The bar was a relatively quiet one—surprisingly so, given its proximity to a major thoroughfare. The constant rush of traffic outside was reduced to no more than a dull, distant roar, as though the city itself had chosen to lower its voice within these walls.
A Togruta female sat alone on a stool at the bar. She idly swirled the teal liquid in her glass, watching it lap lazily against the sides, her attention clearly elsewhere. Her posture was relaxed but distant, her expression unfocused. She was utterly lost in her thoughts.
The bartender standing opposite her was an incredibly busty Zeltron woman clad in a skin-tight bodysuit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. A section of the top had been cut away to reveal an impressive amount of cleavage, a feature made all the more striking by the Zeltron's vibrant skin tone and easy confidence. Ahsoka was well aware that she was still young and had only begun to fill out over the past few months, but she doubted she would ever rival the bartender's figure.
Despite the disparity, the bartender had inquired several times whether Ahsoka wanted another drink. She hadn't done so insistently, nor with the irritation common among bartenders when a customer occupied a seat without ordering. Instead, the inquiries were casual, almost gentle. Ahsoka found the attitude refreshing—especially given her location, deep within a part of Coruscant the politicians preferred not to acknowledge and the news crews had long since learned never to show.
Drinking, unfortunately for the goddess serving behind the bar, was far from the forefront of the Togruta's mind. She had barely touched whatever concoction sat before her. The request of "Surprise me!" had always drawn interesting reactions—often free information through playful banter—when she was with Sky-Guy. But tonight, she lacked both the energy for the follow-through and any reason to try.
Today had been unlike any other in her already chaotic life. Walking away from the Jedi Temple had been both the easiest and the hardest decision she had ever made. Only now was she truly beginning to understand the problem: the Jedi Order had been her entire world. She had little memory of her life before the age of three, when her Force sensitivity had been discovered on Shili by Jedi Master Plo Koon—a man she still regarded as a father figure.
That bond, however, had meant nothing when she had stood in the center of the chamber, facing the assembled Masters as they passed judgment on actions they believed she had committed.
Every meaningful relationship she had ever known was tied to the Jedi Order. Idly, and not for the first time, she wondered whether that was another reason the Jedi took children so young—to ensure they had nowhere else to go. The thought was bitter, cynical, and she recognized it as such. At the moment, she didn't care.
A presence settled beside her at the bar. Someone leaned forward, forearms resting on the counter. Ahsoka spared the newcomer only a brief glance; the unassuming human male failed to register as important. Dark hair—brown, maybe black—nothing else worth noting. She quickly lost interest.
The bartender, however, lit up with a broad smile.
"Harry! Long time no see! Last I heard, you were off poking around some old ruins on… Ziost, wasn't it?" She rested her hands on her hips, clearly pleased.
The man—Harry, apparently—chuckled good-naturedly. "Keeping tabs on me?"
The Zeltron grinned. "Nah. One of my suppliers mentioned hauling cargo out that way. Said he docked near a ship with a very distinctive paint job."
Harry groaned theatrically. "I knew it."
"Got it in one!" she laughed. "So—your usual?"
"Of course," he replied easily. "Closest thing to a good cup that I don't have to make myself. And one that doesn't taste like liquid dirt."
Ahsoka felt a sudden, unwelcome pang in her chest. The sound of his laugh—the cadence, the warmth—was almost identical to the one Anakin used when she'd been too enthusiastic or when he was humoring her. She suppressed a sigh.
"Yeah, yeah. That's why you keep coming back," the bartender said as she turned away. One of the drink mixers hissed softly, releasing brief spurts of steam.
Harry winked. "You know I come back for the wonderful company. The tea's just a bonus."
"Flatterer," the Zeltron replied as she slid a steaming cup across the bar.
"Maybe. But you love it." He casually pushed a credit chip toward her. She rolled her eyes and scooped it up without ceremony.
To Ahsoka, it was clearly familiar banter—comfortable, well-worn. A small distraction, but a welcome one.
Harry lifted the cup, took a sip, and closed his eyes. A deep sigh followed, slow and satisfied, and a faint smile curved his lips.
"Perfect. As always."
The bartender snorted. "You know you're the only one who drinks that swill."
He looked mildly affronted, though his tone remained teasing. "This 'swill' is the best drink in the galaxy. Believe me—I've tried most of them."
"Yes, but it has no alcohol," she countered. "Most people who come here aren't interested in drinks without it. I'm pretty sure some of them don't even realize those exist." She paused, then shifted her gaze to Ahsoka. "Except her. Hers isn't alcoholic either."
Harry barely glanced at the Togruta, dismissing her presence with practiced ease. "Their loss."
He took another sip before continuing. "Any deliveries for me?"
"Several," the bartender replied. "You've been gone almost six months. I've been putting them in the safety box you left with me."
She stepped into the storeroom behind the bar and returned moments later carrying a metal container, which she placed carefully on the counter.
Ahsoka frowned, curiosity stirring despite herself. The box was a decent size, yet strangely unobtrusive—if she looked away, her eyes seemed to slide right off it, as though her mind refused to linger. A narrow slot marked the top, clearly meant for inserting items. Otherwise, it appeared to be nothing more than a solid block of metal.
And yet, something about it felt… off.