Fifteen million credits is more money than Tycho ever thought he would see in his life. Sure, he grew up in a wealthy family back on Alderaan, but even that wasn't on this level.

He could do anything. Retire. Resign his commission and find some peaceful little planet to settle down on. Build himself a mansion and pretend the war and Ysanne Isard and her evil don't exist. He could disappear, be done with it all.

But those thoughts never enter his mind. There is a war, and there are things that need to be done. Much better uses for the blood money Isard had used as she tried to take him and the New Republic down. He doesn't hesitate before giving it to Rogue Squadron in support of their new unsanctioned campaign against her. They're going to need all the help they can get, and he's happy to supply what he can.

He asks only one thing. He keeps a small percentage back, earmarked for a different but no less worthy cause.

Tycho has never been closely involved with any of the several Alderaanian refugee groups. He supports their endeavors, of course he does, but the thought of dedicating any part of his life to something that would keep him so intimately involved with thoughts of his dead planet, the idea of being swamped in the grief more constantly than every child of Alderaan already is... It hurts too much.

Years ago, they used to approach him, asking for support and sponsorship. Asking him to speak to politicians and dignitaries and other in power on there behalf. He was an Alderaanian, a respected pilot and member of the Alliance; he could do those sorts of things. And he had, as much as he could. He owed it to them, owed it to the memory of Alderaan even if he hated every moment.

That all stopped after Lusankya for very clear reasons. It may pick up again now that this trial by fire has found him innocent, though he'll truthfully be relieved if it doesn't.

But money, now that's something he offer. And the irony of a good-sized chunk of credits from the Empire's coffers going to help the survivors of a people it did its best to destroy is an irony he that pleases him.

Tycho fills out the donation form on his datapad, a tiny quirk of amusement crossing his face as it asks him to verify the unusually large number value he's put in. He does and is automatically shunted a thank-you form letter.

He's made the donation anonymously, but with the timing and how big his trial was in the news, he has a feeling someone might suspect. Someone might approach him. He doesn't relish the thought, but he doesn't regret his action either. There's only so much he can give his planet and his people, but he's doing his best.

Tycho lets himself smile as he thumbs off the datapad and gets up from the desk to go check how the new custom paint job on his ship is coming. He's eager to see the black and red stripes of the Alderaanian guard he'll be proudly flying under for the foreseeable future.