Chapter 78 · White

The Yitheen base had no real uniform shop — just a converted storage bay full of scavenged fabrics, half-functioning sewing droids, and a tailor who looked like he hadn’t slept since the Clone Wars.

But when Captain Marae said they needed white, the tailor managed to produce it.

Stent stood on a low platform while the man worked, chalking lines along the shoulders and collar. The fabric was stark against Stent’s skin, unnervingly familiar in its cut: high collar, clean seams, minimalist authority.

Eli sat on a crate a few meters away, arms folded, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching — failing.

“You are staring,” Stent said without looking up.

“Yeah,” Eli said. “Get used to it. Everyone else will be doing the same.”

The tailor grunted. “Hold still, Commander.”

“Grand Admiral,” Marae corrected from the doorway, arms folded. “If we’re doing this, we might as well do it properly.”

Eli winced. Stent didn’t.

Two more droids buzzed in, carrying another hanger — Eli’s uniform.

Gray-green gaberwool, crisp, impeccably pressed despite being assembled from half a dozen mismatched sets of Imperial leftovers.

“Yours,” Rinna said, handing it to him. “Aide-de-camp. Rank Lieutenant Commander. Regulation haircut. No beard.”

“Right,” Eli said. He rubbed his jaw, suddenly self-conscious of the scruff he’d let grow the last days. “I knew my luck would run out.”

“Part of the job,” Rinna said. “You want them to look at him and see a Grand Admiral, you’d better look like someone who’d die for one.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Great. Love the job description.”

The mirror was small and cracked, but it did the job.

When he rinsed the blade and looked up, the face staring back at him was too familiar and not familiar at all — lighter, sharper, younger than he felt. The good old imperial navy regulation haircut was back. A lieutenant’s face. A ghost’s shadow.

He stepped out into the main room trying not to dwell on it.

Stent was waiting there, standing very still.

His hair was loose — the long, perfectly kept Chiss ponytail falling down his back. He held a small blade in one hand.

Eli blinked. “…you want me to—?”

Stent offered him the knife, calm as ever. “It must be cut. You are the logical choice.”

Eli froze. “Me?”

“Yes.”
As if it were obvious.

Stent turned, gathering the dark hair with his own precise fingers. “You understand Chiss discipline. And you are least likely to make an aesthetic choice based on sentiment.”

“That’s your compliment for the day?” Eli muttered, but his throat tightened all the same.

He took the blade.

Stent tilted his head slightly forward, exposing the tie.

The room seemed very quiet.

“You sure?” Eli asked, quieter than he meant to.

“A hairstyle does not define me,” Stent said. “Purpose does.”

Eli swallowed hard. “Okay.”

He cut cleanly, one firm stroke.

The ponytail fell into his hand — heavier than he expected, symbolic in a way Stent didn’t seem to register but Eli felt like a punch behind the ribs.

Stent straightened and turned. “Thank you.”

Before Eli could respond, Rinna appeared in the doorway, holding one of the battered holo-pads they’d been using for reference.

“Well,” she said, eyeing the severed hair in Eli’s hand, “that’s the hard part done. I will finish it.”

Stent raised an eyebrow. “There is more?”

“Oh, plenty more,” Rinna said, crossing the room. She pulled up a holo of Thrawn from his early command days — crisp lines, sharp edges, not a strand out of place. “If you’re going to pass for an Imperial icon, we need to shape this properly.” she felt a strand of Stent’s hair between her fingers. “And it is going to take tons of hair gel”

Stent did not sigh, but Eli suspected he came close.

Rinna began combing and trimming with professional focus.

Eli watched, still holding the cut ponytail without realizing it.

Stent caught his gaze.

“Eli,” he said gently. “You may let go now.”

Eli blinked, startled, and set the hair aside. “Right. Sorry.”

Rinna smirked without looking up. “You two are going to make this mission very interesting.”

Stent answered dryly, “We aim for efficiency.”

But when their eyes met in the cracked mirror, Eli saw the truth:

This wasn’t efficiency.

It was commitment.

And it was personal for both of them.

When Stent stepped fully into the uniform, the room went quiet in a way that didn’t feel planned.

It wasn’t perfect.

The face wasn’t Thrawn’s — the bone structure a little different, the posture too relaxed, the eyes lacking that razor-drawn quality that cut through people like a blade. They would have to work into that.

But the silhouette…

The silhouette was close enough that Eli forgot to breathe for a second.

Stent noticed. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Eli said, too fast. He swallowed. “No, I just—guess it hit me how real this is.”

Stent adjusted the collar, looking genuinely puzzled. “It is not real. It is a sequence of actions to accomplish a task.”

“Sure,” Eli murmured. “Tell that to my nerves.”

The tailor stepped back, satisfied. “There. A ghost dressed and ready.”

Stent looked at himself in the mirror only once — a long, measured stare.

No pride. No discomfort. Just a man committing a shape to memory.

“It will serve,” he said quietly.

Eli believed him — maybe too much.