First night
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.
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.