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| - Personal Barracks - Karrde's Base - Myrkr The barracks for the base's residents are clean and comfortable without being either too austere or too luxurious. Like the other buildings in the complex, the barracks are panelled with dark woods with blue recessed lighting, with approximately one dozen unmarked doors on either side of the corridor. Windows on either end of the building allow cool, piney breezes to flow through during the day, adding to the ambiance. The Players: Orson: Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. He is wearing fur pants, thick white, large and billowing at the legs. A black tank top covers his thick barrel chest; while fit and stout, he is not overly muscled. A gray scarf encircles his waist, evening the dark and light on the man and helping keep his clothes in place. It has been knotted on one side and trails almost all the way to the ground. Soft-soled but thick boots cover his feet. An oversized set of goggles are strapped to his head, stretchy material securing them in an 'X' shaped band around the back of his skull. The lenses are tinted rose red. Jessalyn: The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. She is wearing a loose, cream-colored tunic made out of some light material, scooping low beneath her startlingly white throat and showing off a thin silver chain set with a rough-hewn but shiny blue-green stone that rests just below her collarbone. The tunic is belted at her narrow waist and the full sleeves end just above her pale slender wrists. She wears a pair of tight, dark brown pants tucked into knee-high black leather boots, both complementing the best pair of legs in ten parsecs. Golden sunlight streams through Orson's window, the mechanic himself collapsed on his bunk. Bunched in one hand, some schematics drawn on flimsies for something inordinately complicated -- Orson normally starts working, and things come together on their own, no plan required. The flimsies are the only blanket he's got. One leg hangs down to the floor, sitting in a sea of gadgets and seemingly alive mechanical things, occasionally whirring and moving around the room. In the corner, some art, unfinished, what appears to be some transparent pigments in the middle of being applied to the interior of a half-sphere. It's mid-morning and the rest of the compound is up. Sunburned, begoggled, and tired, mentally and physically, Orson finds restful sleep for the first time in years, but the schedule is as always, so wrong. His door has been characteristically left open. His rhythmic breathing elicits only a glance from Karrde passerbys, who seem used to this sort of thing with the master mechanic. The door to Jessalyn's room just across the hall from Orson's creaks open and the redhead appears for the first time that morning, not quite as well-rested as she usually is. But despite the drooping of her eyelids that betray her weariness, her step is light and her expression almost enchanted as she pauses outside Orson's open doorway. She raps her knuckles lightly on the doorframe and calls out, "Hey," to announce her presence before actually peeking in on him. Orson kicks his leg reflexively, shifting his weight to sit up. His eyes feel especially strange, having slept in his goggles all night, but he's not completely aware of that just yet. He clutches at his papers, trying to keep them straight and not wrinkle them excessively. Completely disoriented. "Um, come in!" he shouts with forced alacrity, voice deep and groggy. When he considers who it might be, he starts reaching around the bunk, hand snagging papers and bringing them to the main pile on his lap. In comes Jessalyn, a bright smile directed toward Orson on his bunk as she leans her back against the door to close it. "Good morning," she says, a little conspiratorially. "Are you up for breakfast? Busy? Whatcha workin' on?" She's uncharacteristically chatty, a sign usually of excitement or nervousness. The smile is still there, certainly, as she takes a few hurried steps into the room. "Oh, good morning," Orson says, trying to straighten his spine. "A bit sore, but otherwise okay." The mechanic puts the pile of papers on the bunk and steps over to his workdesk, rubbing his face. Some casing ideas are being sketched there, and everything from sleek and organic to an almost perfect copy of Jessalyn's lightsaber are being worked on. He moves to take them down, but doesn't as it's obvious they've been seen. "Well, I, just a few ideas. The last didn't work, and with our ... training. You know." He studies her face for a reaction, and gives an apologetic shrug. Indeed, he's got things working down to the micrometer, with multiple angles and cross-sections on each sheet. A datapad, left on all night, is still sitting on the desk, running some calculations, and orange numbers scroll constantly down the screen. The mechanic has been challenged. Jessa reaches over to pick up one of the schematics, her brow furrowing as she looks it over, then peers towards the busy calculating datapad perched on Orson's desk. "Just be careful. It'll take some time before you're at a level where you can really achieve the results you want. But... there's no harm in planning." Her smile returns as she clears off a corner at the foot of Orson's bunk so that she can sit down. Speaking of planning... "Orson, have you given much thought to... what your real reason is for wanting to be a Jedi? Being a Jedi is a lot more than just being able to sense and use the Force. It requires serious dedication, serious focus. I'm not going to stay here much longer, and after that... you'll have to choose what you want to do." Orson seems prepared for some sort of correction, and tries to force his smile to turn more solemn when she doesn't protest his work. "I will," Orson promises. He didn't want to die in an explosion or burn off his facial hair any more than she wanted. He turns and shuffles his flimsies, one in front of the other as she speaks. He considers this for a long while, dragging a thick fingertip over the drawings. "I suppose I am stricken with ... many things that are not too Jedi-like. Pride. Jealousy. I'm struck by the power, the lifestyle. More than that though, the direction and the meaning." He turns his workdesk chair around and sits in it, finally reaching up to pull off his goggles. "That." Orson scowls a little, biting his lower lip at her final question and he shrugs. "What do you mean?" Folding her hands in her lap, Jessalyn's effervescent mood becomes more thoughtful as she considers Orson's words. She tilts her head to one side, smoothing her hair back behind her ear. "We all start out that way, really. It's kind of a selfish thing. We realize we have this ability, and we want to explore it and cultivate it. But the purpose of a Jedi is not just self-fulfillment, but to use what we learn about ourselves and the Force to preserve and defend peace and justice in the galaxy." She lifts her head to look towards the window, making a smooth motion toward it with one hand. "Really, it's an inevitable part of becoming one with the Force. You realize how connected you are to the galaxy, and compassion compels you to do what you can to stop the Darkness." Orson is fairly made of compassion, really, and is slowly coming to grips with some sort of ethics that have always been just out of reach. It's coincidental -- perhaps -- that this ethical rethinking occurred only a week before he and Jessalyn began studying his own internal ability with the Force. He nods at her, allowing the words to slink into his sobering mind and rest there before he considers a reply. "Whose version? Of peace, and justice?" It's an honest question, and Orson stares at her with tired eyes, sincerely wondering. Was there a written document for the Jedi that they could follow? Was there something that would tell him the answer when he had to save the few at the possible sacrifice of the many? "The New Republic's? I don't think they have the answers for me." Jessalyn's smile visibly falters as she gives a slight shrug of her shoulders. "The Jedi Order served and protected the Old Republic for uncounted generations, Orson. That kind of... symbiosis isn't going to happen overnight again. But the New Republic is the heir to the ideals of the Old Republic and the Jedi, and it's our duty.. our imperative to help bring that back to the galaxy. No, there isn't an easy answer about whose ethics we should follow. There is only the knowledge and wisdom that the Force gives us. You will know." The workdesk chair squeaks as it leans back. Orson rests his elbows on each arm, wrapping one hand around a loose fist from the other. He touches that ball of fingers and hand to his chin, tapping it there. "I understand," the man says after staring at Jessalyn critically for a long time. "Don't you ever worry though? That you're fighting to remove one tyrannical power only to replace it with another? Unless a Jedi sat at the head of the government, it would seem hard to know." She reveres Luke Skywalker, this much had been made plain to him so far. Perhaps now was not the best time to bring up the strange and dangerous tactics of the NRI who, prompted by Skywalker, had used some very suspect methods recently in a Karrde engagement. Something unsaid dies in Orson's throat. Rising, Jessalyn paces over to the window, shaking her head very slowly as she folds her armms behind her. She looks deeply disturbed by something Orson has said, and turns her face away so that he can't see her expression. "The answer is not to have a Jedi ruler, though three have been Jedi who have served in governmental positions, of course. But if we become that, the rulers of the galaxy, then we've failed. We're here to protect freedom, Orson. People must represent themselves. We defend them. Even from their own corruption, yes." She is quiet and somber as she looks out over the clearing toward the woods, at the bright shafts of morning sunlight cutting through the gentle morning mist. "I understand," Orson says again. This time, there's a bit of agreement in his voice. "I suppose that's something to be on guard against. To avoid meddling, I mean." His voice trails off and his look settles on the Jedi, first looking at the flat pane and then back at the woman. "Are you okay?" he tries, voice quiet. His voice easily fills up the silence. There's no need for his new instructor to worry too much, and he attempts to reassure her if his own difficulty is the cause of her sudden thoughtfulness. "I do understand what you mean, about being a Jedi. I do want to be able to help people. To have a source of insight like that, to know what to do. I'm just ... well, I haven't heard right and wrong from the Force yet. I know from the way I feel?" Turning to lean her back against the windowframe, Jessalyn turns her weary eyes toward Orson, though her smile returns to soften her somber features. "When you're calm, and at peace, the Force will guide your actions. You become a vessel for its will, and you will know the good side from the bad." She looks at him briefly, then looks away again, her brows knitting together. "I'm okay," she adds very quietly, but not very convincing. Orson squints, giving her latest Force advice a critical look as it enters his mind. It seems as good a mantra as any, and he files it in a prominent spot in his mind. "You're sure?" the smaller man asks, standing from his chair. It creaks. He picks his way through the stuff on the floor, and, if it weren't for the stiffness in his middle-aged body, he might look like a ballerina, carefully extending the point of his toe and then stepping and shifting his weight with more grace than he usually shows. The mechanic-student eases to her side and repeats his question. "You seem worried." An opportunity for taking flight to the Force realm has been missed. Her true self, and his, would be there, and these extraneous questions would be gone. Myrkr. Her slender body tenses slightly as Orson approaches, pulling her out of her moody thoughts. It was strange that something that made her wake up brimming with joy could so quickly to turn to self-doubt and fear. She gives the older man a quick, confiding look, her back still cradled against the windowframe as she rests her hands on her thighs. "I'm a little worried," she murmurs, her voice low as if she is afraid someone would actually overhear them. But they are perfectly alone in Orson's chamber. "I'm afraid I've let myself... lost control of... oh, dammit. Is it possible to care about someone -too- much?" Orson touches a finger to his chin, nodding thoughtfully as she speaks. He taps it there, creating a little interstice and then destroying it when his finger closes the distance. "Yeye," Orson mangles, starting to say Yes, most likely, and rethinking that. "I think so. From experience, I could say that, when it's one-sided, you're caring too much. Or when there are larger things at stake. Perhaps. Other than that? No. Not so long as you're honest with yourself and your feelings." He leans in, voice low and conspiratorial. Major secret coming. "Be true to yourself. And to Simon," he concludes with a nod. Of course he knows that's what this is about. A tinge of guilt blossoms on Orson's cheeks and he turns to go back to his workstation. Something, in the way all this played out, didn't seem right. With him giving mostly unsolicited advice now. Advice that, if followed through -- well, how could he know? The mechanic turns back to her to evaluate her response. With the Force, the observation of body language wasn't required. Now, it was, and he watches her figure for those little signs. Jessalyn's eyes are remarkably revealing. She glances toward Orson as he walks back to the desk, her fingers intertwining and wringing together. But her gaze turns away almost uncomfortably, seeking out the more calming images offered by the window; windswept grass and swaying trees, people bustling about to their various tasks, all oblivious to the conflicts that a Jedi can feel deep in her heart. Her shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh. "It's not what I ever expected," she murmurs, just loud enough for her friend to hear. "I've always... remained true to an ideal. A person that would fulfill me more than anyone else. But, like you said, if it's one-sided, then... then my feelings were all irrelevant." There is honest heartbreak there, that she's reluctant to admit or reveal, and she looks down at her hands, allowing her hair to fall across her face, obscuring her expression and her tell-tale eyes. "Is it?" the mechanic says, touching a hand to her shoulder. "One-sided?" He turns his own gaze to the tree line and the occasional activity in the camp. Even though right now he couldn't feel the Force, he saw with new eyes. Eyes that understood and could realize their owner's place in the galaxy. Eyes that would know, instantly, right from wrong. They carry more passion, more excitement now, but are deeply burdened. He's stepped into a world of peace, says his new instructor, but it seems more a world of conflict. Orson could see his life, his own existence, winding through obstacle after obstacle, seeing how close he could cut it short, before that one time that he couldn't do just enough ... "I'd encourage you to take some time, for yourself. To just let things ... settle. You've been gone for a long time now." Orson reaches for the windowsill, manipulating something that looks like a set of door controls, but styled in wood. The window hisses and slides open, allowing some resilient coolness from the morning air to seep into his room. Her dark red head turns once more when Orson's touch finds her shoulder. One corner of her mouth turns up into a half-smile, and she gives a small shrug. "I... well. I don't know how one-sided it was, really," she confesses, blushing to the roots of her hair. How foolish she must seem, and how embarrassing. With all of the turmoil and conflict in the galaxy, with the future of the New Republic and the Jedi Order at stake, here she was concerned about matters of the heart that would have nothing to do with the outcome that would effect the lives of billions of people. "I just know how I felt -- feel -- I don't know. I don't know. Maybe I'm deluding myself, trying to substitute something else in place of something more real. If that even makes sense." She bites down on her lower lip, still afraid to meet his gaze directly. "I'm afraid I love Simon for the wrong reasons." Orson has reached some level of peace in his understanding of Jessalyn and Simon's relationship. He has, for the time being, seen how his Interest in Jessalyn is really something deeper, misplaced and more difficult to address. It's easier for him to put what he Needs aside, and project it on an attractive woman. This much is obvious in Orson's flowing language, his normal difficulty with emotional talk notably absent. "You shouldn't rob yourself of the possibility of love, at least," the mechanic turned love advisor comments. "If you strip yourself of everything --" Orson holds out his palm, dipping it slightly everytime he names something: "Friendship. Comfort. Love ..." He pauses and manuevers to look directly at Jessalyn's face, "Then you've not only lost touch ... you've lost what you're fighting for." He reaches forward, clamping a hand on each of Jessalyn's shoulders. "Still, be careful. Don't rush things. Your perspective works well enough - let it do its work, yes?" As Orson places his hands on her shoulders, Jessa sighs again, leaning in so that her forehead leans against his. They are much the same height, and she's comforted by his presence as well as his advice. Her lashes close, fluttering over her eyes as she searches for the right words. "Those are the kinds of things I used to say to Luke," she says in a soft, wry voice. "I couldn't believe that the Jedi were meant to be these... isolated mystics who are incapable of feeling love. I don't think he believes that, either, but, it's the position he always put himself in...." She trails off, wondering if her words have revealed too much, and clears her throat hastily. "I'll be careful. I want Simon to... to find out that the Force is his ally and not his enemy. I do love him." Just not the way she loved someone else, she tells herself bitterly. "No," Orson muses, reaching around her head and digging his fingers into the back of her flaming auburn hair. The other hand moves to his chest, palm down. "They felt it ... at least now they do, anyway. Jedi don't -not- feel things. They feel it more." Orson is so true to the Heart of the Jedi, but so irreverent to an extinguished Order he's never experienced. Bold, and he rewrites the rules without a second thought and even less understanding. "You know the line, from the play? ... Who to talk? Who to cry? Forever by your side. Hope or love do flee from each other now but one's dark escape is so quick forgotten. Joy! The other remains, still." He tilts his chin to the ceiling, looking to the imagined crest of the hill where Gerheart had found his future all but destroyed and spoken those words in the story. It seemed to fit so perfectly, though the next lines were too painful -- too accurate -- to recite, so Orson stops there and looks to his friend. Passion is one of the thing that burns in Jessalyn's soul, a yearning for love, for a family she never knew, for connection. She had always wanted those things, despite the shame of her desire, and she looks tentatively at Orson, a little surprised. Jessa isn't particularly cultured; her exposure to art and theatre has been minimal at best, but yet, her heart is one that craves that kind of beauty, and she's surprisingly taken with Orson's performance of this particular line, even if she's unaware of its context. "I guess these are frivolous things to be worried about," she finally murmurs with a rueful shrug, not at all moving away from his comforting touch. "I guess... it's pretty typical to have unrequited love... or lost love. Simon deserves love. He deserves to know what the Force, the Jedi... the Light... can offer him. But I don't know if he'll ever understand. All I can do is try... and hope that Luke won't despise me for it." Perhaps that is her deepest fear, judging by the darkness haunting her eyes. "I was a foolish student," she admits sullenly, "more focused on my teacher than the lessons he gave me." The short mechanic nods, face already somber and turning grave as his teacher speaks. This much he's sorted out for himself. One more reason to stay focused on training and the matters at hand. "Once you've stepped into the Dark Side, you can be brought back?" The question is sudden and Orson releases the redhead, leaning against the wall beside the window. Certainly the issue of Simon has prompted the question, though the Selas not be the focus of it. More likely, the mechanic seeks yet another example, another insight on how it all works. The Jedi straightens her shoulders, looking thoughtful as she considers Orson's words. "It used to be common Jedi wisdom that one could never be brought back from the Dark Side. But Luke proved that to be wrong. He told me that... that it was Vader who saved him from Palpatine, during the Battle of the Second Death Star. That he became the Jedi he once was, his father, before he died." She blows out a breath, rustling the hair that has fallen in front of her face. "I think that was a rare occurence," she admits. "Almost inevitably, once you've given yourself to the Dark Side, it will dominate your destiny." She tries not to think what this means about Simon. Surely he is not utterly lost. It had been love for his son that brought Lord Vader back from the Darkness. If Simon truly loved her, then she refused to believe he was lost forever. "A Jedi must always be on guard against the Dark Side," she adds hastily, fearing Orson will misinterpret her words, and realizing the impact she could have as his teacher. "Vader? Vader destroyed the Emperor?" Orson folds his arms slowly across his thick chest, tucking his hands into the empty space made by the hook of his elbow. Yet another piece of information which would seem valuable, something to file away in an official Karrde report and let the organization somehow be advanced by it. But the Force -- while not some esoteric energy source -- those affairs were as private to Orson as matters of the heart, and he'd not share this information any sooner than he'd discuss his relationship with his family in business documents. "I will be," the mechanic remarks stiffly, already sure of this much. "On guard. But that's not enough, is it? We have to pursue it? Valak? Morganna? Stasus? Why? Simply because they use the Force differently than we? Or because they have galactic influence?" However indistinct Orson's words are, there's a distinction in his mind, at least. Jessa glances out the window, not wanting to remember the moments when the Dark Side had gripped her as surely as it had Darth Vader or Palpatine. The muscles in her jaw tighten inexorably. "Yes. It was Vader who killed Palpatine. To save Luke." She tilts her head to the side as she finally returns Orson's gaze, her smile returning to soften her expression. "The Sith have always been the enemy of the Jedi and the Republic. They will not stop until they've destroyed both, as you can probably ascertain from the history of the Empire. Thousands and thousands of Jedi were slaughtered thanks to Palpatine and his minions." "The Dark Side is controlled by hatred and fear, Orson. It's not just... -different.- It's brought harm to the entire galaxy, and it's our responsibility to stamp it out, protect innocent people from its consequences. You don't approve of Palpatine's New Order, do you?" "I didn't mean different," Orson says, holding up his hands as he turns to go back to his lightsaber plans. "I think I meant, I was asking about what we opposed and if the politics, the outward side of it was the reason or just that they used ... I understand," the mechanic says finally. And he does, but explaining what he meant appears to be too big of a challenge. "No, I don't approve of it at all. It's hungry for power, a regime of terror, under a slick surface of etiquette and good manners. Very sinister. Could we find the Dark Side at work as easily in the Republic as well though?" He knows so much, in a way, an older man with a keen mind and a taste for thinking on the abstract level. But some of it is so difficult for him. Jessalyn straightens her back and unfolds her arms, letting them hang from her sides as she watches him turn away, back to the plans and schematics that are his refuge. She was familiar with that form of flight, as well. "Of course. Palpatine worked for years under the guise of a Republican Senator, with no one none the wiser. It's our job to be on guard against that kind of threat." She takes a hesitant step away from the window. "Orson, I've never taught anyone about the Force before. I don't know what the Jedi Master will think about all this. About my abilities or my right to teach someone else. You should know that. I'm barely a Jedi, myself." "Your greatest weakness is your own doubt," Orson says directly, holding a steady gaze on the woman. "Everything else ... your sense of wrong and right, your knowledge, ability to make concepts clear. Your goodness. I've seen you make a stand against the Emperor. A man who moved my ship with a flick of his wrist. You're strong." Orson turns one schematic, holding it up, over his chest. Organic and smooth, with smooth ridges and lips instead of hard edges and distinct buttons. He's showing while he talks. "That you question yourself is, in and of itself, a sign that you take your power responsibly. That's all. What do you think of this one? Pressure grip. No obvious switches." The young woman is clearly surprised by Orson's appraisal of her perceptions and skills, and she shrugs uncomfortably, wanting to refute his claims, but realizing how foolish it would sound for a Jedi to keep voicing her doubts this way. "Thank you," she murmurs with some embarrassment. "I was talking to Declan earlier, and he caught me off guard with some of his thoughts about what role the Jedi should play in... in these 'galactic events.'" So strange to think she could ever be apart of something that would have such vast impact, and inwardly she shrinks away from such responsibility, not at all envying the role her own Master has had to play. She brushes off her more irritating thoughts, taking a step forward to peer at the schematic Orson is holding. "That looks nice. Have you given much thought to the crystal array yet?" "Declan." Orson pronounces the name cautiously, neutrally, as if merely saying the name is explanation enough. He pulls that schematic away and shows Jessalyn the next, lightsaber case open now in the drawing and packed with electronics. Still, there's a simplicity to it, an elegance, that makes the interior almost as lovely on the inside -- but only to a trained eye -- as it might be on the outside. The place the normal crystal array would go has been completely changed around. The master mechanic had a look at Jessalyn's when she was putting the finishing touches on it; that seemed like so long ago. This version sports a worm gear and a pair of crystals which can be presumably brought brought further apart with a twist of that gear. It's impressive, but it's been reworked extensively too, and the marks on the page are a testament to that fact. "He's a pess ... a realist, perhaps, to a fault. He's not a bad person, I don't think," Orson muses quietly. "But he's been completely shaped by a life with the Empire. Don't let him get you down." "He mentioned that," Jessalyn says with a small smile. "I understood his viewpoint. And I think he understood mine, actually, once we had a chance to talk." She shrugs and reaches out to take the piece of paper from Orson's hand, brows arching with surprise. "Dual phase?" she asks, peering at him as she stifles a wide grin. Orson reaches out for the flimsie himself, taking a corner of it and threatening to snatch it back. "Just trying to work out the specifics," he says, voice a little defensive. "Might come in handy. Aside from the obvious style bonus." With that, Orson grins himself. "Seems possible. I think I can get one crystal in at a time, perhaps." His broad shoulders angle to one side and he reaches over to the window controls, triggering them. The window moans softly and slides down on its track, locking into place. "What do you say I cook you a late breakfast over in the main hall and we can go over it?" She glances outside as the window slides back into place. Jessalyn realizes that Orson's Force-talents are inexorably tied to his abilities as a mechanic, and she doesn't want to stifle his tendencies in that direction. As long as the Force is his guide. "I -am- starving," she admits, smiling at her student. And her friend. "I'm curious how you think you're going to align the array without burning out the converters. Sometimes a mechanic's brain is the worst asset in constructing a lightsaber." She laughs aloud at the irony, and impulsively moves to give the stolid, older man a meaningful hug about the shoulders. "You know," she confesses in a very soft voice before she disengages from the embrace, "to me, the strongest asset of the Jedi is our trust and reliance on each other. As friends and comrades." She hopes that he understands what she's getting at, without having to come out and say it outright. His friendship is one of the most precious things in her life. "I've been wondering the same," Orson confesses. "That's what this sliding track is, here." He drops a finger to some minute assembly on his drawing. "I have been running some algorithms to set up amplitude, so everything's in true phase..." The man gives a start, and holds the plans out to the side for their protection as he gets a hug. His other hand finds the small of her back, and Orson gives more than an obliging squeeze as he tugs her in close. "I know," he says to her ear. Wistfully. His hand drops to hers and he gives it a tug, leading his friend out. "C'mon."
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