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| - The Setting: Cockpit - Uwannabuyim This is the cockpit of the YT-1300 Uwannabuyim. You see four comfortable chairs, two in front of the others. A large instrument panel covered in blinking lights and status screens, fills the forward section of the room. Several complicated control systems sit at the bottom of the instrument panel. Through a large window that has been divided for support you get a good view of the outside area. Orson is draped across the captain's chair, one elbow on the control panel on his left side, his face propped in his cupped hand. His gray eyes are scanning the luminiscent pattern of hyperspace, tracing the marbled veins of pink and purple with his eyes. Some voice echoes in the back of his mind, calling a phrase, calling Orson's name, for the hundredth time today. Exhaling, he recenters his attention, and looks down to the control panel. The mechanic jedi had been distant from his consort and teacher but to address this fully... required time they didn't have. Orson suspected it would require more strength than he had. He's speaking. "Almost there," he intones. "Wherever there is." Jessalyn had half-drifted to sleep where she sits slumped in the co-pilot's chair, her chin on her chest and her arms folded loosely over her body. They had been in hyperspace for a long time, and watching the endless mottled starscape had the effect of putting her into a drowsy state. Giving a start at the abrupt sound of Orson's voice, she blinks and stares blankly through the viewport, coming back into full awareness as a little twinge of wariness and excitement comes to life inside her. "It's the right place," she says with certainty. "I have a feeling." She glances at Orson's profile, fighting back the growing knot of worry for him, and trying to defuse her resentment. It was hard, though. Hard to be patient with so much at stake, when there were so many things she wanted and needed to say. And to know. How had they become so distant? She breathes out a long draught of air and puts on a genuine smile. "What's the nearest star system, anyway?" Orson struggles against langor and inertial compensators, sitting upright in his chair and dragging a hand through his wild hair. He touches the console and it comes to full brightness, filling the underside of the older man's bearded face with electric blue highlights. "Mikassa," he says after a moment of looking at a screen. "But it's nowhere close." The console beeps, something in front of Jessalyn, and Orson robs her the chance of pushing the appropriate button. It's unintentional, his moves reflex and more robotic than thinking at this level. "We're coming out in a minute," the man observes, bringing both hands to the console and flexing fingers a few times, as if they might be dropped into a sun, or a raging space battle. That state of ultra-preparedness makes the time pass more slowly, and taut-fingered Orson turns to look on Jessalyn with a melancholy eye. "Are you okay? With Simon and all, seeing him." An itch on the back of her head distracts Jessalyn for a moment, and she scratches at it, using it as an excuse to turn her face away and burgeon her emotional shields. "It doesn't matter anymore, really," she says at length, finally meeting his gaze with wide, searching eyes, the gem-colors of her mind are lackluster now, the usual easy smile long-absent from her face. "I regret it, but... his choices are his own." Her throat works for a moment before she speaks again. "You know how I feel, Orson, you always have. You know what I'm worried about." She shrugs absently and sinks back in the chair, riveting her gaze on the shifting view of hyperspace. "Yeah," Orson returns with his voice as flat as he can make it. Me too. "Here we go." And then, they are dropping into realspace, the old mechanic easing a bank of levers toward the cockpit glass. Empty space. Dark space. He engages the sublight engines and the ship smoothly slides from its infinity pinpoint in the hyperspace reality into flying along at a good clip. A distant blue star gives a chilly glow to this spot of the galaxy. As he flies, a contemplative Orson slowly twists the controls and the ship reorients itself. He touches the glass with a fingertip. "There," he says, pointing out a specific pattern of stars. "See it?" The sensors beside Jessalyn speak up, scrolling out information on a Capital sized object not so far away, part of a massive system-scale ring of sparse asteroids -- no, scrap metal and ship hulls -- circling that distant star. The little tickle in the back of Jessalyn's mind that is the vision begins to roar with more urgency than ever the moment the Uwannabuyim's sublight engines kick in. As the stars streak back to normal little pinpoints of light, she catches her breath, the position and tilt of the constellations meshing with the one burned into her memory. She licks her dry lips and leans forward, reaching out towards the sensor readouts and scanning through them. "I see it," she murmurs, clenching her fingers into her palm. "Orson...." The man's breath catches and he shakes his head. New doors onto the Force are opening everyday, and this demonstration of power like a starmap guiding them to a certain spot was simply unbelievable. "Incredible. I guess we could get on some scans." Reaching behind Jessalyn's seat, the man flicks a switch on a console that makes him stretch out of his seat. "What is it?" he asks from behind her chair. "A field of debris of some kind," she answers. "Looks like an old ship graveyard or something. Wait --" Her slim fingers move quickly as she taps on the sensor buttons, bringing up screen after screen of information, and Jessalyn bends over, her back hunching as she squints her eyes at the small screen. "There's something big. It looks like an intact ship, capital-sized...." Orson comes back to a sitting posture, hands wrapping around the controls. His minimal display has similar information, and he banks the Uwannabuyim toward the contact. "Open a channel and hail, I guess," Orson suggests, dryly. "Maybe someone beat us here. Or..." It just didn't make sense to expect to find an Old Republic capital ship cruising around in space. Nodding her dark red head, Jessalyn pushes the comm switch, trying to establish a connection. But then she frowns, reading the scan, and catching her breath. "It's the same ship. The one we saw," she insists in a hushed voice. "But it's been abandoned, I don't think we're going to find anyone here, Orson." As they draw closer, and the ship comes into their line of vision, she gazes up through the port and narrows her eyes. The shape and markings were the same, that was certain. But time has taken its toll, and Jessalyn's heart sinks as she observes the damage visible from this distance. "I wonder what happened to it." Something chilly settles on Orson's chest, and he nods stiffly. The Uwannabuyim slows and begins easing closer toward the large ship. "Maybe in a battle or something. Or just decommissioned." The flat disc of the YT-1300 twists and arcs slowly, creeping about the round shape of the ship's hull. Bright white spots arc downward, creating some scant illumination on the hull and revealing the scope of the damage. "Worthless. This isn't the ship -I- saw." Orson begins making his way to the aft underbelly of the massive ship, jerking the controls once to the side to avoid a building-sized outcropping. "What do you think?" Craning her neck to watch as the freighter glides underneath the hull of the old Republic vessel, Jessalyn finds herself almost lifting out of her chair, the straps the only things keeping her from getting fully to her feet. "We've come this far. I want to go aboard, if we can," she replies, refusing to give in to her feeling of disappointment. She has no idea what it is they should be looking for, but the compulsion to explore their possibilities has only grown stronger. "Think it's possible?" The tip of Orson's tongue dabs at his lip and he partially stands himself, looking down at the gray-white hull of the ship himself. "Yeah," he says tentatively. It's repeated, this time a bit more sure sounding. "Yeah. Look." The ship glides slowly up, pulling away from the skin of the capital ship and curls back down, darting cockpit first into what appears to be a hundred-meter long docking tube. It opens into a wider space, on the end of the inside of the ship, multiple tier-like structures supporting scores of small docking tubes and grasping claws. It's a tighter fit than was originally intended, because the entrance flight path has partially collapsed on itself. With the sound of screeching metal that makes Orson's teeth grind together nervously, he brings the Uwannabuyim to a halt. Silence is deafening, and clicking the exterior lights off makes the view through the cockpit go completely black. "Well." He begins pulling himself from his chair. The Force sends... Something trembles around you, and a long moment of vicious deja vu strikes. Unstrapping herself, Jessalyn stands and moves behind her chair, wrapping both hands around the back of it. The sound of her breath catching again fills the cockpit and she closes her eyes, her throat tightening. "I guess this is it," she whispers. "The moment of truth." More than anything she wants to understand why the Force has drawn them all here, and she hopes the answer to that question can be found on board this old abandoned vessel. The stirring of the Force calms her fears, and she smiles slowly, reaching over and touching Orson's hand in the darkness. A calloused palm curls around Jessalyn's small hand and pats it a few times, his unspoken care and tenderness for her just there for a moment, without complicated explanations and words. The man sighs, and turns to go. When he's passed the threshold of the cockpit, he starts talking. "I've got breath masks on the wall, there near the ramp," Orson says, waving a hand. "And we've all got comlinks, and weapons." For his part, he's going without his typical jacket and lightsaber sheath affair, letting the device hang at his belt in the traditional fashion. Slowly, the man is becoming more Jedi-like, but there are stubborn parts of Orson, incompatible with Jediness, that refuse to go away. After a brief check, and a more careful double check, the irised docking tube opens and a cold gust of stale air whuffs into the Uwannabuyim. "I guess just looking around is no big deal..." Orson says to the darkness, holding up an amber glowrod he's gotten from somewhere, and squinting.
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* Cargo Hold and Main Hangar -- Wreck of the Dimlyn Titan IV Layers upon layers of huge docking bays and cargo storage areas fill the back of this ship, like tall caves stale and sterile. In the process of decommissioning this vessel, some damage has been done, and here and there some rooms have collapsed or have been completely sealed off. Narrow and sometimes inordinately long passageways criss-cross everywhere in this part of the ship, the original people mover which helped transport beings having been salvaged long ago. Large pods bubble outward from the very aft of this once proud warship: starship and starfighter docking hangars. A few pathways ultimately converge on a main corridor fore.
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* By the time they've reached the opening to the docking tube, Jessalyn has slipped the necessary mask over her face, and her breath comes through it harshly, giving her voice an unnatural, hollow quality. "It'll be fine," she assures him, relying on the Force rather than further words to urge him to stay close by in case something goes wrong. Her fingers rest lightly on the hilt of her saber at her belt, reassuring her -- and then she ducks into the tube, feeling the envelope of stale air surrounding her, her footfalls echoing loudly. Orson ducks slightly as well, holding his glowrod up and to the side as far as he can to let its light spread away from him but still be useful for walking around and not bumping into things. Or beings. Uncomfortable with the deathly silence, Orson's voice fills the space around them. "What are we looking for?" he asks strangely. "Maybe, well it seemed like it would be obvious." His breath filter sucks in and then back out with a startling echo. "Where are Cronos, and Mira?" Orson has already given up on them though, and starts wandering forward, boots kicking at some minor debris on the floor. She's already forgotten about the others, and shrugs away his question. Something is drawing Jessalyn deeper into the ship, and she moves down the first long passageway, extending senses ahead of her, observing every corner before she rounds it. Gripping her own glowrod in one hand, she pauses and glances back, the sound of their breath filtered through the masks startlingly loud in the dark, empty corridors. "We'll know," is the only answer she can give him, since she's just as uncertain as to what they should really be looking for. They wander down dark passageways for a long time, but for the most part, the picture is the same: broken bulkheads, warped from the intense pressure of having machinery and guts ripped from them forcibly, debris and machinery left strewn across the floor. After so long of picking through this, Orson speaks up. "I can hear her voice in my head. Still calling." He lifts a heavy boot and sweeps off the length of a long metal column laying on its side before sitting there. "I can't escape. I can see the past so clearly now..." He stares at Jessalyn with a resigned look, most of his face covered by the mask. Orson shakes his head slightly, the loose remainder of the straps waving in the air. Grateful that the mask is covering most of her face, hiding her expression, Jessalyn frowns to herself as she nudges the toe of her boot against a loose piece of machinery left on the deckplate. The sound of metal on metal makes her cringe, and she hangs her head, her eyes inexplicably watering. She tries to regain her composure before she speaks, knowing the mask will only amplify the quiver in her voice. "The past only has as much importance as you give it," she says, her voice tinged with the sadness of a forlorn lover as well as the wisdom of a Jedi. "If you want to let it rule your future.... my future, too, you know." She stops, more afraid than she wants to admit as a terrible ache forms in her chest, constricting around her heart like a vise. "You're... more than I ever dreamed I'd find, Orson. I don't want to lose you," she admits, looking away. "There's a part of my past that's incomplete," Orson replies, baritone and smooth through the filter mask. "Unresolved. Undone. I don't know how I can be Jedi, and just pretend that all of that never happened. I don't know how I can be Orson and just pretend, anymore. I have been for a long time." The weary man adjusts his weight on his seat, metal cold on his palms. "I don't know how I can..." His voice stops as the filter clicks, and he never finishes the sentence. Orson draws a heavy breath of air. Even with the mask on, it's not too hard to read Jessalyn's expression. She stares hard and unwavering at Orson where he sits, the glistening of tears in her eyes visible even in the dimness. But she keeps her posture rigid and clenches her fingers into her palms. Not caring about the effects, she pulls the mask off her mouth and rests it in the mass of hair above her temples, inhaling a deep and unsteady breath of cold, decades-old air. Her voice is strangely small in comparison now. "You think I can't sense the fear in you now?" she whispers. "When did you start to fear the future, Orson? When did you give up on me? Why?" Her teeth dig into her quivering lower lip, but she stares at him with those shimmering green eyes defiantly. Jessalyn is Orson's test subject in a way, and he stares at her removing the mask. He does the same after observing her for a moment, letting it hang on its strap, loose around his neck. Hot condensate puffs out into the cold air when the new jedi speaks. "I know now," he replies, shifting the amber glowrod from his face, letting light pool around his feet. "About why Luke, and the Jedi tradition teach about being without emotion. It's too raw, too intense for a Jedi, with the power... Everything I feel for you is so real, but so painful too. And there's so much, about Marina, and the children. Running around the Galaxy, pretending to be the shining example of Justice is one thing. Having you, being happy, pretending like I don't have a past full of broken relationships and broken family. That's another." The man looks up, face slack and meditative. Emotionless, at least on the surface. "How can I be Jedi? Too much pretending. I fear the past, not the future. I cannot leave it." How often had he argued against this very point to her? Until he had beaten down her defenses, convinced her of his sincerity, his loyalty, his love. Creating a reality that was new and fulfilling, renewing her faith in the Force. Now it seems it was all based on nothing but his desire to possess her, but not to keep her. She had bared everything to him, every ugly facet of her soul; what's forming in her heart now, she keeps to herself, afraid of its power even as it starts to creep insidiously into every fiber of her being. "So. You've just been pretending. I see," she says in an icy voice, shutting her mind off to the Force, refusing to use it even for the simplest of perceptions. It's anathema to her now. "I guess that makes me a failure on just about every count. As your Teacher... as a Jedi. As the woman who loves you." Her breath comes out in a sob and she takes a step backward. "Go on and pine for someone that doesn't care for who you really are. It's not like you're the only person in the galaxy who's ever been hurt! I'm insulted that you would have to use the past as such a flimsy excuse, Orson. You coward." Orson's head tilts to the side, and he shakes it, holding up his free hand to protest. "No, you don't understand," he starts, talking at the same time as her. Some additional explanation is forthcoming, but it's clipped short by the crescendo of the woman's beratement, her tone going from mild to something on the other side of intense. The man sits there, frozen on his perch, more stunned than anything, just blinking. The progression of seconds doesn't have the same effect on Orson it used to, with his new understanding of time. Past, future, all present. So a minute or more passes before he feels compelled to speak. When Orson does utter some words, they are small, and quiet, cold ephemeral words appropriate for this frozen ghost ship. "You did try to warn me, evade my advances. I'm not sorry I pursued you. Just sorry... I wasn't strong enough." He shuffles his feet in the circle of yellowish light, and shrugs at himself. Her defiant stare finally gives way, and Jessalyn turns her back to Orson, burying her face in her hands. "Not sorry for doing this to me," she sobs weakly, the bitter voice dissolving into that of a hurt little girl. "How could you? I thought... I thought you really loved me. And that was all that mattered...." It's past the point of debating now, and her words trail off into incoherent mumbling, slender shoulders shaking as she cries. She hates the part of herself that wants his arms around her, conflicted now between the depth of her love and the sharp knife of betrayal and disappointment that stabs at her until she's battered and useless against it. She shuffles away until she finds a cold metal support strut to lean on, squeezing her eyes shut as warm tears stream down her icy, pale cheeks. Dry eyes find a spot in the darkness to fix on, and they rest there, unblinking. "If things were that simple," Orson considers, more to himself than to her. It's a dumb thing to say, trite, and Orson knows it, but the whole thing was mostly past the point of words. Even the eloquent Leia Organa-Solo couldn't take Orson and Jessalyn's strange relationship and come up with a diplomatic way to put it. Not that this pair needed words; the Force was a tighter bond, allowed a more fundamental unerring communication, than anything a word could ever come up with it. It was like poetry, with all of the enlightenment found in sudden understanding and none of the possibility for misreading. Of course, the tightness of the bond was the whole problem. As good as she was, Jedi, Teacher, Righteous, whatever... she was too big. Orson was too normal. Not even normal. She was right, he was a coward. He speaks up. The words are tight, and clear. "About this vision..." Orson's voice disappears in the darkness. How to phrase it? Would she still want to travel with him? Would she still train him? Did he want either? "We are still functional, yes?" Damage control. The woman who turns around and looks at him isn't at all the same Jessalyn. Even in her worst moments, when he'd seen her weakened with guilt and misery over her mistakes with Simon, it had been nothing like this. Her eyes are wild, her lips red and throbbing, parted in a sob. For a moment she stares at him without comprehension, unable to understand what he's trying to say now. Her mind can't even wrap around anything other than her grief that's slowly giving way to a mind-numbing anger. She takes an awkward step backward. "Vision..." she repeats dumbly, long lashes blinking over liquid eyes. "No. No. I don't care anymore. Just leave me alone. You think... you think you can take everything from me and throw it all away. You -knew- all along! You knew my heart, and you didn't care what it would do to me. I can never forgive you! Never!" She sucks in a heartbreaking breath and whirls away, running as fast as her legs can carry her in a headlong flight through the old ship's maze of corridors. Orson stands, boots making a crisp noise as they grind sharp sandy particles into the floor. But he doesn't give chase. There wasn't anywhere to go on this ship that he couldn't find her, short of the woman going into a full Jedi trance and taking specific pains to shut herself off from the Force. They have comlinks, too, though he could touch her mind much more directly if it came to that. "Well, I guess we'll split up and look," he says glumly to himself, watching her disappear into the corridor and choosing another hallway off to the side. With a low sigh he starts off, the man slowly chokes off emotion and quirks his lips, lifting a dim light above his head to show the way. Floating debris... rock and metal... take up much of the icy void that surrounds the ship that the Jedi and Simon Sezirok sought. Occasionally, bits of floating bulkheads and deckplates would rap against the hull of the large vessel once called _Dimlyn Titan IV_. An echo of what could have been a particularly large piece of debris rings through the dusty, abandoned halls, causing dust particles to float through the stale atmosphere. The _Dimlyn Titan IV_ creeks again as if crying out its displeasure before going silent once more. Orson wanders down one of those dusty abandoned halls, crouching at the knees every few minutes at the irritating vibrations which sing through the cold metal of this lost ship. The maze of passageways was a surprisingly apt metaphor for his current situation, he considers, cold breath curling up and outward from his mouth into the sickly light of his dim amber glowrod. "This is no allegory," the new Jedi says aloud, to himself, wondering what strange part of his mind was speaking up. Cronos, Mira, Drew, and 2SK-MI were aboard the Uwannabuyim, a few hundred meters... that way... but seemed content to allow the ill-matched couple to be their away party. The broad-shouldered man digs out a comlink, and flicks it on, but sighs and turns it off without a word, putting it back in his pocket. Words. He rounds a corner, starting down a new featureless hallway. The place where Jessalyn has found refuge is deep within the bowels of the ship, in a dark and long-abandoned box of a room that must have once been someone's chamber. She's curled upon the hard bunk that extends out from one gray, metallic wall, her breath shallow, and her eyes staring into the darkness, perceiving nothing. She refuses anything that once connected her to the Force, her aura reined in, her perceptions dimmed to the point that she's virtually blind to it. The purpose, if she's conscious of one, is not only to protect herself from detection and refuse contact from anyone that might have wanted to reach out to her through the Force, but to deny the depth of feeling she's capable of. Feeling, remembering the past vividly, aching for something that would only prove her own weakness -- it's all tied up in that terrible Force-bond. That terrible, wonderful thing that had saved her and destroyed her. She can't even bear the thought of using the Force ever again. The sounds that clang against the outside of the ship draw little notice from her, even though she does lift her head from where it reclines, and squint her eyes upward, as if she could see through the hull itself. Ordinarily, she probably could. But she refuses to exert that ability now, too. The businessman mechanic cum Jedi rests beside a set of massive blastdoors, holding his light above a large square panel. Gilded aurebesh lettering reflects Orson's light in snapping yellow flashes. "Titan IV," he reads pensively, lifting his forearm to sweep some settled dust from the sign. A directory with a few lines point off in a few directions, but none seem helpful at all. The smaller framed man sets off again, trying a new starboard passageway that he hopes might lead him fore. It seemed like a roundabout way to go in that direction, but the obvious paths seem to cloverleaf and appeared to be somewhat circular. Mumbling, he lifts the deactivated comlink to his lips. "Coward? -I'm- afraid? Sorry. I'm. Not. Perfect." Orson draws his comment short as he stops in the middle of the hallway and looks into a cavernous room branching off from his current path. When he walks again, he picks up the diatribe once more. "Maybe if I was a just a Jedi! Hi, I'm Jessalyn's puppet, Orson. Maybe that would work better. Okay, that's not completely fair." The man realizes he doesn't need the comlink, and tucks it back to his belt. This air was bitter cold, but at least it was air. It felt good to breathe. "Bah." He walks on, twisting down various hallways and slipping through small cracks in partially ajar blast doors. Like a huge beast, the _Dimlyn Titan_ groans and shakes as if struck, and a sound of metal crunching and colliding on metal reverberates through dim passageways. It was the sound of one of the ship's compartments collapsing in on itself, taking with it one less rib supporting the mass that is the ship's outer hull. One less area that the Jedi could search for the elusive piece of their ultimate prize. The passage of time could account for the collapse. Time was a hungry insect, mercilessly and emotionlessly consuming everything in its wake. Suns, planets, people, relationships... nothing was safe from the ravaging effects of time. The sound of another passageway collapsing in itself cascades through the corridors. Then another. Time had nothing to do with this sudden, rampant destruction. And then, with his weapon buzzing loudly and casting a light bright enough to rival Orson's glowrod, emerges Simon Sezirok. With his lightstaff spinning in his hand and hook, he cuts a huge hole out of a bulkhead near Orson Tighe even as he's jumping through it. The room he'd vacated quivers in his path, supported by faith as much as by the remaining, untouched bulkheads that made up its four walls. With his chest heaving to suck in the cold, dry air, Simon stands on the balls of his feet with his weapon ready. A cold, yet taunting look is given to the Jedi. "Lost your way, have you?" Simon says, his voice raspy like a rusted file. He makes no move to attack. At least, not physically. "You look as if you've lost more than your way, Jedi. Tell me... was it your lies or Jessalyn's that set you two apart?" As a boy, Orson would sit propped on the living vine fences which separated the long rows of flavorful Ukion peelfruits, removing first their papery exteriors and digging into the multiple skin-like layers of the intensely flavored food with his teeth. When the noises start, and it's clear that they are caused by more than just things hitting the sides of the ship, Orson understanding that Simon is here is something akin to getting to the center of one of those peelfruits. One layer comes off. There's a familiar tickle at the back of his neck, and another layer is peeled back. Like teeth tearing into the heart of the fragrant core of the fruit, Simon shreds the wall and lands in the corridor. Orson understands. The man stumbles back, ripping his lightsaber free and holding it unignited in his white-knuckled fist. Longer than most, the silvery-green metal handle seems more colorful than usual, catching and reflecting the glint from Simon's ready weapon. Heart suddenly racing, Orson licks his lips, dropping the glowrod to the floor and clawing at his composure, which is running full speed down the hall in the opposite direction. "What's the matter, Petre? Get tired of terrorizing helpless Griffons? You should mind your own business." Orson understands Simon's capabilities, but hesitates in calling for help. He wondered if Jessalyn would even come. She sounded pretty serious about that never forgiving him part. "You respect what you fear," Simon says, a crooked smile spreading on his lips, looking odd beneath the smoke-gray bone horns protruding from his cheeks. "The people of this galaxy mix the Jedi up with the True Source. If I teach them to fear the one, they'll respect the other. What you call terrorizing, I call repairing the damage that you and your vile order are causing." Ending his lecture, Simon shifts his stance, angling toward the next bulkhead while keeping his lightstaff between he and Orson. Perhaps the Jedi would be fool enough to attack him, despite the floor quivering beneath their feet from the changing pressure wrought from Simon's destructive path. "Besides, this is my business," Simon says. "Exposing the Jedi for what they are and breaking them... that is my life's work, now." "Petre," Orson starts, tone firmly pedantic. "I could point out the flaws in your logic, but you're a lunatic. And I think you know this." The man dips his head, as if he's conceding the point on Simon's behalf. "And lunatics don't care about logic. So, if you care to fault me for attempting the impossible, go ahead. Call my bluff." With a terse, squelching scream, Orson's blade appears, sky-blue thrumming fiercely. "I guess I would first point out that your polemics against the vile order are lost on me. I don't think the vile order would have me, even if I asked." The short man steps forward, and presents his blade. "Don't cut anymore walls," the man says crisply. Laughter bubbles out of Simon, as out of place as water gushing out of a stone. The sound of Simon's mirth echoes down the passageways, harmonizing with the creaks and groans of the ship as various pressure points shift along its destabilizing hull. Shifting left and right with two quick steps, Simon dips his arms, bringing one tip of his lightstaff to cut two deep slices out of the floor beneath them. "My name is Simon Sezirok," he says, a smile still on his lips, carried over from his breath bout of laughter. "I am glad to hear that you are having trouble fitting in with the Jedi. Perhaps there is some hope for you yet. I'll probably have to kill you to be sure, though." And with that, Simon spins around once more, cutting several lines out of the floor. With a terrible groan and crash, the floor rips apart beneath both Jedi and Selas, dropping them into the passage below. A long, drawn out scream would have been nice, but the twisted metal supports and honeycomb girders warping to meet some sort of equilibrium are too clunky and constricting, and Orson is forced to save his breath for concentrating on not being crushed as they fall. "WHOOF!" is the sound his vocal chords make when all the air is pressed out of his lungs quickly. When things stop falling, Orson is revealed to be resting on a form-fitting metal beam, draped there like he's lounging, except his face has a bright red welt on it and his arm is bleeding. He jerks up suddenly, regaining awareness and wincing inwardly at the pain of four or five joints which feel slightly out of place. "Or floors," he adds weakly, turning on his feet to see where Simon has landed. It was only through experience that Jessalyn had learned the true pull of the Dark Side in her now. She had conquered fear, she had learned to squelch any tendencies toward aggression, she had even learned to keep hatred from taking root in her heart. They weren't hard lessons for a Jedi of simple gifts, even with her fiery nature. As long as those she loved were safe, the Dark Side could not touch her. But the thing she had never learned to conquer, had never had to face before, was despair. Memories came to her at times during her brief meditation on the ship, reminding her of the path of her life, each branching turn that had brought her to this point. Without the Force, she can't See those other possibilities, the other Jessalyns who might have existed had she made this or that different choice along the way. She can't know what her mistakes were, what she should have done differently. Even with the Force, it's unlikely that she is powerful enough to ever know how she could have kept from falling to this point. It -is- a descent, in a very real way. Despite the loneliness of her childhood and a transient career that had kept her from forming lasting bonds with those she had grown to care for, Jessalyn had always been cheerful and optimistic in her daily life, her hope for a future of love and family and fulfillment a persistent beacon that allowed her to continue on. Of course, there had been times when she had doubted it would ever be real... especially after she had made the decision to become a Jedi. But she had never sunk to this before, never held what she had always wanted in the palm of her hand to watch it disappear for no reason that she could really understand. She knows it isn't like the time a very frightened Orson had fled from her, needing her to come to him, to prove her love. And she had. She would have crossed any obstacle, faced any danger, and gone to any corner of the galaxy to prove it to him. Jessalyn hadn't even known she was capable of such love, but he had given her that gift. Now, she wishes she had never been awakened from that blissful coma. She knows that no matter how much she needs him right now in order to restore her faith, he won't come. It's a bitter pill, and it plunges her into such despair that all those other things she'd conquered -- anger and fear and hatred -- find fertile soil to plant their seeds in her heart. She doesn't try to stop it. Those feelings are the only things she has left to call her own.... ____________________ "Jace and Rachel are lucky," Jessalyn murmured out of the blue, watching as her newly-found brother and his very pregnant wife disappeared down the hallway of their home, headed for bed. Paul drew up close behind her, hands reaching around to wrap about her waist, pulling her back against him, and when she turned her head he kissed her lips. "They are," he agreed. "Which particular form of their luck are you admiring?" Closing her eyes in quiet and envious contemplation, Jessa breathed out softly against his lips. "All of it," she admitted, her voice a breath. "Their luck at finding each other and making it work... their children.... it must be nice to just be normal people." Pulling back, Paul dropped his chin to her shoulder. "I suppose it has its advantages.... it was certainly what Jace wanted, despite the fact that I asked him to come with me." Eyes quirked upwards to Jessalyn's, curious and somber as he asked, "Is that what you want? Do you want to be 'normal,' so to speak? Would you give up who and what you are to be someone else?" Jessalyn focused her eyes elsewhere as the curve of her lips turned to a slight frown. "No... " she whispered. "I've already chosen who I am, for what it's worth. I can't go back. But... Rachel told me it was the simplicity of their lives that makes it all possible. I hope my complicated life won't keep me from being happy like that, too. Being a wife and mother would have suited me fine, Paul... if I hadn't found out about this gift that I have. Now...it's not enough. But those desires won't ever go away." "So you want to be a wife and a mother and a Jedi... they don't seem exclusive desires to me." But it wasn't what Paul wanted, and she had always known it. It didn't bother her, really; it was the understanding between them, that when their paths would inevitably part, so would their relationship. After all, she didn't love him.... ____________________ ... Her heart pounded in her ears. Slender arms slid around him as Orson enveloped her in his embrace, and a sigh left her lungs, like the lifting of a heavy weight. Jessalyn shut her eyes as she slid off the chair and onto her own knees, pressing near to the warmth of his solid body, experiencing the physical level and the Force all at once. Their souls were so inextricably linked, it was difficult to tell where she ended and Orson began at times, and as her fingers caressed the nape of his neck, she rubbed her forehead against his cheek and whispered, "I love you, Orson. I never really understood love at all until I found you. But now I do." It was the truth, she reflected without bitterness. The beauty and joy of it was dazzling, and she was content to have traded years of pain and disappointment for the reality of this. Orson steadied her face, rough hands sliding into the silky hair at the base of her neck on either side of Jessalyn's head. He leaned in and kissed for a long moment before pulling back and staring at her. "I won't let you down," he said resolutely. "You're safe now." He seemed content to hold her a long time, free from the passage of time. There was no hurry now. There was growth and maturity to be expected, yes, but he had arrived at the destination. Contentness rolled from his body. The man's little heart struggled with the flow. __________________________ The images bubble up in her brain, unbidden and unwanted, sinking her further into despair. To feel hope dying in her like a flame that's been quenched is more than her broken heart can bear, too much for even her resilient spirit. The darkness seeps into her in bitter degrees, festering around her resentment and the part of her mind that can't comprehend how she could lose Orson. He was everything she needed. She still needed him. How in the name of all Thousand Suns was she going to learn to live without him? A terrible groan issues from Jessalyn's throat, echoed ominously by the screeching of metal against metal as she becomes aware of the sounds of Simon's attack on the Titan's very structure. Despite her rejection of the Force, her instincts kick in to warn her of the impending danger. She finds herself strangely unable to react at first. Only when that subtle tickle of warning roars into a blaze she can't ignore does she sit up straight and stare at the door. But when she gets to her feet, she moves not in the direction that will lead her to where she is sure Simon is launching his attack on her former apprentice, but to another doorway just a few rooms down from the one she was in. Something was calling her, and she moves without thinking. She holds her breath, unaware of the wild expression on her pale, tear-streaked face, her hair ablaze in fiery comparison. And she disappears into the darkness of the chamber. With the last cut in the floor, Simon knew throughout his being what was coming next. He could feel the rending metal and twisted support structure buckling and writhing, not only through the True Source, but through the soft soles of his boots. Turning bodily, twisting in a tight spin, Simon draws his weapon close and parallel to his body. Like a deadly, green hued drill, he drops into the chamber below, cutting himself a clear path and spreading his feet shoulder width apart upon landing. With a flourish, he spins his lightstaff in his bone hook, catching it with a snap with his left hand. He stands for a moment, looking at his opponent, his chest heaving and a grim smile on his lips. "The Haven will not be yours, Orson Tighe," Simon says tersely. He whips his lightstaff left and right, transferring it from hand to hook, then back again. He continues, "Prepare yourself. We will finish this." In some ways, the power had come easily. Far too easily. Certainly the training took well because of Orson's persistence and single-mindedness, traits that had developed along with a keen mind and from his long years of physical labor. But the compassionate bond between he and his teacher had played a profound part in that training, bringing awareness and understanding so rapidly and firmly that he was astounded at his progress at the close of each day. There was a lot of all this that was unsettling; namely, for this old man to have learned of this power so late in life. How to reconcile Orson the mechanic, Orson the businessman, Orson the smuggler... with Orson the Jedi. In a way, Jedi-ness had become more clear in the last few moments, that picture unfettered now by the removal of his needful teacher. Though his own demons had chased Orson from Jessalyn, he could see now, even as he stared at Simon, a clearer path for Orson the Jedi than ever before. It hurt, yes, but the burden is steeling the small-framed man. The moment of Stoicism makes him feel more Jedi-like. With a strange en garde stance, the man readies his bright blue blade, lifting the thrumming weapon to his right shoulder. "Leave now," Orson replies quietly. "And neither of us have to be destroyed." Orson shuffle steps forward, quickly, with a speed and precision that would not have been evident to anyone before the soft-spoken mechanic had begun his training. He strikes first, packing all of that bitterness, pride, and stoicism into the attack. He glanced around the ship a moment, and found no trace of that strange man that brought him where-ever he is now. Toryn finds it hard to believe he acually slept in the man's ship and survived. A shiver running through his spine, he decides he's going to make a break for it. Exiting the ship, his paws making no noise as he walks softly down the ramp, the cub stops at the bottom glancing around. Where is he? Hmm, doesn't much matter to him, as long as he doesn't have to deal with that weirdo and his 'True Source'. After falling as they had, Simon expected a weakened, old man, new in his development as a Jedi to either flee for his life, or provide a feeble attack. Did Simon Sezirok not have years more experience with the True Source? Had he not started his training as a warrior well before he'd even begun shaving? With his eyes widening in surprise, Simon watches as his opponent moves, lithe and swift, bringing deadly force to bear. Bringing his weapon into a tight spin, Simon beats back Orson's onslaught while yielding ground in three quick, backward steps. At least, it had started as three. On the third, his foot comes in contact with shrapnel from what had been floor from the compartment above. Throwing his right arm behind him, he tries to catch himself in his fall. Bone hook slips on aged metal, and Simon finds himself sprawled on his back, his lightstaff barely held between he and Orson in his left hand. The tense, banded muscles across the broad-shouldered Orson's arms and shoulders seem to have infinite strength. What couldn't he move? What administration of justice was beyond him? What couldn't he destroy? He'd fully expected to be outdone by Simon. Orson has seen Simon train and engage in desperate combat on more than one occasion. This opening is like a spark igniting in Orson's chest, consuming a tangle of volatile emotions. The first of these is wonder! And Jedi reflexes sieze gleefully the opportunity to strike while Simon is down. The electric blue lightblade outpaces the distinctive humming sound, stopping centimeters above Simon's lower torso. "Yield. Do you think I wouldn't kill you, because of Skywalker's codes? I'd be doing the Galaxy a favor." Tink, tink, tink. These are the sounds that a droid walking down the hatch of a ship make. "Oh my, where are we? Hellooooooooo? Master Orson? Mistress Jessalyn? Is anyone heeeeeeeerrrrreee?" Comes the annoying metallic voice, "Hellllloooooo? Is there anyone heeeerrrrreeeeeee?" It is TooSock. Slowly, he comes to a stop at the base of the ramp to the ship, and peers about. "Alloooooooo?" He calls out again. "Oh dear. How dreadful." Defeated. The span of several hearbeats draws out as Simon feels the bitter taste of defeat fill his mouth, nauseating as bile. It was hard for him to believe that he could have let himself underestimate this man so severely. The man's weapon was close enough that a deep breath would carve a hollowed, burned divot in his flesh. How could it have come to this? Even when there had been Jessalyn Valios and Luke Skywalker at this man's side, he'd been able to escape with a partial draw. It had cost him his hand, but... His hand. The cursed trophy taps the metal of the ground next to him, and he stretches out to the True Source with it. Lowering his left hand, bringing his lightstaff down, he makes as if he was, in fact yielding. Moving with demonic speed, Simon bringing his bone hook up and across his body. The disfigured appendage begins to glow with an inner light, smoke tainted red. It collides with Orson's weapon fiercely, throwing sparks and drawing a cry of pain from the Selas. Throwing himself bodily to his right, he spins and calls upon the True Source once more, pulling himself up and spinning to his feet, his left hand once more putting his lightstaff between he and Orson even before his feet find good footing. His lips drip into a snarl, saliva running thoughtlessly out of the corner of his mouth. Smoke wafts off his bone hook which is held aloft, no longer glowing. Orson's weapon barks as the darkly enchanted hook touches it, and is knocked aside from its wielder's sheer surprise at this move. Orson didn't know this was even possible. Sliding back, the mechanic checks his footing, and grits his teeth. Whatever had been pumping through his veins a few minutes ago has suddenly disappeared, and Orson feels some minor despair creeping into the corners of his vision. Still, he doesn't call for help. Who would come? Certainly not Jessalyn. She had made that abundantly clear. "I hope you're not doing this because you're jealous of me and Jessalyn," Orson says with a half-hearted smirk, shaking wild hair from his face. "That must be it. I don't really buy the taint of the Galaxy thing." If his comment is flippant, or inane, his next strike is nothing but deadly serious. The long hilt of his saber rolls in his hand and Orson's grip is reversed. The Jedi carves a figure-eight in the air in front of Simon, slicing fast on the downstroke at Simon's leg and adding his second hand to bring all of his bitter strength to the blow. "Orrrrrrrrrrrrrrrsooooooooooooooooon," Calls TooSock, as he strolls towards what he thinks could possibly be Orson. What he is doing, however, is incomprehensible. That could, perhaps, be because of the fact that as he listens closer, he notices the fact that the ship seems to be collapsing. "Oh my," He offers simply, with a frown, "This is absolutely terrible. I do hope I don't lose my head again." He muses quietly to himself for a moment, before continuing on squeakily, wobbling just slightly. Suddenly, TooSock looses his footing, and his body falls to the floor, rolling slightly, and wedging against a crate. "Oh dear," He offers plaintively, struggling to get free of his bondage, without luck. If he could frown, he would probably be spitting flames right now. And then, his head pops off, comes to rest on the ground, and he offers a contemplative "Mmm. Here goes nothing." And then, the head bounces once, twice, and sputters through the air, a black mass on the bottom of his metallic head pushing him towards where Orson's voice was coming from. "Orrrrrrsoooooooon," He calls again. He didn't like that body, anyways. Simon was not going to underestimate Orson again. He lets the Jedi's words roll over him, storing them away to respond to later as the blue blade carves its deadly path through the air, the stale air itself buzzing and igniting with its passage. Twin green blades move to counter, keeping the Jedi's weapon away from his head, then his chest, then his groin. With the next sweep of Orson's blade, Simon launches himself into the air. Throwing his right arm forward, he flies through the space that had once been this compartment's roof. The bone hook dips past Orson's defenses, biting into the flesh of his upper arm as Simon leaps over the Jedi, half twisting in the air. A long gash is drawn from the middle of Orson's arm to the top of Orson's shoulder as Simon uses the man as his pivoting point. Landing a few feet behind the Jedi, Simon looks at the tip of his hook where Orson's blood has marked it red. He brings the tip to his lips, then extends his tongue, licking it clean in one disgusting pass. He says to Orson, "Jealous? Of a couple of deceiving Jedi? Spare me." The cloth of Orson's shirt splits, then his skin. Like juice spilling from an overripe berry, a fine-particled spray of deep red blood flicks outward in a straight line. The first squirt of blood is so vigorous that it's almost audible. With a scream that matches the jagged cut, Orson slaps his opposite hand down on his shoulder and stumbles ahead, wincing. There is enough meddle in him that he can reorient himself. With a deep breath and a flicker of concentration, the gasping-for-air Orson slips away from the pain. It'll be back soon, in full force. Orson could fight offhanded if he had to, but not against Simon. Better to let the blood rage through the open flap on his arm and use his natural arm. As Orson settles into a weak defensive stance, the Dimlyn Titan groans. Her champion had taken a mighty blow. As if the two were linked, something in the hull of the ship pops and stale air is sucked from a distant rear compartment. "We'll die together then," Orson whispers, gray eyes wide. "I guess you've got some Jedi blood in you now." His blade dips and comes back up. A taunt, an invitation, even as his vision swims. "Orrrrrsoooooooon," TooSock calls, still. His head rotates, as it enters the hallway, peering about quietly. "Orrrrrsooooooooon!" And then, he comes upon the hole, and peers down into it silently. "Mmm," Comes his contemplative word, as he thinks. "The chances of me dying right now are quite high," He offers to the ship, "I do hope Orson's backups of me were..." And he moves forward, and is about to descend... And his repulsorlift fails. "Oh, fark," Comes the metallic voice, and he falls straight down into the compartment. "AIGH!" Screams he. Simon smirks with Orson's words. While it would be pleasurable to spill the rest of Orson's blood, he himself had no desire to die this day. Not when there were other Jedi still drawing breath. Turning his eye up toward the lip of the hole above them, Simon sees the source of the noise that had punctuated their fight. It was that hideous, soul-less creation of man. The knuckles of his left hand whiten as he tightens his grip on his lightstaff. As the robot head falls into the area where Simon and Orson had been doing battle, and its scream reverberates through the hall, Simon points his hook at it, taking hold of it through the True Source. Gesturing toward Orson, he hurls the droid head at the mechanic, taking the droid's momentum and adding some of his own. Looking away, not caring if he struck the Jedi or not, he turns his weapon to the nearest bulkhead, carving himself a new path headed toward the fore of the ship. There was still something that needed to be found, and time was running short. Something being thrown at him would be a challenge enough. Alerted by the mechanical scream and the trembling protest of the Force at Simon's manipulation of it, Orson lifts his lightsaber in pure reflex, angling it even as a muscle deep within his shoulder tastes air for the first time. And there's about a microsecond for Orson to decide: 2SK-MI's final death, or an altruistic bump on the head. The saber is flicked lower fractionally, and 2SK-MI tumbles into part of Orson's face and part of his chest. It's forceful, and distracting, and the Jedi is pressed against his wall as the droid bounces off him. When his eyes open, Simon is already gone, the edges of the hole the Selas just made still glowing orange. Orson leans forward and collapses his weapon, yelling in Simon's direction. "You'll not be rid of me!" he howls, stumbling to his feet, bruised and soaked with blood. "Ever!" But the shamed Orson knows, even though he's standing, that he would have found death at the end of Simon's lightstaff in any other circumstances. Luck, the Force, or Simon had kept him alive for some reason. But not for long, if he stood here bleeding to death in a ship that was falling apart around them. The mechanic slides his weapon away and reaches for 2SK-MI, palming the back of his head and picking him up, starting off in... this! direction, starboard, searching for the way he had come, one floor lower than before. A new presence begins to emerge from the corridor dead ahead of where Simon is moving. It's a strangely familiar aura, strange in that it's altered considerably, whispering still of raindrops and gem-colors, but tainted with something utterly foul. Darkness rolls forth in sickening waves, like the stench of death perceptible through the Force. With a smooth, well-honed grace, Jessalyn Valios leaps from where she was perched on a catwalk above the corridor to stand before the Selas with a terrible, defiant smile spread on her face. Her eyes blaze like twin emerald suns, and she cradles a long, oddly-shaped brass beam in her arms. The Force virtually glows from the thing; it had lured her to its secret hiding place like a lover, and she embraces it in her arms as she draws a breath to speak. "You've been wasting your time fighting that faithless coward," she taunts, her voice altered as much as her soul has been. "I have what you've been looking for." Overwhelmed by the number of surprises Jessalyn presented, Simon stands for a moment, his weapon buzzing useless in his left hand, casting green shadows across his face. It wasn't enough that the red haired beauty should spring from the shadows as she had, hidden from Simon's senses until she made herself seen. It wasn't enough that he should feel the corruption emanating from her, the corruption that she'd hidden from him for so long. The corruption that resonated within his own soul. It was her dark gift that she had given him, leading him along blindly with the sweet taste of her flesh, and the promise of something greater. Finally, there was the object in her hands, luminous to his True Source enhanced eyes. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if she carried a piece of a sun, blazing blindingly and beating back the shadows. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. "I was just getting warmed up, Jedi," Simon says, twisting the title with scorn. "Give that to me, and I won't even the score." He gestures with his bone hook. Simon. He's here. And by the way, Cronos? You are alone again. And with the ship in its current state, things don't look good. "Great way to go, Cronos. Whatever the name is for. Now, if we could find Mira..." his words trail off, as he continues making his way through the half destroyed ship, when he feels something else... "Simon is not alone..." Cronos whispers, frowning and picking up his pace. The green eyes blaze her defiance, and Jessalyn laughs aloud, mirth bubbling over. She had been an empty flask her whole life, waiting to be filled with this sweet Darkness, giving her the power to stare down any enemy. And Simon was supreme on that list of enemies -- the most immediate in a long line of hates that are building layer upon layer in the Jedi's heart. There were so many things to blame him for. He was the one who had wakened her from that coma -- the first step in what had turned out to be a tragic and heartbraking path. And he just -had- to do it on that blasted Corellian beach where Orson just -happened- to be surfing that day. And when she had loved Simon, he had abandoned her, too, because he couldn't accept her for who she was, foibles and all. Just another in the long list of people who had abandoned her, starting from birth, and stretching out until this very moment to the man she had loved most in the universe. Bitterness spills from her voice. "Even the score? You're sadly mistaken, Sezirok. I'm going to butcher you." In one swift motion she clips the glowing brass handle to her belt and pulls her lightsaber free, the blue-green blade slicing into the darkness. The snap-hiss of ignition and the sweet hum of the lightsaber fill her ears, just as the Darkness fills her to brimming. She wasn't afraid to touch the Force now. Oh, no. This was going to give her the power to make up for all those hurts. She smiles very slowly at the Selas, her heart racing with gleeful anticipation of the fight. From one of the darkened hallways to the port comes a green glow, dim at first, but growing brighter and brighter as whatever is wielding it approaches. In this case, the "whatever" is Mira, but she had ignited the blade not because she sensed the conflict in the open space ahead, but because it was a convenient source of light. While the young woman didn't necessarily need the illumination to keep from bumping into things, the loud groanings that she kept hearing from deep within the ship's hull were currently occupying most of her concentration. Having come to the conclusion that only a great and large monster could be making such horrific sounds, she had been attempting to use the True Source to locate the creature, which had left her fumbling around in the dark until she had turned on her saber. It was terribly frustrating to Mira to find that the True Source was failing her in this endeavor, and that she could not find any hint of the special luminosity that a large creature generally might emit. Just what kind of horrific beast was this? As she meanders into the room full of debris and clutter, she pauses, taking her mind off the monster to negotiate her way through the dimly lit room littered with obstacles. Almost as soon as she brings her focus on the Source to the immediate room, she is almost knocked over by the waves of darkness rolling off her two friends and filling the space. Adjusting her grip on the still ignited lightsaber, the girl creeps forward towards Simon and Jessalyn. Well, he's out of the ship, and so far away from that creepy human. He feels about in his jacket, realizing he still has his hold-out blaster in his pocket. That'll be useful, if he happens to see this guy around. Then again, with the stuff he pulled the trip over here, would a blaster be enough? The small feline can't help but feel frightend as he scans the dockingbay. His eyes fall on the YT-1300 in the bay, and he tilts his head. Is that ship familiar? He scratches behind an ear, and ventures out into the docking bay, gaining distance from the ship he was brought here in. He pulls the small blaster out of his pocket, and peers about as he heads over to the Uwannabuyim and starts to examine it. Licking his lips, Simon brings his weapon into a more defensive position, shifting it between hand and hook. This was the woman he'd fallen in love with, the woman beneath all the Jedi hypocrisy and words. It was a relieving confirmation to see the woman for what she was. Not waiting for Jessalyn to make the first move, Simon launches himself at her, spinning his lightstaff into three quick cuts going from head to torso then back to head again. As he moves, he's reminded of another time when they had sparred, and her weapon had cut him above the heart. It was not the only wound she'd given him in that area. Mira... He can sense her now as well. Cronos keeps pushing, even though each step seems to take him closer to his doom. "Mira..." he whispers, how he missed the girl while he was in that self exile of his on Tatooine. Through the Force, Cronos extends his mind, trying to get a sense of what's going on. Darkness... A deep breath is given from the man. "I must hurry," he whispers, pushing on. It doesn't take long for Markus to find the place of the confrontation. He watches from the shadows, frowning, and removes the cloak that he 'carries' over his presence in the Force, letting the others feel he's here. His own hand goes to the cylinder at his belt, but does not remove it or ignite it. As the fight starts, Cronos takes a step forward. "No!" he exclaims, his breathing hard. For some reason this felt wrong, this wasn't supposed to happen this way. His step takes him forward, from the shadows. The voice would be easily recognized by Simon, even if the face looks slightly different. There was something wrong, something wrong. Even though she is not a Warrior Jedi, Jessalyn has been well-trained, and her instincts guide her movements as she deflects Simon's attack, a bright turquoise arc moving through the air which is filled with the angry sound of the laser swords clashing together. The glow of the blades lights her face eerily, and her eyes narrow into slits as she stares across at Simon. So this was how he wanted her, was it? As corrupted and evil as he had become. Ironic that he had helped turn her into that, but she can't bring herself to care now. She lusts for his blood more than she ever lusted for anything. "It's too bad you decided you had to hurt me so much, Simon. Then I wouldn't have to kill you now. We might have made a good team," she whispers huskily, taking a step back as she gathers her strength. A vicious cry tears from her throat as she leaps toward him, the power of the Dark Side giving her abilities she had never fathomed before, bringing strength into her arms and making her move at lightning speed. How freeing it was, not to have to doubt herself, not to have to worry about what that pathetic Jedi Master might think, or if she was violating some ancient and outdated code. She would use this power to take out her vengeance and cut down anyone who dared stand in her way. In past encounters, the dark aura surrounding Simon had stood in sharp contrast to the light around Jessalyn. This time, however, something was different. While Simon's imprint on the Force remained largely unchanged, the impression she was getting from Jessalyn was something that she could only begin to describe as "wrong". The mysterious monster residing somewhere in the bowels of the ship was forgotten, and Mira's attention was drawn now to the monster being created right in front of her. About to step forward, Mira hears Markus call out not too far away. She swings her gaze in his direction and, while not catching sight of him, locates him anyway. With a few hastened steps, Mira trots to his side, her lightsaber still ignited, but still held as more of a flashlight than a weapon. "Something is wrong," Mira says in hushed tones to him before again turning to watch the clash of blades nearby. His initial attacks are blocked back, the Jedi making the defensive manuevers look effortless with her new found speed and prowess. As had happened with his fight with Orson, Simon finds himself giving ground, surprised by Jessalyn's skill. When they had sparred, she had not shown so much cunning or ability. It must have been a part of her subterfuge. For her to drop all masks now must mean that she was certain she would be victorious. Knowing what sort of pain was in store for him, Simon wields his staff left handed as he draws upon the True Source, empowering the hook at the end of his right arm. Once more, it glows with an eerie red light. When he empowered his wooden staffs, the weapon was not a part of him, and he felt no pain. When his hook had caught Orson's blade, it had felt as if his bones had ignited to white hot fire. If it kept him alive, he could endure pain. "If you were not so devoted to your pitiful Jedi Order, perhaps we would make a good team yet," Simon hisses as he continues to yield ground to Jessalyn's attacks, parrying with both his lightstaff and his hook. Smoke sizzles off his appendage, the smell acrid and stinging to the nostrils. "You will die a Jedi, Jessalyn Valios. By my hand or someone else's." No, no, no! Well, not only the evident bothers Cronos. There's something more, something that is beyond his comprehension. Taunting him, teasing him. His own weapon comes to life now, the golden blade casting an eerie light on the Jedi's face, and with a determined expression the man starts moving forward. "This has to stop," he states. Funny, how he thinks of himself as a 'Jedi'. Considering his story, it is kind of amusing. As Mira arrives, Cronos has an easier time breathing. "Valios... There's something wrong with her," Cronos comments. He looks in their direction, and back at Mira. "Stay here," he indicates and starts moving again, breaking into a run. He had to stop them somehow, for some reason. He's about to shout something at Mira, slightly turning around, and then it happens. There is a huge explosion that rocks the ship even more, the explosion doesn't hit Cronos directly, but the blast of it does launch the man toward the fire from, the explosion behind him closely following. The explosion pushes Cronos across the air through a corridor, and he disappears this way. The impact of the explosion shoots waves of pain across Cronos' body, the man both physically screaming as well as through the Force, as he tries to protect himself. Simon's statement should have given her pause to reflect on what she has become, but Jessalyn only laughs again, relishing the pain she inflicts on the Selas with each strike of her blade, even as she's surprised by this ability of his in and of itself. But then again, this was the man who had sprouted horns before her very eyes -- very little can surprise her anymore. She increases the number and severity of her blows, trying to to hasten his defeat. "Let the pitiful Jedi Master tend to his Order," she snarls at him. "I'm not going to let him or anyone else define me anymore -- and I'm most certainly not going to let you kill me!" With this declaration the ship rocks on its axis with the explosion, and she stumbles, screaming and falling sideways onto her shoulder before sliding across the deck, displacing the rubble and debris that go flying with the same movement that sends her lightsaber careening across the chamber. The lightstaff in Simon's left hand spins and twirls, trying to hold back Jessalyn's attacks, but they come too quickly, and he finds himself having to hold her at bay with his hook. She swings her terrible blade at him, pounding at him as if trying to crush him with a hammer, and he grunts with the effort of holding her back. With a final strike, Jessalyn's blade crashes completely through Simon's hook, the bone clattering dully on the metal floor underfoot. One end of his lightstaff flicks between them, barely turning the rest of Jessalyn's blow. At the same time, the explosion rocks them all. Simon leaps back, taking to the air to escape Jessalyn's wrath as much as to avoid a large piece of the ceiling overhead crashing down upon the area they'd been fighting. Steadying himself on a bulkhead with what's left of his right arm, now bleeding from the original wound reopening, Simon looks toward his fallen opponent. Disengaging his weapon, Simon slides it into its sheath on his back and vaults after Jessalyn. As he leaps, he fixes some of his attention on Jessalyn's lightsaber, reaching out with the True Source to shove the weapon out of the combat. He wanted to finish Jessalyn with his bare hands. Some of Jessalyn's arrogance is lost now as the pain of her fall jars her, and she stares horrified at the Selas as he lunges for her. She rises to her hands and knee and drags herself barely a meter across the floor, reaching out her hand in the direction of her lightsaber, and grimacing with concentration as she realizes Simon's intent. He's already gotten ahold of it with his mind, and now she's defenseless. Well, not entirely. No one with her skills and training is ever completely defenseless. Before Simon can reach her, she slips her hand into her vest and pulls the blaster out from the shoulder holster there, bringing it to bear on the Selas with shaking hands as he charges her. She's sure he can deflect any laser blasts, but at least she can keep him at bay until she can get her lightsaber back. "Stop!" she shouts, eyes widening in panic. The Darkness that had filled her to such omnipotence wavers with her fear. At the explosion, Mira is tossed around by the ship like a chef might toss a Mira salad. She lands against a nearby wall and slides to the floor, momentarily stunned. It is only a few moments, however, before the girl comes to her senses again, shaking her head slightly and attempting to clamber to her feet. "Markus?" she asks quietly, reaching out with the True Source before quickly locating him not too far away in the hallway, injured, but alive. Alive was more than one might say about Jessalyn in a few minutes if Simon had his way with her. Wrestling with the choice between betraying Simon once again and allowing him to kill Jessalyn, Mira makes up her mind quickly. Taking her lightsaber, which hadn't landed far from her spot on the floor, Mira flings it towards the woman. Using the True Source to guide it on its trek, the lightsaber skitters across the floor on its way towards Jessalyn. Perhaps Simon wouldn't notice it. Thought drifts across Simon's mind dimly as action takes precedence. He knew that Markus and Mira were nearby, their so familiar life sense alive and warm in the back of his mind. He could feel how Markus had grown in strength, he could sense Mira's greater control. In spite of them turning on him, embracing the way of the Jedi, he felt a splinter of pride for how they'd grown. Nevertheless, he ignores their presence as Markus is thrown down by the ship's tumultous rocking. Mira he dismisses out of hand, even as he senses her reach to the True Source. The fight with Jessalyn was all. A wicked smile spreads across his lips when he feels Jessalyn reach uselessly for her lightsaber. The smile spreads into the rictus of a snarl when she draws forth a blaster. Gritting his teeth, Simon throws his head back, spinning fully around and kicking out with his right foot, aimed at the weapon in her hand. He meant to have an honorable fight. Several thoughts flash through the Jedi's mind as she sees Simon launching towards her as if in slow motion. She's aware in that moment that Mira and Cronos are nearby... and distantly, Orson... though beaten and bleeding. But the only thought she gives them is that they aren't capable of stopping her. And they haven't. No one has spoken or intervened on her behalf, out of supposed Jedi compassion for her. Where was Luke, after all? They were left to this dangerous mission of conflict and temptation without even the Jedi Master's guidance. Useless, she thinks derisively to herself. What use were the Jedi to her? She would act. She would not sit passively by any longer. She would mold her future into the one that she wanted. She would rip the memory of Marina out of Orson's mind and bend his will to hers, and rule the Galaxy with him as her Dark Consort. It was what she had been born for. It was the only way she would be anything. And Everything. Simon was a fool to underestimate her so. She sees the attack coming, and moves her stance enough so that his foot makes contact with the blaster and not her hands. It flies easily out of her hands, and she shifts her center of gravity at the last possible second, and lurches powerfully forward, locking her arms around Simon's legs as the weight of her shoulders sends them spinning dizzyingly backward. She lands on him with a weighty thud, her knee digging into his solar plexis as she leans over and wraps her hands around his neck. But it's not just her fingers. The Darkness takes vicious hold of her, and slowly, deliberately, Jessalyn digs her mind into his throat like a vise. Her face is stricken, her eyes wild and unnatural. But then they close, for she can't even bear to watch what happens next, giving into the darkest impulses a Jedi can sink to. All of the air in Simon's lungs leaves in a rush, and black flecks dance before his eyes as Jessalyn slowly begins to crush the life out of him. He had underestimated her, again. This time, his mistake would likely cost him his life. There was no surprise attack for him to blindside her with. The True Source was with her, and the corruption she carried in her soul poured out over him, suffocating him as much as her fingers, bruising and crushing his throat. Reaching feebly, fumbling drunkenly, Simon reaches to the True Source. He directs flows of it to his throat, trying to hold her fingers and her dark vice at bay. He directs flows back at Jessalyn, trying to reach into her mind. The True Source was with her, and if he could keep her from it, if only for a moment... When her eyes open, they bore through Simon's as she looks into him, sensing his feeble attack on her mind. But this time, through some small flicker of humanity left inside her, the Force flashes like a tiny beacon, showing her Simon not as he is now, as this deformed, twisted being, and not even as he had been long before she ever knew him, as the young Selas full of pride and noble intentions. The Force, out of seeming mercy for her soul, shows her a glimpse of the future... Simon, fully healed and wiser for his experience, eyes full of compassion and knowledge, and without the horrible deformations the Dark Side had twisted into his physical self. Not the Fallen Selas, but turned back from the Dark Path, wrapped in the pure cloak of the Force. For a split second she bitterly tells herself that it's not possible, that the future is always in motion. But as she looks down into his face, she sees fully for the first time the damage she herself has wrought. The very real pain he'd experienced at her hands, no matter her good intentions. The deeper descent of his soul because she had failed to redeem him, had, if anything, driven him towards the Dark Side. Condemning him as much as she was condemning herself. Who else would she taint? What other goodness would she destroy? Jessalyn sobs as her heart responds, her innate compassion welling back up to grip her throat and make her gasp out as if she's the one being choked. She cannot destroy something that has a spark of hope left in it. And if Simon still had the Light within him... Her mind and her hands release him at the same time as Jessalyn falls backward, sinking onto her knees and covering her face with her hands. She bends over, her posture completely defenseless. She deserves death. Simon can have it if he wants to take it. Mira stands watching the fight, struggling over allegiances. Was she more loyal to her former teacher, Simon, or to her new teacher, Jessalyn. Both appeared consumed by darkness and a lack of control, and to choose one would decide her future. Until the light reclaimed Jessalyn, the girl had been torn between her two mentors. However, as Jessalyn falls backwards, allowing Simon's dimming life to remain, Mira's mind is made up. Rather than allow Simon to destroy the surrendering Jedi, Mira reaches out with the True Source and sends a pile of debris flying towards Simon as he lays on the floor, attempting to disable him long enough for them to escape. Bringing his hands to his abused throat, Simon draws in a ragged breath as he rolls over to his side, resting on his right elbow. Nausea from the pain in his arm and throat threatens to empty his stomach. He looks toward Jessalyn's prone figure, a devilish grin forming on his lips. She'd stayed her hand, for reasons he could not fathom. He would make her pay for this mistake. The first rock colliding with the back of his head sends black flecks across his vision again, disrupting all thought of revenge. The second and third break open the skin on his neck and back, the pain intense. The fourth lands, glancing off his head just above his ear, and Simon moves to defend himself. Spinning to his right, he throws up his left hand, reaching through the True Source to hurl everything back. In his counter attack, air borne stones are cast aside like leaves in a pond. Simon presses the attack further, trying to cast Mira aside as well, before turning his attention once more to Jessalyn. Reaching once more through the True Source, he grabs with invisible hands at her body, pulling her toward him. When he woke up, all he felt was pain. It took a few moments, as he reached for the Force in order to push that pain away. Now was not the time for it, now was the time to face his own life. And from the debris caused by the previous explosion, Cronos pulled himself out, and started his way back to where the fight was going on. "Mira..." he whispers, wincing as the pain threatens to return. Through the Force, he once more pushes it away. By the time he arrives, one arm around his torso, he sees the rocks falling on Simon. Cronos squints his eyes, he can feel the Darkness around the area like a soft blanket reaching out with tempting whispers. How easy would it be for him to give in as well. How powerful could he really be. No! He pushes the thoughts aside. He won't let himself fall prey to it. Not now. Cronos closes his eyes, and sends his thoughts through the Force towards Simon. << Simon... >> he projects, trying to catch the other's attention. << Let them go, >> he adds, and the white haired man slowly makes his way towards Simon, a silver cylinder in his hand but not ignited. Like a limp doll, the surrendered Jedi lurches back into Simon's arms, having taken at least one bruising blow from the debris that was sent flying in their direction. She barely even reacts, and it isn't until she's pulled back against his body that some life enters her once more. She goes rigid and turns her head to look at him, without really seeing. Somehow, she would rather escape from here with Simon than to bear facing the Jedi again. To ever step foot on the Uwannabuyim again. Tears stream from her eyes, her head spinning as the veins seem ready to burst from her temples. But before she completely surrenders, she moves one hand to her waist, detaching the brass handle from where she kept it safe on her belt. With the Force, she sends it sailing in a graceful arc towards where Mira was. Clinging to Simon's shoulder, she whispers, "Let's get out of here!" The ship was dying. There was no time to waste here. Mira's eyes widen as she watches her attempt at a diversion backfire on her. The debris she had sent in Simon's direction comes flying back towards her and her lightsaber, still halfway across the room, was mostly useless to protect her now. Flinching as the first of the rocks strike her body, it doesn't take Mira very long to decide to make a leap for safety. She holds her ground just long enough to catch the shiny object flung in her direction by Jessalyn, taking a few stinging hits by the rocks in her moments of hesitation. Finally, her arms wrapped tightly around the mysterious object, she makes her move for cover. Using the reflexes honed by practice in the desert with Simon, she dives for a few crates nearby, which provide a makeshift shelter from the storm of rocks headed her way. Taking hold of Jessalyn, Simon stiffens when he realizes that she's not actually spent. This close to him, she could kick him or take his weapon from its holster or any number of terrible things. When she does none of these things, but seems rather to embrace her captivity, he smiles a relieved smile and settles Jessalyn's weight against his right shoulder. It was probably some sort of Jedi trickery, but given the circumstances, he would take advantage of this opportunity. In truth, Simon's strength was waning, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to fight off so many foes, especially with only one hand. His bout with Orson had been fierce, and with Jessalyn more so. He could sense Markus coming back around, and he had a feeling that Orson was also preparing to draw near. And then there was Mira, the girl he'd underestimated along with the others. Underestimating his foes had been his theme since coming to this ship. He would have to be more careful in the future. If he managed to get out of here and have a future. Straightening, with Jessalyn held over his right shoulder, Simon draws his lightstaff with his left hand and ignites it with a double snap-hiss. He casts a wary glance in Mira's direction, then in Markus's direction. He couldn't fight effectively with Jessalyn on his shoulder, but then, they couldn't afford to strike him, shielded as he was with her body. Could it be that Jessalyn had broken free of the Jedi in her fight with him? Was it for this reason that she had spared his life, then made it possible for him to make his escape? Cronos is very aware of the place falling apart around them. Alternatives of what to do, pass through his mind. For some reason, the idea of letting him take Jessalyn with him is one that tastes sour to Cronos. But considering their situation, he may not have an option at all. He can feel through the Force, that Mira is in danger and this makes the white haired man hesitate. The fact that Jessalyn seems to be embracing Simon doesn't help. So the man stands there, facing what seems to have become his archnemesis and reaches out with his mind to touch Mira, to make sure that she's alright. There isn't much time. There isn't much time at all. Watching in relief as Mira escapes to cover with the brass instrument safely in her hands, Jessalyn furrows her brow, sending a thought across to her. _Make sure, please... make sure Orson is safe!_ It's the only message she has for the girl, and she's suddenly grateful that it will be Luke who will guide her, and not herself. It was so much better that way. Without resistance, she lets Simon haul her over his shoulder, going limp as if she's lost consciousness, and her eyes close... The ship was shaking and groaning, the sounds of compartments collapsing in on themselves coming one on top of the other, from all directions. The hull bucked and twisted as if it were caught in the maw of some giant canine. Barely maintaining his footing, Simon begins carrying Jessalyn back the way he'd originally come, his weapon still held in front of him should the other Jedi decide to do something rash. Standing at the edge of a passageway, he turns his head back in Markus's direction and narrows his eyes. Drawing a deep breath, he concentrates on the connection they share to the True Source, using what he'd learned from that terrible lesson at Jessalyn's hands on the beaches of Corellia. A sensation like nature gone mad, over-ripened fruit rotting on the vines, wolves and carrion gorging themselves in a field littered with dead, is sent in Markus's direction. Amidst the sensation is Simon's voice, _Do not touch my mind again, Jedi. Follow us, and everyone dies._ It takes him a moment, but Cronos resists the feelings that Simon's mind causes to his. "We /will/ meet again," is all that Markus responds, now hurrying towards Mira. "Where's Orson?" he asks towards the girl. "We need to get out of here," the man adds. Fighting Simon here would be pointless, and Jessalyn for whatever reasons, seemed willing to go with him. For now, Cronos finds himself just blindly following what his instincts tell him. The Will of the Force. The young man then closes his eyes, reaching out with his mind and trying to locate Orson what way, all this while he starts moving, trusting Mira to lead the way back to the their ship. "I dunno," Mira says in response to Cronos's question as she stands up from her refuge behind the crates. She catches sight of Simon and Jessalyn disappearing down the one of the corridors leading back to the hangar. Then, trusting the image of the man that appears in her mind, she adds, "He's with the ship." The roarings and moanings of the unseen and unfelt monster were growing louder now, its existence only evident in the strange noises that echoed down the hallways of all parts of the ship. Her arms still wrapped around the mysterious object Jessalyn had thrown to her, Mira begins to walk. First, she walks over to her own half of Simon's lightstaff, the weapon that had become her own. She picks it up carefully and clips it to her belt. She then walks over to Jessalyn's lightsaber, cast away in the heat of battle. This, too, she picks up and clips to her belt. Finally, she walks over to Simon's severed bone hook. This, she stares down at hesitantly. Casting a puzzled, almost regretful, look back at Markus, the girl leaves the severed hand on the ground. Perhaps the monster would eat it. Feeling that all items were now accounted for, she was ready to leave. Choosing a path, Mira begins to pick her way slowly towards the hangar bay. The deck plating where the Uwannabuyim had perched has been shredded, pulled apart like torn fabric to expose broken metal beams and the remnants of a dozen vital systems carried in tubes and wide conduit. Bulkheads and support walls ripple in fast rolling waves, hot metal singing a requiem for the occupants of the hangar bay in an intense polyphony. The Uwannabuyim is no longer resting there. It's gone. Lifted to safety, borne away by her strong, steady engines. And then, the ship reappears, dipping close, very close to the rumbling walls. Like some otherworldly angel and throwing enough light to be mistaken for a small sun, the old ship tilts dangerously to the side, once again letting her boarding ramp hang open some four meters from the moving floor. The ship's overly strong ion engines ache to explode with their full power, and it's making the saucer very difficult to control. In the cockpit, Orson Tighe is slumped over the console, which is now slippery with blood, and is gently milking the controls with his good arm. The Force flows there, even now, allowing Orson to feel the ship more than a normal pilot would, talk to her simple brain, and fly with one semi-conscious finger. A pale-faced Orson lifts from his seat slightly to chance a look down at the approaching pair, licking cracked lips. He's jammed 2SK-MI's head in the corner of the cockpit glass, to give the droid the best view possible of half outer space and half console. A new rumble sounds, something else to shake the ship, as the bridge hull is breached. Blue-white lightning plays over the capital ship everywhere as long dormant but copious amounts of static electricity are discharged. A whipping gust howls through the hangar as the air is sucked from the ship's lungs. Orson's gray eyes look without understanding on the group arriving. No Jessalyn. No Simon. What? Knowing and consequence arrive simultaneously, destroying Orson and his naive idea that it was a good thing to be burdened. Whatever strength was left in him is sucked into his legs, and his head swims. The defeated Jedi slaps a hand to the cockpit glass, still scanning the edge of the bay. Enough was clear in Cronos' and Mira's emotions, determined faces, and the distant quiet voice through the Force of his former teacher. This time, his old ship, his old identity lends him strength. The old businessman and part-time smuggler clicks into automatic, and falls into the seat behind him. _Go! There's no time._ Orson's articulated concern echoes through the Force as clear as any spoken word, and has the added benefit of being able to be heard over the din since it's heard directly in Cronos' and Mira's minds, even the droid's. "Jessalyn..." he says without thinking, nursing the control panel. Now Orson knows why the dark Simon spared him. Torture. This cut has gone deeper than the Selas' lightstaff ever could. Force help them all. "Boy, that sure did suck," TooSock notes fondly, from his perch. Drawing upon the True Source for strength and speed, Simon flees from the Jedi, racing hard with Jessalyn on his shoulder. It's not the Jedi he races, but the ship itself. His feet pound through one compartment as it begins to collapse. A ragged hole rips open in one wall, and as Simon's feet pound into the next room, the air begins to rapidly evacuate through the ragid hole. For a precarious moment, Simon stands motionless, holding he and Jessalyn against the pressure. A broken crate lying loose nearby flips into the air, blocking the hole, granting yet another reprieve from a destiny with oblivion for Simon and Jessalyn. At last, Simon and Jessalyn come to the rear hangar area where the _Tortured Soul_ was settled down, its ramp still sitting open from Toryn's escape. Not wasting any time or slowing down, lest he collapse too soon, Simon vaults up the ramp of the Firespray, making directly for the cockpit. It was too bad for Toryn, really. He hadn't meant for the Horansi to die. The pleasant jingle of the lightsabers on her belt and the brass object cradled in her arms accompany Mira as she trots into the hangar bay, having led Cronos through the twisted passageways to the hangar. A deceptively cheerful noise for such a dire situation. This time, using the True Source instead of her lightsaber to navigate the darkened hallways, her course was more sure and less twisty. It was a good thing, too, because with each step, the ship seemed to deteriorate more and more. The journey through the ships hallways ends as Mira finally emerges into the hangar bay. Her look of confusion upon seeing the empty space where the Uwannabuyim quickly transforms into a look of fear as the roar from the hull breech begins sucking the air out of the ship's innards. For a moment, panic nearly grips the girl, until she hears Orson's voice calling them and finally sees the Uwannabuyim flying across the bay. "Over there," Mira yells to Markus, pointing and struggling against the strong gusts of wind that are part of the ship's final breath. He had felt Orson's mind, and as everything just becomes a fight for survival, Cronos follows Mira, letting the girl guide him around. His mind, goes over a lot of possibilities. And he will have to figure those out later; at Mira's yell, Cronos just follows. He pushes through the Force against the wind, using this to gain speed. He runs next to Mira, making sure the girl doesn't fall down or anything. His destination is pretty clear. The Uwannabuyim. Whatever happened here, will have to be discussed afterwards. For now, their lives came first. And as he runs along with Mira, their destination becomes closer and closer. Once they are on board the Tortured Soul, Jessalyn shifts off of Simon's shoulder and steps back from him, lingering near the ramp, her head swimming with what's happening. The Darkness has subsided once more in her, but she's horrified by what she has found herself capable of. Sucking air in through her teeth, she considers fleeing back down the ramp. To let the Titan take her with it into its cold and inevitable death. Wiping tears and sweat from her face with her sleeve, she turns her head and considers her... captor? Ally? Arch enemy? The choices all drift through her mind. She was tired of this struggle. But she couldn't die -- Simon was her only escape. Ultimately, she moves toward the cockpit and braces herself in the passageway, understanding seeping into her. -She's- going to have to fly them out of here. "Just don't kill me before we get out of here," she says over her shoulder, moving to strap herself in to the pilot's chair, bringing the engines to life and flying the ship out of the hangar with hands that move of their own volition. Following Jessalyn into the cockpit, Simon collapses ungracefully into the co-pilot's seat, his strength gone in a rush. He felt the True Source, but he was more exhausted than he'd felt in a long time. His reality was comprised of weariness and pain. Blood still oozed slowly from the cuts he'd taken from Mira's thrown stones. In retrospect, they couldn't have been stones, though. It was shrapnel, from this dying, life forsaken ship. Pain also throbbed where his hook had been. The memory of his bones burning with every strike from Jessalyn's wicked lightsaber pulsed in his mind. Turning his eyes on Jessalyn as she takes the controls, he says, his voice quiet, "I wouldn't dream of it. Jessalyn Valios." In his ommission of the title he had come to address her with, he wonders if she'll take comfort or pain. He wonders for a moment which he'd prefer. The truth of the matter was... she was still his only hope for survival. His pilot had fled, and even with the True Source behind him with all his strength, he couldn't have flown this ship out of this rumbling, crumbling hangar. The second death of the Dimlyn Titan IV is violent and more dramatic than the first. Some thirty standard years she had floated here, carefully circling the distant blue star of this junkyard system along with millions of other forgotten pieces of trash. There had been no ceremony, no accolades to accept, when she died her first death. Decommissioned at the hands of a burgeoning movement -- what would grow to become the Empire -- this flagship of peace and power was violated repeatedly instead, used as a large object in simple starfighter target practice. Her bones were picked clean by their best technicians, engines and systems taken for other vessels, or simply destroyed when salvage wasn't practical. And then, she was forgotten. Her blue ionized coloring had faded. The painted symbol of the Old Republic etched on her brow was almost invisible. But the Wreck of the Dimlyn Titan IV still had a mission to carry out. She still bore a secret, a key to a coming age that made the Old Republic and the old Jedi Order look like but a whisper of the truth. It had been carefully planted by two extraordinary and prescient souls... That key was now aboard a much more ignominious vessel, nothing so noble as that mighty warship. In the sure hands of a small, dirty but goodhearted girl. Were this piece of the puzzle clearer, it might brighten Orson's despair. But it doesn't, because it -is- a puzzle. Not that he's concerned at all now about that. And so, her last mission complete, the Dimlyn Titan IV lets go of the soul she had clung to. With a heavy whuff of air, the hull breaches here in the cargo bay, and cold starlight falls on the unfortunate Mira and Cronos. The ship's back has been broken from Simon's diabolic swipes, and she cracks at the midsection, falling away to either side around this central large room. A wall comes down and pinches the side of the Uwannabuyim. There is a small explosion there and Orson is forced to turn, lingering for just seconds before he has to power the engines and tilt the ship on its horizontal axis so that he can fly through the narrow vertical opening of the Titan's hull...
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