Ah.

Dolce is nodding. Slowly. Wonderful thing, a nod. All at once, it tells a room you understand, you’re thinking, and you’re going to talk, but not yet. Not yet. Give him a little time, please. He will give you a good answer. Just give him a little time. Please.

He heard every syllable, every brush of air that passed 20022’s lips. Intonations and emphasis pile up alongside carefully smoothed expressions. This raw material, he systematically tears to pieces, cataloging every bit of data he can wring out. If he works hard enough, he'll find meaning. He'll find reason. He'll find everything he missed. The first time. Every time. And. And. And. And. Not yet. Put it in a box. Set it on the shelf. Later. He’ll get to that later. He knows it’s important, but there’s no time. Not now. Later. He promises. He’s got more important things to worry about.

He stands in the seat of power of the second highest-ranking individual in all the Skies. He is bound by oaths, a labyrinth of corridors and sealed doors, an army of guards, a horde of drones, and more besides. Dolce of Beri wields neither power nor influence. He’s got…well, he’s got the hope that when he leaves here, someone will remember to give him back his little sword, and whatever else he happened to be carrying in his bags today. 

He. He has. He had. He’s not got…

No one here is a friend. At least, not a friend he can rely on.

He is not safe. He may not be safe for quite some time.

Dolce is not nodding. He lifts his head the correct amount to indicate both attention and humility. His hands remain folded. He speaks in a voice beaten into his tongue. 

“Thank you, but that doesn’t seem sensible, given the circumstances. I’m sure I can find some small way to make myself useful in a time of crisis.”

He is a sensible sheep. Thank goodness for that, sensible sheep are well-known to be helpful, nonthreatening, and inoffensive. You will find no better follower in all the galaxy. Through Poisidon’s storms and Zeus’ thunder, they will put one hoof in front of the other, and they won’t give a lick of complaint or question. They’ll find a way to roll up their sleeves and muddle on through, somehow. 20022 may collect his voice, and search for the fear that brought this lost lamb to heel, but he may not recognize the shape of it.

Dolce is not safe. Somewhere in the universe, on an Imperial warship, rides safety. Rides home.

He has to live. He has to muddle his way back, whether it’s under the nose of 20022 or from a cafe in Beri with two windows.

It’s the only sensible thing to do.