Mal was alone, and that was how he liked it most of the time. No one to ask questions, no one to bother him. He could think better that way. That does not mean he was alone in the strictest sense though. He was in the cantina, but he was by himself. No one was paying him any attention. And that was how he liked it.

In front of him was a glass. It was half-full, but it could have been half-empty. Closer to full though, he thought to himself. The glass was half-full with a clear liquid, which Mal picked up gingerly and took a draw off it. It was tasteless. That's because it was water. Mal didn't drink anymore, but he found the presence of alcohol comforting for some reason. It had mastered him for a long while, but now he was his own master. Or more accurately, the Empire was his master, but alcohol had no hold over him. He took another draw, draining the glass. His bartender eventually got around to him.

"You're bad for business, y'know that?" It was a joke, or at least was intended as a joke. Mal said nothing, instead raising his eyebrows and twisting his mouth to the left, showing his indifference. The bartender shrugged and waddled off to go and deal with a more interesting patron than the Senior Crewman. He left Mal Calad alone with...himself.

That was how Mal liked it.

It wasn't that he didn't like people. Quite the opposite. He felt deeply for people as a whole and people specifically. It was that he didn't have much to say for himself. He did what he was told, he did what he needed to do, and he didn't ask questions when things made sense to him. Mal was obedient, loyal, and skilled, which made him a perfect Imperial subject.

He preferred to study people. He looked around to his Naval comrades, carrousing and having a good time. He smiled a mysterious half-smile as pride swelled in his chest. They deserve it, he thought. They do good work. Hell, I do good work. He took a sideways draw off his water, sipping from the corner of his mouth as he watched the scene that unfolded in the cantina. It didn't bear remembering. Members of the same squadrons were drinking and talking, some with jesters, acting as the center of attention and others a great debate between good friends.

Mal felt inward embarrasment as he remembered what squadron was emblazoned on his uniform. It proclaimed he was a Viper. He was a Viper, but he didn't begin his duty until tomorrow, when he would meet his squadron comrades. It was a good squadron, stocked with good pilots. And he would be one of those good pilots. He had graduated from the Naval Academy with distinction and received a double promotion right out of the gate. Not bad for a backward hick from Tatooine with a chip on his shoulder and a scar on his neck.

The scar. His hand found its way to his neck, to put a finger or two on the blemish, which stood bright white on his tan flesh. He winced. Not out of pain, but out of what the scar stood for. Failure. That was what it represented. His failure, the Galaxy's failure, the authorities' failure...but mostly his failure as a brother. He bowed his head for a moment, raising it back up slowly. He grimaced, and the hand that felt the scar went to the glass of water.

Half-empty, now.

“Well then it was nice to meet you, and I guess I'll see you in the morning. Try and stay out of trouble until then,” Tinker said. He was about to speak, but she was already on her way out. He shrugged again, and continued drinking his water. He finished the glass, and stood up to leave.

His bartender couldn't resist a parting shot. “Thank you, so much! Your tab is a grand total of...zero credits! Have a good day, Crewman!” Mal smiled and nodded deeply, taking his leave of the cantina.

As he passed through the halls of the Atrus, he saw various and sundry naval personnel. Officers, to whom he gave his respect, non-coms that ranked higher than he, a plethora of Petty Officers and Warrant Officers, and other crewman, mostly Leading and regular Crewman. In addition to that were a few Army personnel, mostly troopers, but all who took no notice of a lone TIE jockey.

Mal had to share his quarters with a Leading Crewman, a Corellian who talked too much for his own good.

“Ned Onclan. You must be Mal, right? You're a Viper?! That's so cool. I wish I had gotten assigned to Viper, but I'm happy with my own assignment...” Ned never gave Mal a chance to speak, but this was all fine and dandy with Mal, who readied himself for bed. As he got ready to hit the sack, Mal listened to Ned talk about how he had a design for new Star Destroyer classes, how Ned was going to be the youngest member of Naval High Command, how Ned would go down in history as one of the finest pilots in the Galaxy, how Ned would do this and Ned would do that. When Ned asked Mal why he had joined the Navy, it was a signal that Mal would finally be permitted to speak. Mal's lips grew thin.

“Don't want to talk about,” he said quietly. “No offense, but I gotta wake up early and report. Night, Ned.”

With that, Mal rolled onto his side, away from Leading Crewman Ned Onclan, the Navy's Great White Hope, who looked at his bunkmate dumbstruck for the first time in a long, long time.

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The next day was mostly uneventful for Mal Calad. Reporting to Viper Squadron was exactly as he expected it would be: full of welcome from the Squadron Commander, full of (one-sided) conversation with his wingman, Kyrios, and full of squadron exercises. His wingman was a new guy too, and had graduated from the Naval Academy only a short time after Mal himself had. It made Mal smile that Kyrios had graduated with honors similar to his own.

For his first day, Mal chose to stick to the books in terms of maneuvers, not being too inventive with flight patterns or tactics. As far as he was concerned, he didn't need to open his bag of tricks until it was absolutely necessary. Plus, it was his first time in the cockpit of an Interceptor as a full member of the Navy, not just some hick recruit from Tatooine. When Mal started at the Naval Academy, there were 600 applicants. Mal was one of just 200 to be assigned outright to squadrons, and Mal was put in one of the best.

After exercises, he had received praise from all the members of the squadron: his SC, Ibram, complemented his grasp of the fundamentals and said he was a solid pilot. Mal's wingman was a solid pilot as well, and received similar praise. But the only member of the squadron whose compliment actually initiated conversation.

“Mal,” she said, looking at him sidelong like she had yesterday. “You fly pretty good...for a rookie,” she added, grinning at him. Mal shrugged, a large one that reached his ears and managed to tilt his head slightly.

“I do okay, I guess. Not so bad yourself, Petty Officer.”