‘An old soldier drinks, but for what reason? Is it celebratory, have them been awarded a high honor, or has something from their past come to haunt them? What have they done to cause such a sadness, or was it something that happened to someone they loved? If the latter, what can be done to fix the trauma?’

Zodac dropped his head and sighed, closing his eyes as he began thinking. He closed his journal, on the bridge of absolutely falling apart, and leaned back in his seat. He raised his arm for the bill, then walked up to the room he managed to bargain for the night. What felt like a looming illness fell upon him, either from the alcohol of the night or from the hangover of yesterday. Either way, he needed the rest. A long day awaited him, and he needed to muster all the strength he possibly could.

As he settled for bed, he placed a slugthrower on the nightstand beside his bed, within arm’s reach, and allowed one to rest on the bed. However, he didn’t bother removing his gear to sleep. At least, not anything beside his helmet, which rested at the feet of the squeaking bed. Zodac hesitated as he reached to turn off the light, quickly deciding to receed his hand. His back rested against the wall as he stared at the door, almost expecting something, or someone, to walk through and attack. The bounty on his head surely contributed to his paranoia and insomnia, the previous nights being even more rough as he's noticed someone following him for the last two days. If there was a good as time as ever to claim the bounty, it would be now.

Within the blink of an eye, blackness. Zodac was sure it was time, the bounty hunter coming to stake his claim. The door to the room carefully slide open, and when movement was spotted, Zodac unleashed a flurry of slugs, but no avail. Whatever was moving, it didn’t even bother slowing down. Instinctively reaching for his other firearm, he felt a sudden chill run down his spine. As he gazed upwards to the person approaching, he did not find it to be a bounty hunter. Instead, a familiar woman with a young face. “Viera…?” He whispered to himself, frozen.

“Zodac,” the voice responded, condescendingly, “what has become of you? Is this what your life has become? Running, hiding, scraping by with your thoughts dwelling on the past? Can you not move on?”

“I know you aren’t real.” Zodac responded. “You, I don’t know what you are. An illusion, or something, but you aren’t real.” His voice shook only momentarily, but he stood firm. “Now, leave me. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

“I hope I'm real enough to get through that thick skull of yours. How can you live this kind of life? You seem to be more of a dead man walking than anything else.”

“And do you think I dont know that? How can I move on, from anything, when the damn government is trying to capture me? How, please, tell me, because I’ve been searching for an answer since Jakku!” He cried out, his gun waving around in his hand. “Do you think I like being miserable, looking over my shoulder every waking moment, just to make it through the day, do you?” His eyes began to water.

“I haven’t seen you do anything to try and help yourself. Not since Jakku. Not ever. How can you expect to move on when you can’t forgive yourself for anything you’ve ever done? It hurts me to see you like this. You know I love you. But Zodac… This is not you. You're not the man I remember.” The entity sat beside the old man, and ran her hand along his scarred, bearded cheek. “There is still time to change. You have to find it. You must, if you ever want to see me again.”

Zodac, with a shaky breath, looking at the woman in her eyes. Despite what she had to say, he only repeated a phrase. “You aren’t real. Leave me.” He closed his eyes as he repeated, and after a minute, he opened them. The lights were on, but the holes from his slug thrower were ever present on the doors and walls. The touch from the woman felt real as well, but he shook his head. He wiped his face and eyes, loaded his firearm, then stared at the door. He was in for another long, sleepless night.