Luck

There is an elusive element to life that no one can truly prepare for. No matter how much one plans, no matter how many contingencies one considers, no matter how much control a person tries to assert over every aspect of their existence, there is an unknown mechanic in the universe that can somehow affect it all. Sometimes it was for a better outcome, sometimes worse. Some called it fate; others, destiny. Some attributed it to gods or the Force. If Aittera were asked to put a name to it, she would call it luck.

Aittera had woken up to find herself blinking wearily into the face of an unfamiliar Mirialan. A feeling of warmth and comfort had seemed to flood her body, soothing away the worst of the pain that came most predominantly from the vicinity of her stomach. The familiar voice of Tes'ara, Jean's second at Agamar Risk Control Services, had been next. Relief and grief had flooded her conscious thought simultaneously.

Not dead.

Her apartment's security system had activated third-party alert protocol, alerting Jean Schramme when Kiabe destroyed her door. It was a change that Aittera had made just days ago, when he had come to talk about Sheridan Zila. She had realized only hours before that unplanned, unexpected meeting that Selus's frequency was still listed in the protocol, and asking Jean if he would mind allowing her to use his contact information instead was simply good timing. She needed someone she could rely on, and he was the one person left in the universe who still might have her back.

Should be dead.

Aittera was in a medcenter on the Upper Promenade, and the Mirialan was a Jedi healer who she would come to realize later had never given her name. As the events of the attack came back to her, Aittera was dumbfounded at the sheer impossibility of what had occurred. Jean and Tes'ara explained that the pureblood had bled out by the time they'd reached her apartment. The knife she'd used was something she never really gave much thought to anymore. It was simply part of getting ready to go somewhere, like an extension of getting dressed – blasters at her hips, knife in her boot or under her belt. The choice to stow it at her back on the day of the attack had been nothing more than a matter of convenience.

I'm not dead.

Further, they had disposed of Kiabe's body, and from what she was able to understand from the conversation between the Jean and his second, by the time Tes'ara was finished, there would be no trace of the Sith Lord's visit. She was profoundly grateful. They had insulated her against retaliation as best they could. Turned out the good guys were far more scary in their efficiency than any criminals she'd ever met.

Why aren't I dead?

Aittera would also come to learn from Jean that he had called Cartel Security to provide an escort to the medcenter, and she would marvel at her old friend for how easily he went so far above and beyond for the people he cared about. When the medical staff quit fussing over her, she asked to move to the Hope's medbay to recover. The Promenade's medcenter gleamed too bright, too metallic, and felt far too open and exposed.

Dumb kriffing luck.

When asked a few days later what was next, Aittera honestly had no idea what the answer should be. After all, she should be dead. As much as she might have told herself she wanted to die just a few days before, that instinct to survive, to fight, was as strong as it ever had been. Whatever was to come next, she was alive. Let it come.

(( I want to take a moment to once again thank the players behind Jean, Tes'ara, Evander, Radwan, and Zabess for the awesome RP that went into helping me finish this story. I'm humbled and so very, very grateful.))