Allana’s eyes narrowed slightly when Kon (or the thing pretending to be Kon) called out to her using the familiar nickname, but she held her ground and her only gesture was to lift her chin slightly and consider him with seeming impassivity. In reality it took a lifetime of training by one of the galaxy’s most renowned senators and centuries of Hapan breeding to keep her from showing the emotion that clenched her stomach and roiled up in her throat like an imminent sob or scream. The last time she’d seen that face it had been covered in blood and bruises, almost too horrible to look at, and she’d thought, now this is how I’ll remember him and that had been the moment it had been hardest to keep calm, to do what had to be done without stopping to mourn. Now he was standing in front of her and speaking in that way he had of mixing a slightly mocking sarcasm and an earnest desire to reassure improbably together in his tone, and it was almost impossible to just stand and watch him as if he were any other potential threat.
She drew her lightsaber and held it out in front of her, the green of the blade producing a soft, steady glow that lit her above the cheekbones and intensified her severe expression. If someone else has his phone they’d know about the nickname, she reminded herself, and they would know if they were…what were they called…a shifter. They take the memories. This doesn’t mean anything.
“Christo,” she said in the same blankly calm voice with which she had greeted him. Then, without waiting for a reaction, she draw a vial from her pocket, took one deliberate step forward, and then splashed the contents, holy water, at him. When he failed to react with any outward signs of pain her hand tightened on the lightsaber she held until her knuckles drained to white. “Not a demon then,” she said quietly, almost to herself, and then reached into her pocket again and pulled out a chain, a necklace she’d grabbed on her way out the door, pure silver. “Catch,” she called, tossing it towards him, waiting for him to flinch away from it, to tip his hand.
It’s not him, she reminded herself as inoculation against the beginning of hope, it can’t be.