The Protectorate's victory has restored order, but the cost weighs heavily on him. Too many civilians were caught in the crossfire. Too many municipal officers died defending Sector House Aurek. The reports never stop coming.

So, without an escort and wearing simple clothing instead of his dress uniform, Rheiker walks into one of Tirac Munda's most reputable establishments.

The Lucky Rancor.

Unlike the glittering casinos downtown, the Lucky Rancor is comfortable rather than luxurious. Brass light fixtures cast a warm amber glow across shelves filled with bottles collected from every corner of the Outer Rim. Veterans, freighter captains, customs inspectors, and the occasional bounty hunter all know the unwritten rules.

Leave your blaster at the door.

Leave your politics outside.

Everyone drinks in peace.

Behind the polished counter stands Toreya Buran.

She notices him immediately. "Rough week, Lieutenant?" Rheiker allows himself the faintest smile. "You've been watching the holonet." She pours his usual drink before he even sits. "Didn't need the holonet. Half my regulars were there." 

Their conversations have become something of a ritual over the past several months. Rheiker never pushes for information, and Toreya never asks questions she doesn't want answered. It is an understanding built on mutual respect rather than official business.

Tonight, however, something is different. Toreya keeps glancing toward the door. After ensuring no one is listening, she quietly slides a datapad beneath Rheiker's glass.

"A shipment manifest." He doesn't touch it. "Should I ask where it came from?" She smirks. "No." Rheiker studies her expression. She isn't joking.

The manifest appears ordinary. Agricultural machinery. Medical supplies. Luxury textiles. Yet every shipment follows the same pattern. The cargo leaves Tirac Munda legally. Somewhere along established hyperspace routes, pirate attacks occur. Insurance claims are filed. The merchant houses recover their losses. Weeks later, identical cargo quietly appears on black markets throughout the sector. Someone is arranging both sides of the transaction.

Toreya leans closer. "You remember Captain Vern? Used to drink here every month." Rheiker nods. The aging freighter captain disappeared nearly a year earlier. "He wasn't robbed." She pauses. "He was paid." Another pause. "The pirates only attack ships they're told to attack." Rheiker finally picks up the datapad. The names begin repeating. House Varris. House Canto. The Belnar Shipping Combine. All respectable merchant families. All pillars of Tirac Munda's economy. None with criminal records.

"Why tell me?" For the first time since they've met, Toreya hesitates. "Because good people died in the Ember District while the ones who caused all this were drinking imported wine from their rooftop gardens." Silence settles between them. Outside, speeders drift through the rain. The city appears peaceful once more. But Rheiker now sees the pattern. The riots weren't merely the result of gang violence. The syndicates had funding. Professional funding. Someone with immense wealth had been quietly financing piracy, destabilizing neighborhoods, and profiting from the ensuing chaos.

He closes the datapad. "If this is real..." Toreya finishes his sentence. "Then your war isn't in the streets anymore." She looks toward the distant skyline where the elegant towers of Golden Heights rise above the smog. "It's up there."

As he starts to leave, Toreya reaches across the counter. Just enough to touch his hand. "You'll be careful?" He smiles. "I always am." She laughs. "No." "You aren't." A beat passes. Neither lets go immediately. Finally, he turns toward the door. Without looking back, "I'll see you after this is over." She watches him disappear into the rain. Quietly hoping he'll keep that promise.

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Zordo Greeb is a humble, hardworking Nikto. His cafleaf farm has been stewarded by generations of Greebs, and now the duty has passed to him. While he hasn't been lucky enough to find a partner yet, he takes pride in his work and looks forward to teaching the next generation the responsibilities of farming.

Zordo's home is a prefab "box house", a simple cube dropped from a carrier hovercraft. Zordo added an HVAC and water filtration system, among other amenities, with an exterior control box visible on the back of the house.

Zordo is a Nikto of few wants, and his sparse home reflects this. A fan above the stovetop redirects steam toward the side window and keeps Zordo cool on the warm Kyrska days.

The fridge under the stovetop contains a jar of blue milk, a favorite drink of Zordo's. Luckily, another farm nearby produces plenty.

Despite the recent pirate attacks, Zordo feels lucky to be a Protectorate citizen. From what he's seen on the news, the "New Republic" hasn't been able to offer the security the old Empire guaranteed. Of all the places in the vast galaxy, Kyrska is surely one of the safest.