Ryner was currently seated in a conference room with some other members of the delegation and a few of the SpecForce marines that had accompanied them. Refreshments were being served by some of the ship’s crew and Ryner hadn’t passed on the opportunity to indulge in Chandrilan tea as he waited for Fiske’s statement. The “good” Minister had promised him a personal copy and Ryner dreaded to read it. His pocket secretary beside him on the table, he entered conversation with some of the people present and lost track of time until a sound emanated from the device on the table, signalling him that the report had been received.

The Chandrilan tea was spat out, a light brown mist settling on the table and his pocket secretary as he coughed and attempted to regain his composure. His fellow companions all turned to look at him in unison, obviously curious as to what had caused such an outburst. The marines especially smirked some as they no doubt perceived Ryner to be somewhat of a cad just about now.

Wiping the secretary and the table with a towel, he resumed his reading but was under the impression that he wouldn’t enjoy the rest of it—just as this comment about how “progress was made largely because of the patience and the persistence of the Imperial delegation” had piqued him. He had clasped the mug once more but hadn’t actually taken more tea, the cheap china resting firmly within the grasp of his right hand. As he reached the end of the document, indignation swelled within him. Forgetting any notions of decorum, the grip he was exerting on the mug was strengthened until it shattered in his hand, pieces of china and his remaining tea spilling all over.

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Ryner, with a bandaged hand, descended the ramp of the ship onto a platform on which a few journalists were waiting. Like insects, they swarmed around him, shouting and trying to grab his attention. As was his custom, Ryner merely smiled and evaded their questions, telling them that the full report would be made available shortly by his office. One asked what his plans were now that the summit was over so he merely mentioned taking a well needed trip back home to Chandrila. He needed time to recuperate after an exasperating week and was leaving at the latest tomorrow for some R&R. As was their custom, they pressed for more. One in particular was buzzing about like an angry wasp, obviously attempting to wear Ryner down until he’d speak.

“So tell me, does Ponc Gavrisom want a return to war, or just you?” he shouted over the others in an ornery manner. Bullseye.

Indignant, Ryner turned around, a look of utter amazement on his face. “I beg your pardon?” he shot back rather curtly. What the devil did he mean by that?

“Well, the Imperial report does clearly mention a petition signed by the Corporate Sector Authority and that if his Excellency doesn’t rectify some of the points… Their Moff Council might not even approve any of the agreements. Congratulations for having made the New Republic spend quite a hefty sum for this circus if it falls through. And if they do expand their defences, who do we blame for that?” he concluded with a definitively accusatory rise of his left eyebrow.

Ryner’s face paled considerably as he listened the drivel, but as the journalist ended, it turned a shade of red. Moving forward with a predatory stride he rarely demonstrated, he stopped a few inches away from the journalist and lifted his head ever so slightly to stare directly into the eyes of the somewhat taller man. And so began his tirade in High Galactic, his preferred language of choice when he needed to blow off steam. He shouted himself hoarse as security officials approached to defuse the situation. A hand was placed on his shoulder and someone was ushering him away from the scene. Fuming, he tried to regain his composure and couldn’t fail to hear the irritating voice once more. “High Galactic, failure to actively do anything against the Remnant at the summit, a botched attempt to eradicate the Jedi earlier this week… What would your father think of his Imperial herald son if he were here?”

As a hand clutched tightly against the dattadagger in his right trouser pocket, more security official ushered him away before any true damage could be done.

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Ryner had been fuming all day: at the spaceport, at the office, and he was still fuming as he packed, bossily ordering his valet droid and MA-BE-3PO about. “Have a memo sent to the attention of the Chief of State. Say that under no circumstances should he give in to pressure from the Remnant. As he’ll no doubt find from reading the full summit report the Corps will give him, the Remnant was never going to give us any leeway. Sacrificing the forces on Eriadu? Ha! It was bloody obvious that they would have had to do so anyways given the planet joined the New Republic. Gavrisom would be an idiot to think it would have been a fair trade off for Bandomeer”. He slammed things in his suitcase, not really caring if he was doing them damage or not. “And obviously, do not include the ‘Gavrisom is an idiot’ part” he piped in from the refresher as he amassed his toiletries. “Oh, and make sure to let the staff know I’m coming. I ever so hate to come home and have my room unprepared. If they ask, I should be in Hanna for 10am local time tomorrow if there aren’t any delays at the station. Goodness knows I need something to go right this week…”

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No more than two hours later, with only his R8 astromech droid on board, his PLY 4000 the Sharra was leaving the orbit of Coruscant. His muscles aching, his head pounding, Ryner slipped further into his chair and sipped some wine. He felt inclined to down the damned bottle in its entirety but settled on two glasses maximum for the duration of the trip. And as the ship entered hyperspace, he heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, dreaming of the break ahead. “I’m coming home…” he muttered to himself, smiling faintly.