walked forward, swaying as he moved, and only stopped once he had reached the small ledge that separated the hangar's roof from a deadly fall to its cement floor. His eyes strained downward, only able to make out the tiny forms of Rebel workers milling about. From this height they appeared to be nothing more than ants. Insects.

Were they really worth his humiliation? Unconvinced, he still did as Orrelios had asked.

"I… am a Rebel." He said, but his halfheartedly spoken words were lost to the wind.

Kallus turned his head back to where the Lasat had fallen, wanting to see if that would be enough to sate the alien's need to see the ex-Agent make a fool of himself. His brows shot upward when he did not see the Rebel on the ground where Kallus had left him. Where had he…

A large, purple striped arm suddenly wrapped around Kallus' shoulders and he jolted, body turning toward the source of warmth that was suddenly at his side.

"What are you…?" He trailed off, losing his voice as the other leveled him with a mischievous look.

"You call that a shout? C'mon, I know you can be louder."

"I did as you asked, it's not my fault their hearing is so poor." He muttered, refusing to look at the Lasat. He did not need to, he could practically hear the man's grin.

"Yeah? Maybe you just weren't saying it loud enough?"

The Lasat shook him.

"C'mon, give it one more try."

Kallus grit his teeth, hating himself for being unable to tell the blasted alien no.

"I am a Rebel!" He yelled.

"That's more like it," Orrelios encouraged. "Again."

"I am a Rebel!" He shouted, louder, cheeks staining red.

The bodies below had stopped moving and even from their great height, Kallus could tell they were looking upward. His heart began to hammer in his chest, but before he could step away from the roof's edge, Garazeb shouted down—

"Ya hear that? He's a Rebel!"

Orrelios turned his head to the side, breathing into Kallus' ear.

"Again."

Kallus swallowed, his heart still hammering in his chest, though it was no longer due to the looks of the Rebel workers.

"I… am a Rebel!" His throat scratched raw from the force of his bellow.

The sun lowered slowly, dim pink and yellow hues covering the sky. Wildlife chirped and cawed in the forest that surrounded the Rebel base, and not one worker moved. Kallus tried to take a step back, but the strong arm around his shoulders stopped him. Just as he was about to ask Garazeb to release him, he heard it. A distinctly non-animal like howl arising from the workers below. It was quickly followed by more, and Orrelios' grip around him tightened.

More howls where quick to follow, breaking and starting back up again as they called up to him. High pitched whistles filled the air, and Garazeb let out a loud bark of his own.

"He's a Rebel!"

Swept up in the moment, heart heady with the elation of acceptance, Kallus shouted back.

"I'm a Rebel!"

The Rebels down below shared in his jubilation, clapping, hooting and hollering, howling their approval of the ex-Agent's declaration. A chant started among them, Kallus could not pinpoint where it started. It was a low, deep chant that steadily grew in strength as more joined it.

"Rebels, Rebels, Rebels, Rebels, Rebels…"

Their chant continued as the sun sunk beneath the trees, automatic lights flicking to life as darkness descended upon the base. The Rebel workers were already proving to be far more welcoming than their Imperial counterparts had been; they were acting like something Kallus had not realized he wanted until watching Garazeb be greeted on Bahryn by his fellow crew members.

Comrades.

Kallus laughed, he actually laughed. A smile spreading across his face and hazel eyes bright with joy, crinkled at the corners by how wide it was. A giddiness he had never felt before bubbled up inside him. It was pleasant, warm, and he wanted to share it with the man who had made him feel this way. He turned his head from the lowering sun and chanting workers, to the Rebel standing beside him, Garazeb's purple fur rubbing against the back of his neck as he moved.

Orrelios turned to meet him, drunkenly happy expression similar to Alexsandr's. As soon as their eyes met, however, the alien's smile fell, owlish eyes going wide. The corners of Kallus' smile tugged downward at the unexpected response, but his jubilant expression did not fade completely, not like Orrelios' had. His throat was raw from shouting, so he did not ask the other what was wrong. Rather he waited, silently, for the Lasat to tell him of his own volition.

Garazeb's answer came in the form of a short, half-whispered curse.

"… Karabast."

A/N: So this chapter took a while. It's the one I have so far been the most nervous about. Next chapter and a one-shot are in the works. And as usual, all feed back is welcome, even criticism.