It was 11:10 when Roz started to pack her things. She skipped breakfast, and made herself a stimcaf from the basket of complimentary supplies. Finishing was a struggle, like swallowing sand; the warmth spread, untangling the tension of a long and restless night. From her dresser, she snatched a small bottle and gave it a shake. There was a lonely rattle, and the bottle was quickly stashed away with everything else. She crossed the room, toes curling at the soft kiss of carpet, and stepped onto the balcony.

The Grand Dame Hotel was a proud and unsubtle confection that took its place amongst a bejewelled stretch of resorts known locally as the Golden Mile. The Golden Mile intersected Tyrena south of the Auric River, where it lead all the way to the Gold Beaches, which were almost certainly more than a mile away. Roz drank in the sight like cheap and unwelcome liquor, grimacing at the aftertaste. She pushed a smoke to her lips and indulged a long first drag. The morning sun was climbing, setting duracrete mountains ablaze and stitching the street below in ribbons of gold. In too many ways, Tyrena reminded her of the Capital, and wasn't that just the point? To draw the wealthy elite from their gaudy towers with a palatable facsimile of home? There were so few places left in the city that resembled Corellia, the real Corellia. But they were there, if you knew where to look.

Above, the sky was an unbroken canvas of creamy blue, a picture uncluttered by the tedious conga lines of big city traffic; all of the larger transports and freighters were being redirected to a secure port outside of town, as they had been since the first day of the blockade. Below, a ceaseless buzz of human traffic - well, mostly human - for all their freedom and culture, Corellians still managed to find places to hide their aliens. Even from all the way up on the 78th floor, Roz could spot the square jaws and straight backs of the people who called themselves natives, the impostors, who were but the symptom of a disease. When they spoke, it was with the clipped reserve of Coruscant lords and ladies, not with the breezy confidence of common folk.

From inside her room, a low chime sounded. Roz lifted the smoke for one last kiss, and flicked it into the expanse. On her dresser, there was a metal disc about the size of an adult's palm, she pressed its flashing blue light and watched as a ghostly figure took shape before her:

Iyla Sung was a tall square-shaped woman, here, no bigger than a table lamp, whose tanned-leather face and platinum grey curls were painted in shades of holographic blue. She wore a plain and functional blouse, neat slacks, and other than a simple floral brooch, there was no jewellery at all. She looked every part the middle-class house wife at a garden party, and it was a look that was wildly at odds with the woman she knew. The steel in her gaze was telling, and yet, the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth betrayed a woman of good humour. She greeted her old friend with a smile.

"Hey, old girl. How'd it go on the puttie green?"

Iyla's mouth tightened into a thin line, too quick for her quick smile. She regarded her attire and conceded.

"Thrilling. I won by 6 thripwits. You should've seen it."

"Six whole thripwits, huh?" Roz frowned and folded her arms, considering the fictional victory with a nod, "That's a lot of thripwits."

"You bet your ass it is. Keeps me young, and it's a damn sight better than chugging stimcaf and sucking death sticks. Don't you reckon?"

"I wouldn't know," Roz shrugged off the implication, "Valeri Cliq doesn't smoke."

"Valeri Cliq," Iyla enjoyed that, "Sounds like smart gal."

"You ain't seen her shoes," Roz sat on her bed and started to wage war with a pair of faux leather death traps, "Hey, don't you have that trip coming up with Ket, Moro, and Fig?"

"Sure do. We're taking the train together. Just like old times." Iyla paused, and Roz could feel her staring spears through her chest, "What about you? Productive trip?"

"Old business, new faces. You know how it goes."

"I know. You get a good deal?"

At first, Roz couldn't look at her.

"Difficult to say." When their eyes finally met, there was an apology there, "Listen, I got a bus to catch, and I heard the traffic's gonna be hell. You take care of yourself, old girl."

Iyla smiled at last, "Safe journey, Lix. See you soon."

The cool blue faded and the burbling stopped. Silence rushed in through the open balcony door; it lingered, an oppressive emptiness baked in the summer morning's heat. This high up, it was normal to have strong winds, expected even, but there was nothing normal about the stillness outside. It was as if the whole planet was holding its breath.

When she left her room, Roz was accosted at once by the same roguish porter who'd welcomed her to the hotel not 2 days previous, he once again unburdened her of her luggage and led the way to the elevator. She allowed it because it was to be expected of someone who looked like she did, with her smart black business suit and practised power walk, she even tipped the idiot for his trouble. Checking out was quick and painless. She left behind Valeri Cliq and the Grand Dame Hotel without so much as a second glance. Outside, there was a cab waiting. And Jules - the porter had introduced himself - was unwavering in his service, under her watchful eye he busied himself with her luggage, and loaded it into the trunk. Everything except her dainty purse, which she clutched in both hands as she eased herself into the back seat. Before he shut the door behind her, Jules was afforded a fleeting smile.

"Where to, miss?"

The droid had an eerie white grin which flashed whenever it spoke. In the mirror, it watched her with its lifeless eyes. Unuttered words crashed like giant slabs of ice in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed.

"The starport. Quickly."