Feb. 16th, 2006

twostandingby: (holding hands)
It was the most ordinary of ordinary days. That was what Tycho Celchu would remember later.

There were no dogfights, no missions, no patrols; not even a meeting with superiors. Just a day of running some sims, mostly for the benefit of the two new pilots, and then calling it quits with the reminder that the Rogues had to report in bright and early the next morning to gear up for an extended tour of duty. They rarely remained on Coruscant for long, and this stay was no exception to the rule.

His pilots had scattered, as fast as possible for the most part, leaving Tycho with a grinning Wes and less-grinning Hobbie, who had persistently invited Tycho to get drinks with them. It had taken some talking on his part to convince them that he really wasn’t going to go, and more to convince them to leave. Then, outside the briefing room, he had been respectfully ambushed by Ooryl, and after the Gand’s concerns had been heard and addressed and he’d been sent on his way, Tycho had gone to his office and filled out forms and all sorts of things for the journey ahead.

All in all, it had been a tiring day of nothingness, and he used that as a feeble excuse to himself when he decided he couldn’t take anymore, uploaded a group of forms to his personal datapad, and left.

It took long enough to brave the horrors of Coruscant traffic that by the time he reached his building, he had planned out exactly what he was going to do—walk in, drop his stuff, take a shower, and fill out the last of the requisitions in the comfort of his own tiny apartment. He took the repulsorlift up to the 52nd floor and gave the door his name, and he told himself that Winter wouldn’t be there, but he felt a pang of disappointment just the same when the door hissed open.

He stood there a moment in the doorway, then lightly shook his head and stepped all the way into the undisturbed apartment. It had been five months since he’d last seen Winter; far too long. But those were the breaks of being involved with her; once an Intel agent, always an Intel agent. And of being a member of the most famous, needed fighter squadron in the New Republic. You know. That too.

Tycho spent a long time in the shower, letting the jets massage muscles that ached after hours cramped up in simulator cockpits. Winter had been asked to take on a top-secret mission by General Cracken himself, which Tycho wasn’t even sure he was allowed to know. If something was important enough to call Winter away from her duties with the Organa-Solo family, it wasn’t going to be resolved easily or quickly; he would just have to accept the fact that Winter wasn’t here.

Tycho threw on fresh clothes and left the steamy fog of the cramped room, and was still toweling his damp hair dry when he sat down on the sofa and flicked on the comm. He fed in the last number that he had been given to contact Winter, and he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t answer.

“Hello. I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, so I thought I’d leave you a message.” His mouth opened and closed a few times, and then he smiled faintly, ruefully. “Everything that I think of to ask, you can’t answer. Things are going well with me and I hope you can say the same. We ship out tomorrow; it looks like I’m going to miss you.” He paused again, glancing away for a moment, then looked back. “I love you. Hope to hear from you soon.” He ended the transmission.

It only took a moment of sitting on the sofa, looking pensively around the tiny room, for Tycho to decide that he didn't want to stay in the empty apartment. Mind made up, he picked up his commlink and wallet and slipped them into pockets. He pulled on his favorite jacket, thinking all the while. Maybe he would comm Hobbie and see where he and Wes were, after all.

Tycho stepped into his boots and hit the button to open the apartment door.
twostandingby: (head tilt)
It took some time to climb the stairs and traverse the hallways, but eventually, Tycho found his room. He stared at the shiny '181' on the door, and wondered again if the Bar was sentient enough to have a sense of irony. The fact that his room shared the number of Rogue Squadron's Imperial counterpart, Baron Soontir Fel's elite 181st, seemed to suggest it. He sighed and slid the old-fashioned key into the lock after a moment's fumbling; it was a design he hadn't seen since his childhood, when simplicity and organic means had always been preferred over sleek technology. He opened the door and stepped inside, and he heard the door click shut and then stood there for a long moment before realizing that the glowlamps were not going to switch on automatically, as he had been expecting.

Tycho swore under his breath--something he had been doing a lot of since he set foot in Milliways--and he ran his hands along the wall to find the switch. He flicked it on and the lights came up. The room was small and sparse, with unadorned white walls and no windows. He was glad of that at any rate; the observation viewport in the Bar proper was unsettling, and he didn't particularly want to have a personal view of the universe constantly ending. The bed pressed against the far wall looked comfortable, piled high with dark green linens and blankets, and an old-style lamp rested atop a nightstand made of dark-colored, smooth wood. A small door leading to parts unknown shared a wall with a chair upholstered in dark green fabric.

Tycho went to the dresser that matched the nightstand and pulled open a drawer -- empty. He stuck his head in the door next and discovered a small 'fresher, and then glanced out over the tiny room again. All in all, it was small by ordinary standards, but Tycho had been bunking in capital ship and cramped base quarters long enough that the size of this tiny space was positively extravagant. It was simple and not at all decorated, but that was fine; he was used to impersonal living spaces. This would do just fine, for however long he would be stuck here.

However long. He had to wonder just how long it would turn out to be. Wes had said Hobbie had been Bound for six months; was Tycho doomed to the same fate? Or even longer? He sat down on the edge of the bed and began pulling off his boots. Milliways seemed like a strange place so far, but there were worse places to be stuck for long periods of time. Tycho knew that through personal experience. This was bound to be far more pleasant than a New Republic prison or attempted brainwashing and torture in an Imperial one. Still, though, he didn't like just that, the idea of being stuck. Wes had seemed to think that time stopped, but what if it didn't? Suppose the Rogues were fighting back home while he just sat in a bar? He felt like he was letting them down.

Placing his boots down beside the bed, Tycho padded over to the door. The sound of the bolt slamming home had a certain air of finality to it. What if, for some reason, he couldn't leave at all? The bar seemed fine and all (if absolutely unsettling), but it wasn't home. Home was Rogue Squadron and a tiny apartment on Coruscant, and even though some of his pilots were here, it wasn't right. There were no X-wings, everyone was scattered from different times, some came and went as they pleased, and people were missing.

Tycho flicked off the light and went to bed.

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Tycho Celchu

June 2007

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