Chapter 97 · The Lie on the Ground

The docking lane descended gradually, pulling them closer to the outskirts—far from the city’s central towers, far from the visible scars of the rebellion that remained carved into the skyline. Their assigned landing pad was a narrow strip of reinforced duracrete wedged between a supply depot and a cluster of stacked cargo units that looked one strong wind away from collapse.

Eli squinted. “This is us?”

“Yes,” Stent confirmed.

“No greeting crew?”

“No.”

“No customs team coming aboard?”

“No.”

Eli exhaled softly. “Stars. They don’t even pretend, do they?”

“There is no reason to pretend,” Stent said, adjusting thrusters. “They are not trying to impress anyone.”

Eli watched the descent, watched the ground rise, watched the refineries belch out thin trails of smoke that drifted listlessly southward.

Lothal wasn’t trying to impress.
Lothal was trying to endure.

The Faded Glory sank lower, caught fully now in the planet’s gravity.

And the oppressive weight of Lothal’s silence pressed in around them like a story waiting to be told badly.

They powered down the engines by degrees, each system cooling in a staggered rhythm that made the Faded Glory feel smaller, tighter, as though the planet’s atmosphere were already creeping into the walls. The hangar around them buzzed with a dull, halfhearted energy—cargo lifters whining, servodroids trundling by with the resigned pace of machines long overdue for servicing. Nobody looked up as they landed. Nobody cared that a new ship had arrived.

Eli liked that.
Being uninteresting here felt like survival.

Once the exterior sensors confirmed the berth was clear, Eli opened the cargo manifest on his datapad and began reshaping it into something blandly plausible. Supplies arranged into categories that matched a trader profile. Cloth bolts moved to the front of the hold. Toolkits placed within easy reach. Ration crates adjusted to look freshly purchased instead of restocked after months in deep space.

Tee hovered anxiously by the main aisle, scanning each crate with inspector-like scrutiny. The droid trilled when he found one Eli had mislabeled.

“I know,” Eli said, leaning down to fix it. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Tee beeped again, more sharply this time.

“Yes, I know,” Eli repeated. “Pay attention. Thank you.”

Stent stood near the ramp, arms folded, observing the arrangement with a level, silent intensity. He didn’t interfere. He simply watched, absorbing every detail until the lie took shape.

“Your backstory,” Stent said at last. “Rehearse it.”

Eli straightened, wiping dust off his hands. “Name: Horatio Figg. Trader from—”

“Not from,” Stent interrupted. “Based in. Traders travel.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Based in Rago Station. Years of experience. Supply runs in the Outer Rim. Cargo procurement, small-volume hauling, occasional repairs. Mildly talkative, if asked.”

Stent’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not be talkative.”

“I said mildly.”

“Less than mildly.”

Eli sighed. “Fine. Quiet trader who minds his business.”

Stent nodded once. “Acceptable.”

Then came Stent’s turn.

Stent closed the cargo manifest on his datapad.

"We are not quite ready."

Eli looked up.

"I thought we were."

"There is one remaining preparation."

Without another word, Stent disappeared into his cabin.

A minute later he returned carrying a small metal box no larger than a datapad.

He set it on the galley table and opened it.

Inside lay only a handful of carefully arranged items.

A squat metal tin filled with thick olive-yellow makeup.

A small sponge.

A fine brush.

A transparent sheet covered in angular, asymmetrical facial markings.

A faded cap with a soft brim.

And a compact contact-lens case.

Eli blinked.

"...I have several questions."

"You may ask them."

"You've been carrying that around this whole time?"

"Yes."

"And you never mentioned it?"

"There was no reason to."

Eli smiled despite himself.

"Of course there wasn't."

Stent unscrewed the tin and began applying the base with practiced, economical movements, spreading the pigment across his cheeks, forehead and jaw until the familiar blue gradually disappeared beneath a muted olive tone.

From only a meter away it looked oddly artificial.

Yet when Eli instinctively stepped back, the illusion improved dramatically. The blue vanished first. Then, somehow, the unmistakable impression of a Chiss.

"You've done this before."

"Several times."

"I never pictured you wearing makeup."

"It has a purpose."

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"You did."

Stent picked up the transparent stencil and positioned it against the side of his face.

Eli frowned.

"...Mirialan?"

Stent nodded once.

"They are common enough in this sector to avoid notice."

"And uncommon enough that nobody's likely to ask where exactly you're from."

"Correct."

Eli watched as Stent traced the geometric markings with slow, practiced strokes.

"I always thought those tattoos actually meant something."

"They do."

That made Eli pause.

"You copied a real pattern?"

"No."

Stent continued painting without looking up.

"I designed one that follows Mirialan conventions without corresponding to any known family or clan."

Eli couldn't help laughing.

"So even your fake tattoos are properly researched."

"It would be imprudent otherwise."

"So what do yours mean?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"They are decorative approximations. If a Mirialan asks, I shall say they commemorate family milestones."

Eli raises a brow.

"And if they ask which ones?"

"Then our cover has already failed, you have your blaster, I have my charric."

Eli reached for the brush.

"Hold still."

Stent handed it to him without hesitation.

"You have a better viewing angle."

Eli leaned in and extended one of the angular markings beneath Stent's cheekbone.

"There."

Stent studied the reflection.

"A fraction lower."

Eli adjusted the line.

"Now?"

"Acceptable."

"I keep trying to impress you."

"I am aware."

"There."

Stent checked the result in the mirror.

"A slight adjustment."

Eli added another short stroke.

"Now?"

"Acceptable."

"I was aiming for 'good.'"

"I noticed."

Eli smiled.

Then Stent reached for the contact-lens case.

He opened it.

Silence.

One lens rested neatly in its compartment.

The other had dried into a cracked, opaque crescent, adhered to the bottom of the cell.

Eli leaned over.

"...That's not supposed to look like that."

"No."

Stent prodded it once with a fingertip.

"It is unusable."

"You only had one spare pair?"

"I only anticipated one operation outside Ascendancy territory."

Eli blinked.

"And you never checked them?"

"There was no reason."

"...Stars."

For the first time that morning, Stent looked mildly inconvenienced.

Not worried. Simply inconvenienced.

"The right eye can be concealed," he said after a moment's thought.

"With what?"

Both of them looked around the cabin.

Eli's gaze stopped on the medical locker.

A minute later he returned holding a sterile ocular dressing and a roll of medical tape.

Stent examined both items with professional detachment.

"This will suffice."

"It'll make you look like you've had an accident."

"That is preferable to looking Chiss."

Together they secured the dressing over Stent's right eye. Eli adjusted the tape until it sat naturally against his temple while Stent inserted the remaining brown contact lens into the left eye.

Finally, Stent pulled the worn cap low over his forehead.

He turned toward Eli.

"Assessment?"

Eli didn't answer immediately.

The blue skin was gone. The brilliant red eyes were gone. The clean, unmistakably Chiss silhouette had dissolved beneath a collection of small imperfections: muted skin, irregular markings, a shaded brow and the dressing over one eye.

He no longer looked like a Chiss. He looked like someone whose story you didn't care enough to ask.

Eli nodded slowly.

"I don't think anyone's going to remember your face."

Stent replaced the brush inside the case.

"That," he said, closing the lid, "is precisely the objective."

He stepped forward, exhaling sharply, as though shedding the Chiss officer beneath the surface and tightening into something narrower, quieter, deliberately featureless.

“Name,” Eli prompted.

“Ren Viros.”

“Occupation?”

“Merchant spacer. Technical maintenance background.”

“Background?”

“Intentionally vague.”

Eli snorted. “You don’t say.”

Stent ignored him. “I speak basic fluently. My accent will be explained as deliberate from years of travel.”

“Or because you prefer not to be asked about it.”

“That is one interpretation.”

Eli crossed his arms. “You look too… official.”

Stent gave him a flat look. “I am official.”

“Right. Exactly the problem. Traders don’t stand like they’re about to inspect a platoon.”

Stent attempted to slouch.
The result was so minimal Eli choked on a laugh.

“No, absolutely not,” Eli said. “You look like someone studying a manual on how to appear casual.”

“This posture is anatomically inefficient,” Stent said, straightening again.

“Tee, can you show him how a relaxed person stands?”

Tee beeped — not affirming, not denying, simply refusing responsibility.

Eli dragged a hand down his face. “Fine. We’ll work on it.”

Despite the humor, the tension underneath didn’t dissipate.
It sharpened.

Eli saw it in Stent’s eyes — the precision, the readiness, the quiet acknowledgement that their safety depended on how well they performed this small play. It wasn’t just a disguise. It was armor.

“We do not use each other’s aliases in private,” Stent said.

“Of course not,” Eli replied. “Ren is for outsiders. You’re Stent when it’s just us.”

“And you remain Eli.”

“Right.”

Stent didn’t smile. Stent almost never smiled. But his posture shifted, just slightly, in a way Eli recognized as trust.

They walked the cargo bay together, reviewing details, arranging the crates with the instinctive choreography of people who had been lying professionally for too long. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just the quiet work of survival.

When they finished, the hold looked exactly as it should:
a trader’s livelihood, modest and forgettable.

Eli exhaled slowly. “All right. We’re ready.”

Stent gave a single, measured nod. “Yes.”

Outside, the hangar continued its indifferent hum.
Inside, the Faded Glory felt still.

The lie was set.
Now they had to live it.