Pre-Milliways
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.
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.