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| - The Sandbar A large, comfortable room creates the main part of Plaxton City's infamous Sandbar, survivor of no less than three rounds of destruction, once more back on its feet. Refurbished to much the same state it had enjoyed prior to the invasion of Caspar at Imperial hands, the place boasts dark wood panelling on its walls, and myriad booths and tables of occasionally battered but sturdy lighter wood, and a number of both old and brand new holoposters hung here and there on the walls. Several deep blue glass windows allow light in from outside, while keeping the ambient light level fairly low. The marble bar that survived the recent war still remains, more battered than before, but once again serving as the domain of Ariani; the loft, too, has been restored, providing yet more seating and an excellent view of the low stage towards the back of the room, where the local band called the Womprats play each night. Ah, Corellia. Wait, no. This isn't Corellia. No, in fact. This is not Corellia. If it were Corellia, this very bar would actually be some sort of a timewarp, or spacewarp, or some such thing. No. This bar is very much in Plax... Plax... Plaxsomething City, on the very planet of Caspar, in, well. The Caspar system, or something to that effect. Anyways. Here we begin to extoll on the deeds and deedices of our famed heroes. Who are they, you might ask? Well. There's the barkeep, and whatnot. But aside from those folks, there is someone that actually hasn't been seen here since that rather large and copious fight a number of months ago in which many people died in this very bar. The scortch marks and blood stains might still be seen in some places. No, we're not talking about a ghost. Well, we might. It is Bazil McKenzie, after all, and he's seated at the bar, lazily turning a glass between a black gloved hand. Turn, turn, spin spin, goes the glass as he sits there, staring at it. He seems to have some sort of medical bandaging about his neck, too. Fancy that. Aside from that very Bazil, there are others in the bar, of course. There are the normal patrons, the space-scum, the spacers, the military folks, and the occasional no-good, dirty-rotten, horrible type person. These last can all be identified by the characteristic eye (or whatever appropriate device for whatever appropriate visual sensing apparatus this creature might have) patch. All in all, a rather normal and quiet day. Not far from that place where Bazil is deep in thought over his glass, sit a couple at a small table. The woman, a red-haired human wearing nondescript clothing and sipping from a tumbler filled, this time, with some sort of juice cocktail. She stirs the froth at the top of the glass, then takes a sip and gives her companion at the table a smile. "Hey, today's been quiet for once," Jessalyn says in an attempt at optimism, even as she casts a glance in the direction of Bazil McKenzie seated at the bar. "Oh, I know him," she adds under her breath. "He was the one on the beach. That I told you about." Suddenly, Orson looks at Bazil, opens his mouth, closes it again, and turns back to Jessalyn. "That's the one?" he says, voice full of incredulity. "That's Bazil McKenzie," he explains, leaning in toward his companion and adding something in a low tone. "So much for a quiet day, I think," the mechanic murmurs through a frown, adjusting his clothes like he's getting ready for an inspection. Maybe he could slip out unnoticed. Malus makes his way through the doors pausing for a moment...his eyes skip through the bar from being to being, table to table then they move to the bar. As his eyes adjust he sees an empty seat next to Bazil. 'Good enough' he thinks to his self making his way around the tables, and eventualy to the bar. HE gives Bazil a nod as he sits on the stool turning his attention to all the differant alchols to chose from. Well, if Bazil had noticed any of the mouthwork that Orson had been performing, or anything of that sort, he was oblivious to it. No, indeed, as he sits there, he's rather blank. Drunk? No, blank. Uh huh. In any case, he nurses his glass carefully, quietly, thoughts trundling through his mind as he sits there. As the man sits next to Bazil, he turns to the man, gives him a silent nod, and then turns his head back to his glass, murmer(not to be confused with mumu)ing out, "Corellian Whiskey's pretty good." Surprised by Orson's reaction, Jessalyn resists the urge to look back at Bazil again, raising her eyebrows as the instinctive communication between them reveals his uneasiness, if his words did not. "You know him?" she asks dumbly. Initially she had wanted to go to the man and check to see how he was recovering from the unfortunate electrocution episode on the beach, but apparently that would not be a good idea. She bites her lip and furrows her brow at Orson, expecting an explanation. Orson claws at his lips, rubbing thick fingers over a suddenly weary looking face. "We go back, yeah," he replies, sinking back in his seat. "I tortured him a few months ago. In the woods. At the base." He gives Jessalyn a shrug and simply shakes his head. "I regret it. I didn't know all the details behind why he was there. But it was a bad experience for both of us." Malus grins as Bazil mentions Corellian whisky. As the bar keep makes her way buy Malus orders, "Ill have a Corellian whisky please. He turns back to Bazil looking oddly to him then again turns away. "Mmm," Bazil offers to his glass, watching it quietly. Such a pretty glass. The sounds from about the bar muddle in his mind, surfing dumbly without any real destination, bouncing against the various walls of his skull. And, as a couple of words which sounded to him along the lines of 'I touched him and flew mothy go.' go through one ear and out the other, the words themselves leave him even more muddled, but the voice. The voice. He knows the voice, to some degree. Didn't he? So Bazil does what any curious man would do. He turns, and falls off of his stool, face first. "What?" Jessalyn's voice rises in shock before she has a chance to stop herself. "What do you mean, you -tortured him?" She manages to get that last sentence out in a whisper at least, leaning forward and grasping at her apprentice's arm as she searches his face. "I can't believe what I'm hearing, Orson." Orson gives a half-hearted tug on his arm, trying to pull away from Jessalyn's grip. She's got a good hold on him, so he doesn't make a show of it. Instead of grabbing a pulling, she's grabbed and pushed. Pushed him into a more sullen spot. He meets her gaze and nods. "He and Karrde got sideways with one another," the man starts. "Then I got a message that he was going to help out with a show our entertainment division was working on. As part of Karrde's and his resolution of their problems." Orson maneuvers under Jessalyn's grip and frees his arm, standing and seeming completely unsurprised that Bazil has fallen on the floor. "I need to check on him." With a slow breath, the mechanic starts over to the prostrate agent. Bias walks into the bar and he looks around and he sees no one that he knows so he walks toward the bar and sits down,and orders a drink and he watches the room for friends and enemies. Malus chuckles to his self as he stands. He makes a step or so to the fallen Bazil and nudges him with his foot. "You ok down their.....or do you need a bit of help pal?" Malus rubs his chin as he awaits an answere. At the same time his head turns watching Bias as he comes to take a seat, his eyes squint thinking to his self' I know him....' Knowing that he cant just approach Bias he again turns to Bazil awaiting an answere. "I'm fine," Bazil mutters quietly, as he observes the intricate flooring. He coughs gently, with a wince, blowing dust about the ground, before wobbling to his feet, and brushing the worst of the stuff off of him. It is then that he notices Orson. He stares blankly for a few moments, trying to comprehend when it was that Orson cloned himself so many times. Perhaps Karrde had splurged on that. It would be an interesting idea. And worth looking into. "Hi," He offers, turning to grasp his glass. Unfortunately, the glass takes a life of its own as he reaches for it repeatedly. Finally, his hand collides with it, and sends it flying over the counter, to shatter against the ground behind the bar. Bazil gawks. "Whoah," He whispers. Must be a wormhole. Blinking in stunned silence at both the news Orson conveys, and at Bazil's sudden collapse, Jessalyn rises after the Jedi student, peeking around him at the fallen man, and recalling just how close to death he had come only a few days ago. But then he rises and dusts himself off, and she takes backwards step. "Is something the matter?" she offers, not knowing if he will even recognize her, even if she did save his life on the beach, and flinching at the crash of the glass on the ground. Reaching for Bazil, Orson tugs on him lightly to help orient the bionic man. "Hi," Orson replies quietly. Tilting his head to his flank and at the spot where Jessalyn currently stands, Orson frowns: "Jessalyn, this is Bazil McKensie. My dirty little secret." With his hand still on Bazil's shoulder, the mechanic leans a little closer. "Are... you okay?" ...There is a quality in Orson's voice which would suggest he means 'okay' in a larger sense than just having fallen on the floor type of okay. Malus looks oddly as he hears the mans name. Malus simply raises an eye brow. Malus maoves back to his seat and and begains to listen to the upcoming conversation, as he does he grabs his drink that was left for him while nudging Bazil. "Hi, Orson!" Bazil offers, saying hi to Orson, and quickly maneuvering his arms about the center Orson, and kissing him on the cheek. He backs off a moment later, and smiles. Then he says 'Hi, Orson!' again to another of the Orsons, before turning back to Orson. "I'm," He stutters, "Fine!" Wobble. Wobble. And then Jessalyn, shows up. "Hi there, pret-ty lady!" And then he realizes it's Jessalyn, "I mean. Uh. Hi, Jess!" Hic. "Oh," Jessalyn deduces with a small smirk. "He's drunk." She heaves out a sigh and narrows her eyes, moving out from behind Orson and a little closer to Bazil. But not too close. He doesn't seem to know which one of the multiple visuals he's getting is the real one. "Mr. McKenzie, do you need a ride somewhere?" she asks, glancing over at Orson, her confusion apparent in her eyes. Orson grits his teeth and accepts the kiss like a jolt of electricity. "Ungh," he rattles, pulling away. Still, the mechanic's strong hands rustle Bazil back toward his seat and guide him there with a minimum of fuss. He turns and sucks in a breath. "Jessalyn, I..." He tries to start explaining. The circumstances are the difficult part. The zany game show, the monkey creature that almost raped Bazil, the swimming challenge that featured a non-swimming Bazil. The wilderness fatigue. Nor can he explain that he cut the game short, compelled by some sort of character -- despite the odd flavor -- he saw in McKenzie's person. It had gotten too silly, too dangerous. Wasn't worth the risks. Orson also can't explain how he and Bazil reached some sort of understanding at the last moment, even as the battered agent was delivered back to the New Republic. What Orson can't explain in words though, he can explain in other ways. With a long look at Jessalyn, he just shakes his head. "What are you doing on Caspar?" Orson asks, faking some small talk. That Orson, yes that one, over on the left. Orson sends through the Force... Regret at the past. Anxiety about the future. Some sort of deep familiarity with this man, and gratitude to Bazil as well, for not holding those strange days against him. Fear at being rejected by his teacher. All of that, and more. Luke is sitting in a quiet corner, eyes closed, deep in an inner reflective meditative trance. Why else would he not have noticed anyone coming in? Malus quietly sips on his glass trying to show aany interest of the conversation that is begaining to unfold next to him, besides it could be nothing...then again their could be something...either way he sighs as the glass leaves his lips with each drink. "Dying," Bazil offers nonchalantly to Orson with a smirk, and then a leering glance towards Jessalyn, as he, well, looks her over. There wouldn't be many Jedi in the universe that couldn't tell what was going through his mind right now. Let alone people that weren't force adept. As Bazil is returned to his perch at the bar, Jessalyn follows, watching Orson as she seems to read something from his eyes, when he never quite gets out the words of explanation she was expecting. She opens her mouth to speak at the same time that Bazil's leer lurches her way, and her eyes widen in shock, her face turning vivid scarlet. If it wasn't Bazil, she would probably slap him. "If he no longer requires our assistance.... " she says through clenched teeth. You sent through the Force to Orson... Jessalyn takes this all in with understanding, even if she's somewhat disturbed -- that has more to do with the strangeness of the other man than anything else. She reassures him with a little inward smile. "It's all right, love. We'll talk about it later." "Dying," Orson repeats, tone even. Cutting his eyes to Jessalyn, he misses the once-over Bazil has given his companion. He looks back at Bazil, holding his gaze steady. "Dying as in the way that everyone is dying? Or you're sick?" The mechanic frets a little out of some sense of indebtedness to Bazil. It's coming from an appreciation for the other man's graciousness at a time in the past. An odd thing, from Bazil, but there nonetheless. Orson sends through the Force... "Karrde," Orson intones reluctantly. He won't give the smuggler all the blame for Bazil, but he will give him most of it. There is hesitation on the man, but he knows a conversation is coming with the boss, and soon. "I've always been sick," Bazil mutters quietly, giving a hard look to Orson now, "Ever since I've been born, afflicted with some wretched ailment or another. The universe has it out for me." A grim smile, "Even you should know of that, shouldn't you?" Such as Myrkr. He shrugs, and wobbles, "Anyways. I ought to get back to my ship, before the universe ends. Cheers!" And with that, he moves to stumble away from the pair. Despite having been deep within the psyche of this man when she saved his life, Jessalyn is dumbfounded by Bazil. She watches as he turns to depart, lips twisting as she debates on whether he'll even make it to the door without falling over. "Well," she huffs, turning back to her companion and spying the drink she left on their table. "You have some interesting friends, Orson." Orson stares blankly, face looking like it's been wiped -- scrubbed -- with a cloth that's full of neutrality. "I wouldn't say tha.." he starts, but is cut off, and finds himself waving at Bazil's back. "Okay, I'll see you later," the mechanic says. He hoped not, really. "I'm not sure I'd go so far as that. Maybe." He turns and starts back to their table. Malus quickly fiishes his drink almos chocking on it. He drops a few credits on the bar as he gets up and quietly begains to fallow Bazil out the doors. He must ask what exactky the tranmission he intersepted was about. Bazil proceeds to slip out of the bar, hand holding the door open for a brief moment, eyes casting inside. Unnatural. Very, very, unnatural... They catch Jessalyn for a moment, then Orson, and then a grin, and he sidesteps the entrance, and slips into the streets, unfalteringly. Unstumbling. A hand moves up to brush at his hair as he goes, until he moves further into the crowds. He must get to his ship. With one backwards glance to the doorway when Bazil pauses at the doorway, Jessalyn slips back through the crowd, hand wrapping around the tall, cold drink before she even finishes taking her seat once more. "It seems every planet we go to, the incidents just get stranger and stranger," she says ruefully, smiling across the table at Orson with an exasperated look, and taking a sip from the fruity drink. There is very little about Bazil that would surprise Orson. If the man had sprouted an extra pair of legs and skittered out like an insect, Orson wouldn't have blinked. "I know," he admits, falling into his own seat. "I hope it's not a trend." With that, he falls quiet for a moment, trying to formulate what he'd say next. "I guess what I mean is, I just need to define some boundaries with him, that's all. I don't know how to say that, except just like that." Orson assumes Jessalyn will know what he's talking about.
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