Cal walked through the doorway and flicked a switch.

The lights did not turn on.

Instead, the retro bar roof lifted, opening to a sky of stars. A wrinkled old man in robes was playing with the jukebox in the corner to change the music – an ancient Iggy Pop song was playing, discordant with the room full of Anu’aris hierophants.

He was dreaming, and now that he knew, it was lucid.

Cal walked to the bar and perched himself on the wooden barstool. He pulled a coin from his tuxedo pants and spun it on the bar top. "An appletini, please," he said, voice even, betraying none of the turmoil that churned beneath his tailored jacket.

The bartender paused mid-wipe, her brow furrowed in a blend of confusion and curiosity. "An appletini?" She cast a glance over his attire, the skepticism clear in her eyes. "You sure you wouldn't prefer an old fashioned? Something with a bit more... Gra. Vi. Tas?"

Cal knew what day this was. The judgmental bartender gave it away. This was a memory. A shitty memory.

A corner of Cal's mouth twitched upward, a hint of amusement flickering across his otherwise stoic face. " I’ve had enough bitterness for tonight," he replied, the starlight from overhead glinting off his piercing blue eyes.

With a shrug that conceded to his choice, the bartender turned, setting to work on the green concoction.

Sari glided to the bar, her presence a silent siren call. She settled into the stool next to Cal, her dress dragged against the polished wood. "I'll have what he's having," she declared with a nod towards Cal.

Bottles clinked softly, ice shuddered against glass, and soon enough, the drink, all emerald glow and sugared rim, sat before him.

The bartender hesitated, her hand hovering over the martini glasses. "He's having an appletini."

A pause hung in the air as Sari's poised exterior wavered, her eyebrow arching ever so slightly. "Actually, make it a gin and tonic," she corrected quickly.

Cal took a measured sip of his drink, the sweet tang of apple dancing on his tongue. He turned to Sari, noting the faint furrow of her brow, the concern that tinged her usually unreadable facade.

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"Are you okay?" Her voice was soft but insistent, like the gentle pull of gravity on the Phenex moon. "The mission was rough."

Cal set down his glass, the clink muted by the din of murmured conversations around them. "What's there to talk about?" His reply came out flat, edged with defeat. "I failed it… Has she said anything?"

Liquid courage did little to steady Cal's nerves. He lifted the glass again, stalling for time.

"You didn't fail," Sari murmured, her voice a low note that vibrated through the clamor of the bar. "They were your friends. Betrayal wasn't in the mission brief.” She paused, “what needed to be done, is done."

Her words meant to comfort, yet they twisted in his chest like a knife—friends, indeed.

"I should've prepared for it. I could’ve convinced them. Something… Anything." His grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles whitened.

"Cal." The way Sari said his name, it sounded like a lifeline. Her hand reached out, palm open, a silent offer of solidarity amidst the chaos of betrayal and broken trust.

He glanced at her, taking in the earnest concern etched on her face.

It was more than he deserved. She was more than he deserved.

With a sigh, he placed his glass down and seized her hand, the contact a grounding force. His fingers curled around hers with a surprising desperation, as if clinging to the last shred of sanity in a world gone mad.

Sari leaned closer, her voice a whisper meant for him alone. "The Ma'kovian delegates—it was necessary. You and I both know that negotiations would've thrown the entire eastern trade corridor into chaos." She paused, searching his eyes for some sign of understanding. "But your team... their betrayal makes no sense."

Cal's gaze drifted past Sari to the bar's display, where silent images flickered—the aftereffects of his mission haunting him in high-definition. The broadcast had it on loop - numbers flashed on the screen, an ever-increasing tally that quantified the cost of failure in human lives.

As the death count from Cepharim-5's explosion scrolled by, his fingers tightened around Sari's. His pulse throbbed against her skin—a syncopated beat to the grim newsreel.

"Goddess be damned," he breathed out, the words barely a sound, yet heavy with the weight of the dead.

Sari's fingers left his for a moment, reaching out with swift grace to kill the feed. The screen blinked into darkness, severing the stream of casualties that had been ticking upward like some morbid lottery.

"Remember them from the barbecue last weekend," she murmured, her voice soft but insistent. "Laughing. Joking."

The scent of charred meat and smoky laughter invaded his senses, an echo of camaraderie now as distant as the stars they'd travelled. Faces flickered in his mind's eye, their features etched with mirth, not the shadow of betrayal. Not their dead faces reflected on his blade.

"And remember, I’ve got your back, Cal, no matter what." Sari said, her hand finding his once more. She locked eyes with him, the depth of her conviction clear. "It's me and you, babe. It’s me and you."

Cal sighed and looked at the coin. He reached out and stopped its rotation.