| abstract
| - The Players: Orson Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. He is wearing fur pants, thick white, large and billowing at the legs. A black tank top covers his thick barrel chest; while fit and stout, he is not overly muscled. A gray scarf encircles his waist, evening the dark and light on the man and helping keep his clothes in place. It has been knotted on one side and trails almost all the way to the ground. Soft-soled but thick boots cover his feet. An oversized set of goggles are strapped to his head, stretchy material securing them in an 'X' shaped band around the back of his skull. The lenses are tinted rose red. Jessalyn: The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. Jessa is dressed in a drab green sleeveless shirt, and a pair of kakhi pants with plenty of pockets. Around her waist is a black leather utility belt. Her hair is held back from her face and clipped behind her head, though stray curling locks continue to fall into her eyes. The fit of her trousers and the sturdy brown suede boots on her legs emphasize her narrow waist and the long-legged rhythm of her strides. "No. No. No," Orson says, tapping two fingers in his palm, chiding the aloof insectoid alien which walks beside him, that creature carrying a datapad and a hydrospanner in either hand. "You'll not be able to calibrate the repulsorlift converter coil in atmosphere." It makes a clicking noise in protest and Orson shakes his head, climbing the hill toward the barracks. His voice turns a bit quieter and grows somewhat compassionate. "Look, we'll be lucky if it flies at all. It's okay ... just let me take care of it." With that, Orson shoos the creature away and huffs up to Jessalyn, blowing out a breath. "I was ... hoping you'd be here," he explains. "I wonder if you could give me a hand with something?" Coming around from the side of the building, looking a little weary and damp from exercise and the bright afternoon sunlight, Jessa appears, trudging heavily with exhaustion. She looks over at Orson as he trots toward her, resting her hands on her hips and stopping where she stands. "Sure, what's up?" she asks in a friendly tone. The new Orson looks Jessalyn over, playing innocent. Or playing dumb, perhaps, simply brushing off the strange experience last night. Such things were better discussed in private, anyway. "I've got a little calibration I need to run on the Uwannabuyim. Nothing major, but I need a pair of hands I can trust. I was wondering ... you mentioned your background." His intentions are honest, his goal is work, unlike the other night's speeder ride. It's invigorating to feel useful after a few long days of absence, and the circle of positive feedback around the short man is fairly obvious. "If you could help. Just a short trip, in the system." Jessalyn has been feeling pretty useless herself, uneasy with the uncertainties and her ambiguous position here. The days when Jedi Knights were more often than not greeted with the respect and admiration were far behind her. In truth, she'd rather it be that way; it would be more honest to earn that respect through her own merits, instead of the tradition she follows. Nonetheless, she hasn't done a very good job of doing that so far. But digging her hands back into a machine, that was something she could do with skill and finesse, not to mention enthusiasm. She missed the meditative quality of her old tech work, even the finer work of detecting and diagnosing an errant vehicle. So, despite being tired from her daily jog around the compound, she's more than willing to take up the offer. "Sure, that sounds like fun." "It'll be nice to stretch my legs," Orson says, waving her closer and then walking alongside Jessalyn down the low hill and winding slowly through the compound toward the landing area. Sensor-foiling netting has been strung over most of the ships there, the electronic protection the heavy tree canopy affords not completely trusted against the precise instruments of the Empire. Nevermind that for Orson, stretching his legs is something more akin to flying around in a ship than going on a jog. Wanderlust afflicts his heart! He can identify, at least on that level, with the Jedi. Travel is a necessity of the lifestyle. After a quiet walk, they are at the Uwannabuyim, stomping up onto its metal grating and toward the cockpit. Access panels have been opened all over the place, tools and handrags lying about the interior of the old ship. A sweet mechanical smell clings to the inside of the vessel, lubricant, fuel, and a slight ozone scent created by the electrical short the assistant mechanic had caused earlier. In a moment, he radios the local control and they lift, angling slowly toward the sky. "I could use some surf about now," Orson comments to the cockpit glass as the bright-lit color darkens into starfield. "Guess it'll have to wait." From her perspective in the co-pilot's seat, Jessa divides her attention between the shrinking planet behind them and the distinctive hum of the ship, a savvy and attuned ear listening for any signs of trouble -- or lack of performance. Repairing damage or maintaining a ship was one thing; coaxing her into even greater capibilities is what Jessa really savors. She recalls the days when Rebel pilots would insist she give their X- or Y-wing a run-down befores maneuvers or patrols, so that they could boast about the extra thrust in their afterburners after she worked her magic. Jedi magic, she thinks with a small smile to herself, realizing years later the source of her intuition. Her thoughts drift off in this manner as she drums her fingers idly on the control console, the interior lights growing brighter as they ascend deeper into space. "Hmm. Tell me what you've done so far," she says to Orson at last. The smooth running ship has a little catch in it, and it gives a soft gurgle from aft. It's like the vessel, now in low orbit, hit an invisible catch, and Orson is thrown forward slightly in his seat, over the console. "I was going to say," he murmurs, reaching forward to repeatedly wiggle a silver switch back and forth. Nothing. "I've run all the diagnostics and we're all set. I wonder if something's been crossed-wired to the repulsor coil. Doesn't make sense for it to blow now..." The ship spins slowly in space, nose unoriented in a lazy roll. If it weren't for the inertia compensators still working and the life support system still being on, this would be uncomfortable. But Orson doesn't seem worried. Instead he stands up and whaps the seat as he heads back, whistling an off-key tune even as the cabin lights turn off and the pale green emergency lighting flickers on. Jessalyn catches herself against the console when the ship lurches, and frowns thoughtfully as she tips her head to the side. "Doesn't sound serious, though." Unstrapping herself, she steadies herself against the chairs as she follows Orson aft, her legs wobbling as the compensators seem to flicker off for a split second. That brings a frown to her face, and she glances back at the console display for more flashing lights. "Hmm. That's a little odd." A multipurpose tool finds Orson's palm and he immediately skitters over to the nearest open access panel. "You might want to try that one," the short man says, leveling the end of his tool to the other side of the passenger cabin. The man hops in to an open crawlspace and squints, reading the configuration of pipes and wires like a scholar might read a book. "Okay," he says quietly. "I see you." Orson grabs the ledge of the crawlspace and yells across, much too loud: "Just check the power nodes. Scorched, I think." And as he sets about doing his work, the end of his tuneless song works its way out on his lips, rhythm provided by the clicking sound of the hydrospanner. Every now and then, he pauses and removes a power node, checks it, and puts it back in, methodically working. He's thinking about last night, about the vision again, and about the group's next step. He works with stunning speed. He's talented, certainly, but ... the Force guides his hand. Following Orson's direction, Jessa chooses a few tools from a kit nearby, tucking them into her belt as she moves to the other side of the compartment to a similar access panel that Orson is investigating. She removes the cover, crouching down and scrunching her nose as she finds the bank of power nodes she wants to check first. Indeed, the Force flows and fills the ship, as it does all of space surrounding them, and Jessalyn is grateful for its return, however brief it may be. But soon they would be leaving Myrkr, she keeps telling herself, not allowing thoughts of what that will mean as far as Simon is concerned. She's living in the present for now, and the glow that enhances her smile these days belies her happiness. Thus, she chuckles to herself as she catches onto the rhythm of Orson's song, her head bobbing in time as she blows dust off a power node between her fingers. She's too engrossed in her own reconnection to the Force to make note of the ripples originating from Orson at first. "Oh, wait. Here's one that looks burned out," she calls over her shoulder, interrupting her own humming. "Is it F2 in the lower quadrant?" he calls back, his finger resting on that one in his panel. "I think they went out in phase. You'll have to pull it and reverse the polarity setting. It'll hold until we get back on the planet to replace it." With that, he resumes his whistling, pausing and getting hung up on a certain section of his song. When he returns to the land of thought, to work on that bar of his song, the Force fades from him. When he picks it back up again - when the mechanic turns meditative - the Force flows easily through his blank mind and into his thick fingers, guiding them. In fact, the node is already out and rethreaded. Orson holds up the end of the object close to his eye, the Force-blinking on and off around him like a flashing beacon. On. "Done," he cries out playfully. Off. A long silence. On. "Yep, that's the one," Jess confirms, pulling the node from its socket and turning it over to see the blackened components. She works quickly, reaching for a hydrospanner she had stored under her belt, and twisting several wires into their new positions with the instrument. As she scans the panel for signs of more scorching, the beacon that Orson has turned into finally catches her attention, and she blinks quickly, squinting as if it was actually a light that had flipped on, too bright for her unadjusted eyes. At first she's startled, not realizing in that first instant that Orson is the source, and she drops the hydrospanner with a loud clatter as it bounces into the panel she was working on, showering her with sparks, and scorching more than just a few more power nodes. "Damn!" she hisses out between her teeth, her heart pounding as she looks toward Orson with a stunned expression. Silence. Just the top half of Orson's face peering out from over his little ledge. After a while, he lifts, grin evident on his face. "That's no way to talk to a lady," he teases, feeling more playful today than he has in a while. "Need some help?" he asks, wondering if he shouldn't take over. Off. Her former tech status has prevented him from resorting to this, however, so he asks instead of pushing her out of the way and taking care of it. He disappears behind the ledge again, now reciting a workplace safety poster that was up in the Myrkr hangarbay, except setting it to the tune of his whistle. "You've got to play it safe. Safe. Safe. When you're working on power noooodes." He's got just enough pitch to make him dangerous, and all but the stoutest individuals would wince as he wails softly. On. The redhead doesn't share in Orson's jovial mood. She stares at him as if at a ghost, still crouched where she was working, her face tilted up to frame green eyes wide with shock. The ship is long forgotten as she actually shifts her weight so that she lands on her backside with a loud -whump-. "Orson," she mouths quietly, bracing her hands on the grating beneath her. "You... Force help me!" Off. Orson lifts, looking the wrong direction, not expecting Jessalyn to be sitting. "Eh?" he murmurs, dropping his own equipment and clambering quickly out of the crawlspace. "What's the matter?" Orson says, rushing over to her and dropping to a knee, grabbing her by the shoulders. The ship doesn't like the extra damage to its sensitive innards, and the green lights flicker off in this part of the vessel, emergency light filtering aft from the cockpit dim and diffuse over their forms. "Are you ill? Are you okay?" He squints, look critical, searching her face. "Yeah," Jessalyn says, regaining her composure as Orson takes her by the shoulders, her eyes still wide and blinking as she stares at him. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your ship. I'll fix it, I promise." She hesitates, hand wrapping around his arm as she steadies herself, starting to smile -- but then the green warning lights shift to red, and the ship lurches once more as the inertial dampeners start to go. It's a violent enough movement that she loses her balance, the floor tipping sidewise so that she tumbles right into Orson. While no brute, the mechanic is broad shouldered and plenty stout to catch the slender woman in his arms. He falls back himself to ease her fall, landing heavily on the meaty part of his shoulders, slamming against the metal grating. He doesn't seem to notice though, and he keeps his arms locked around her. His slate gray eyes lock with hers. They are searching, looking for something, some hint, boring into her face. But scared too. In the almost-dark, he realizes he's holding his breath. "It's okay," the man whispers. After a moment, without letting go, Orson takes in a breath. "What're you afraid of?" Jessa sees the searching look in Orson's eyes as he looks at her, and she catches her breath, a little overwhelmed. His question catches her offguard, and she puzzles it out, realizing there are a -lot- of things she's afraid of. But... Orson isn't one of them. "I'm not afraid," she answers, thinking she's being truthful, and shifting her body so that she pulls slowly out of his tight embrace. "I just sensed something I wasn't expecting, and...." The ship rights itself momentarily, and she tries to regain her balance, grasping onto a support strut with her left hand. There is a snapping sound within a control panel and green lights flood back into the room. A monochrome Orson lies there on the metal grating, his grasp defeated and his arms lying out to either side of him. He struggles up, leaning to one side and manuevering out from under Jessalyn's possible striking distance should the ship twist on its axis again. "Sensed?" he asks, the illuminated version of Jessalyn flashing in his mind. He can see the prone version of the Jedi from his vision, superimposed over her true form. Snap! Perhaps she sensed something like what he had seen last night. "Let's see ..." Orson murmurs, swinging his legs over to the access hatch and pursing his lips at the slight damage. A slender hand reaches out to brush Orson's thicker one aside, as Jessa shakes her head slowly at him, her gaze serious and solemn. "It can wait," she murmurs, managing a slight smile. "Orson, I... I hope you won't mind hearing this, but... what I just sensed -- you were using the Force." That seemed to be the easiest way with him -- straightforward and honest with Orson. There was nothing guileful about him, no shadows lurking that would make her wary or hesitant about trusting him with this knowledge. She searches his eyes as she catches her lower lip between her teeth, letting him fill in the blanks for himself. The words themselves find no purchase with the sturdy mechanic, the sounds rolling off of his poor understanding of the Force like beads of water against a glassy surface. "Mm?" Orson sounds, turning to look back at her as she touches his arm. He looks once again at her face and catches the intensity of it. "Come again?" the man asks, looking back to his access panel and wondering how this simple repair fit into the fabric of the galaxy and further, how Jessalyn plans to make a lesson out of it. He is coming to expect strange comments from her; he expects strange things to happen around her too, and some occasional interpretation or discussion of the Force or True Source was an expected part of it. "How so?" That he was -using- it is completely lost on him. The grip on his arm tightens. "You have the Force within you, Orson. Think for a moment. What do you feel when you're working on the ship? It's the same way with me. That's why I can be a Jedi." Jessa tilts her head, eyes bright and wide as the implications begin to swirl within her mind, the Force itself opening up avenues and possibilities that were not available until this moment. Her smile grows more genuine as she takes a deep breath. "Do you understand? Orson senses the urgency in her voice, mind a jumble. Still no understanding. "No," he whispers with a shake of his head, pulling back slightly but leaving his arm in her grip. It seemed all of a sudden pretty important to get power restored and get back to the planet's surface. "I feel. Just, in a groove, I guess. I've been off lately, sure, but. In a zone, normally." He purses his lips, the mechanic lifting his chin at staring directly at Jessalyn. "You're saying you get in a zone like I do when ... you're being a Jedi." Orson appears skeptical. Of course he's skeptical; he's got it backwards. A smile tugs Jessa's lips. "See, you've been off lately the same way I have. I can't sense the Force on Myrkr, and neither can you. But up here...." She waves her free hand in a circular motion around them. "It was practically -glowing- off of you, Orson. You have the potential to be a very strong Jedi, if you want to be trained." She doesn't care about the ship at all for now, short of the thing losing life support or deciding to break out of orbit and plummet to the surface. She's too excited about the possibility of Orson as a Jedi, and she nearly laughs aloud as she gives his arm a squeeze. Orson's face turns solemn, and a little dark. His gaze is suddenly unflinching on the woman, an eerie opposite from her excitement. It's a joke, of course. Some feminine wile, Jessalyn pushing one of his obvious buttons of Force-interest to toy with him. It must be that, and he takes in a large breath through his nostrils, spending equal time exhaling. "I don't know what to say," is all that comes out. Here, almost forty, caught up in this. Caught up with this remarkable woman and allowing himself to be manipulated so easily. For a half-second, he believed it. He wants to believe it. He turns away, shaking loose from her grip, and eyes the access panel, simply ignoring her presence as he picks up the power node she dropped. The mechanic looks as if she's told him some trivial news: his face is perfectly expressionless for a long moment. Off. His fingers fumble with the node and it clatters out of the socket he's attempting to thread it into. "Blast," Orson mutters, reaching for it and dinging his head heavily on a conduit which juts out too far. When he stands up straight again, he's looking at Jessalyn. "What does it mean?" What does it mean, what? For him. For them. Jessalyn sits back on her heels, her hands on her thighs as she watches him with a growing expression of concern. What was she thinking, thrusting this onto him? She remembers how she had immediately recoiled from the news when Luke had told her the very same thing, and he had bided his time and chosen the right moment to tell her. Instead she's burst out her new knowledge like an unthinking child, with no regard for its impact on her friend. Chiding her selfishness, she looks away from his searching gaze, her head bent. "It can only mean what you choose it to mean, Orson," she says in a compassionate voice. "But you have the potential. It's up to you to choose what to do with it. Or do nothing." Brow creased, Orson turns, still holding the node in his palm. He looks up at her, scowling. "You're saying ..." he starts, voice so tentative that his vocal chords creak before they start making the sound for each word, "That I can move things with my mind? Make tornados? Use lightsabers? Be a Jedi?" He puts that bit at the end, narrowing his eyes. Even Orson, in his limited understanding, knows there is far more to it than the outward powers. "That's what you're saying? How?" His pulse quickens, and a color creeps into his cheeks. Still on her knees, Jessalyn moves a little closer, reaching out a hand. "Those things in more, if you choose to be taught," she says kindly. "It's something you were born with, and have had your whole life. Though often we're blocked to our senses by any number of things. It takes training to begin to discover your potential." She hesitates, then closes her fingers in around her palm, still outstretched, her lashes lowering over her eyes. It's nothing more than a gentle brush of her mind against Orson's, a warm enveloping presence that whispers of Jessalyn's essence, lit with brilliant colors like a faceted rainbow. But it's enough to give him a glimpse of what she's talking about. Orson feels himself falling forward, worrying that he'll strike his head on the ledge of the access panel and lazily lifting his arms. He's already forgotten about that, reaching out with a tentative finger to dab at the liquid-like colors swirling in his mind. "Like my dream," the mechanic says, voice echoing a long way into the colorscape. The distorted sense of distance and time is strangely similar. And the man revels in her, this intimate contact far superior than more base forms of touching and expression. With a startled gasp, he staggers back into reality, and almost does fall over backwards, coughing. The colors were ripped from him, and the moving from one reality to another is less-than-comfortable. He holds his hand to his chest, calming his breathing. "Will you train me?" the man whispers, eyes wide. When Orson opens his eyes to gaze on her face once more, Jessalyn gently withdraws from his mind, like glittering, tenuous strands that fold back into herself. There is a soft, knowing smile on her lips. But when he speaks, she cringes slightly, shaking her head before she has a chance to stop herself. "Me? I -- I don't know. I've never trained anyone. I think Luke would do a much better job than I ever could. I wouldn't want to make a mistake on something so important." She folds her arms across her chest, suddenly afraid where before she hadn't felt any fear at all. "Luke?" Orson repeats after her, leaning toward her. "Why him? I trust you. You are a good Jedi." He clambers out of crawlspace, mind whirling. He doesn't feel any different, except more confused. "At least some things." He comes around to face her directly, taking her by the shoulders once more, then taking his hands off. So confusing. Certainly this 'twist' in their relationship wouldn't make things simpler. What sort of deference a Jedi Teacher deserved is the strange, foremost thought in his mind. "How does it work? The training." Clearly, his voice tone doesn't reflect that he expects it to take years. His confusion is nearly palpable, and Jessa unfolds her arms, spreading them wide as she tries to explain. "Yes, but I'm not the Jedi Master. I trust him much more than myself. You will, too, Orson. I don't know anyone like him." She swallows hard. "But I could maybe show you a few things, until we find him, at least." The other questions she leaves open for now, a little shake of her head dismissing them. One thing, at least, she can try to set right. She reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, reminiscent of the evening in the forest when they had confided in one another beside the waterfall. "It doesn't change anything, you know." Orson leans back, holding her own hand, but from a distance. "Okay," the mechanic says simply, squeezing her hand as well. He isn't sure. Not sure about a lot of things. While this seems like stunningly good news, he's come from a meeting not a day ago with Karrde where he promised to think things through better, and understand the consequences of actions he takes. This seems good on the surface, feels good ... what difficulties and hardships would it bring? "We'll figure it out. As we go along." Much like his formless tune. Harmony seems a difficult thing for Orson, though. He leans as if to hug Jessalyn, but finds himself drifting again, falling forward into the sea of angular colors and her own warmth...
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)