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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. Simon: Of average height and fair coloring, the young man before you has dark brown hair and eyes of a color somewhere between blue and gray. His hair is parted and cut short. His eyes are deep-set, looking more ready to draw his brow into a deep frown than a warm smile. For facial hair he wears a well groomed goatee and mustache, trimmed short and of the same deep color as the rest of his hair. All in all, the man's demeanor can be summed up in a word: intense. The man before you is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under the knee, and are tied tight with brown, leather chords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waste. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Currently, the man's hood is pulled up, concealing his face in shadows. A heavy bandage is strapped over his chest, tied in the back. Three blood red circles spot the bandage where the man's blood has seeped through. He stands stooped, either from the pain of the wounds or old age, it's difficult to tell. Orson: This stocky human male stands at only about five feet, thick arms, chest and fingers making up somewhat for his diminutive height. Dark hair is kept in a utility-conscious style, clipped short to his round skull - prominent specks of white hair pepper the sides. A too thick brow and angled face help the impression of heaviness about the figure; the face is complete with a broad nose and large square teeth that appear to be just a little crooked when his wry smile reveals them. Small folds of skin around his eyes and mouth indicate more years than his vigorous face would otherwise show. He is wearing neutral gray trousers, made of a thick fabric, only remarkable in that they represent hylomorphic "pants". A simple but heavy jacket, made of similar but darker cloth, hangs on his shoulders. Where it parts in front, a form-fitting white shirt with straight stripes shows itself. Dark boots round out the wardrobe. Despite its simplicity and economy, every garment is clean and well-kept. Even if unassuming, details are important to this man. Drew: Tall, leggy, blonde, Drew seems at a first glance. She is still young, somewhere mid to late twenties, and stands somewhere around 5'10". Her honey blonde, wavy hair usually seems wind-blown and frames her face in shoulder-length layers. Her bedroom eyes are of a grayish, peridot green, her skin is a peachy tan, and her nose is freckled. She has the kind of body an athlete would have, good shoulders, coltish legs, a narrow waist. Her cheeks have a constant blush to them, much like some who live in cold weather; her nose seems to have been broken sometime, it is a tad long and slightly hooked. She wears a standard spacer's outfit. Loose brown pants reinforced at the knee with darker leather, tucked into soft ankle boots, and a light blue, stretchy shirt under a a tan vest. Her hair is braided at the back of her head, Alderaanian-style. 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. It's late afternoon on Myrkr, and it's unusually damp, and quiet today. Drew steps out of her room, in street clothes, but her hair looks more mussed than usual. With a stifled yawn, she slinks over to Orson's door and knocks. Maybe he's there. While she waits, she steals a glance over to the rooms the Jedi are staying in, and sighs. Complicated. The door to Orson's room swings open with a soft moan, wood panel door unlocked and unlatched as well. Orson is lying on his bunk, feet up on the end of the frame, blanketed by flimsies. They are covered with Orson's cramped handwriting, notes and equations filling the spaces between the dark green lines marking in precise detail some sort of device. The floor is cluttered with bits of machines and at least two vats of foul-smelling liquid - some sort of polymer or fuel, perhaps. Wading through this mess is an artist's easel in one corner, another type of sloppy covering that stuff. Instead of a canvas, however, is one half of a reflective hollow sphere about a meter across. Inside it is the beginning of some sort of artwork. Full of red, blues, black and gray. Precise, emotional, but too tentative. It would be hard to tell what it is, but some humanoid shapes are featured prominently in the foreground. "Uh, hullo Drew," Orson says, looking over the top of his papers. "Come in. Make yourself at ... well, have a seat." He begins to sit up. Drew lets the door creak shut behind her. She manages to weave her way through the - erm - stuff on Orson's floor, and get herself seated on a chair, "Hi Orson. I should have tried to find you here before..." Been busy. Yeah. Her hand reaches out to pick up one of the gadgets closest to her, but then she pulls it back. Don't want to break anything. "Got time to talk for a few minutes?" Something turns a green-tinted ocular sensor towards Drew from the floor, like a rodent machine assessing her as a threat. It doesn't like the looks of the woman, apparently, and lifts its body tentatively on some spider-like legs. It doesn't go far, simply turning and looking the other direction. "Oh sure," he says, struggling up and inadvertantly wrinkling a few dozen flimsy schematic plans. He swings his legs over the bed and tugs at his jacket. It's crept up as he's lain there for the last hour or so. "Everything okay?" She's leaving the cell. Yes, that's it. He's already guessing what this could be about. Drew eyes the thingmejig staring back at her, "Yeah. It's you I'm worried about." She turns her eyes back to Orson, and they're guarded. So whether or not she wants to wring his neck, or throw a tantrum is well hidden. She even...smiles. "Orson, are you sure about what you're doing? I mean..." She leans forward somehow keeping her legs off any delicate-looking equipment on the floor. "You know what I mean." Karrde's probably given him a piece of his mind already. "I'm worried about you." Orson's lips come together in a little point and he lifts his chin, slow to nod. "About ...," the mechanic drawls out, pretending to coax the next little bit from Drew. "Making a stand?" Awareness dawns slow on Orson, but now he's fully out of his daydreaming mode and engaged with his associate's - clearly, his friend's - thoughts. In many ways it was better and safer in his own head. "No," he admits, blowing out a breath. "I don't know what I'm doing. It felt right ... feels right." Drew specifies, "Sticking your neck out." She lets that sit for a moment, while she tries to move some stuff from the floor, carefully. Big girl's feeling cramped. "I've tagged along this far, because I work with you and you're a decent guy, Orson. And because there's enough people on your case about helping the Jedi out." Her brows scrunch together, and she looks at him intently. "Listen, there's no point in telling you how much you've - we've, I mean - jeopardized, because we've heard it already." Another pause, and now she looks even sheepish, "I just need to know what you're planning on doing. I suppose there's no turning back, now, but you have to try to protect yourself somehow. You know?" The door leading from the grounds outside whisks open, and Jessalyn trots in, her hair pulled back from her face, and her skin moist with sweat. It's muggy enough outside, so after taking a brisk run through one of the paths in the forest, she almost feels like she was caught in a warm rainstorm. Wiping sweat from her forehead with one hand, she catches her breath and glances down the hallway as she pulls a canteen from her utility belt and takes a sip. There are voices in Orson's room, but she doesn't want to disturb them. Stretching her arms over her head, she walks to the window looking out over the misty forest and closes her eyes. Orson stares at Drew for a long moment. The man touches the back of his hand to his mouth, looking down at his useless junk pile. "I've been very thoughtless," he says from behind his hand. "Dragging you along like I have. Taking off from the asteroid like that." He holds his arms out straight to her, as if to invite her to an embrace. "I could have killed us all with that one!" But the man leans back, locking his elbows and bouncing slightly on the bunk. Something about Drew and her approach made it harder. She had seen almost all of the whole drama with the jedi play out, whereas Karrde was almost like a third-party. Karrde was a friend as well, but he was always preoccupied with profit and contracts. "I can't expect you to stay," he finally says, voice reveberating quietly out into the hall. "I'll talk to Karrde about a transfer for you." He seems resolute, but glum, shaking his head fractionally and lamenting his own fortune-telling prowess. Drew harrumphs at Orson, squinting, "You're not listening, are you?" Almost sulkily she continues, "I never said I wanted to transfer out." Yet. She crosses her arms on her knees, still leaning forward, and peers at Orson. "What I'm saying is that I /need/ to know what you're going to do, and what you're willing to do for these people. Because it seems that no matter what you do, you'll probably have someone behind you." Drew adds, quietly, "Goes without saying, I guess. After all that's happened." Trailing shortly after Jessalyn enters Simon Sezirok, stopping at the door and leaning on the frame to hold a hand to his chest for a moment of rest when he doesn't think she's looking. Not for the first time since they sparred, he selfishly wishes for his connection to the True Source to return so that he could do more about his wound. The heat of the day brought salty sweat that made the gouge in his flesh itch and sting like it was on fire. Straightening, he continues after Jessalyn, drawing upon his self control to make his face smooth and to keep from touching the bandage on his chest. He steps up behind Jessalyn and puts an arm around her shoulder as he says, "Sounds like they're having a meeting." He nods his head in the direction of Orson's room. "Do you think we should disturb them?" Still uneasy about Simon's ability to sneak up on her without benefit of the Force, Jessalyn gives a small start at the touch on her shoulder, and turns to smile up at him, unable to avoid the flinch of guilt when she sees his bandaged chest. "They probably want to be alone for now," she replies, casting a wary glance down the hall. "What about you? How are you feeling?" Straightening, puffing out his chest, Simon gives Jessalyn a proud smile and says, "Feeling? I'm fine! This little scratch reminds me that I'm alive!" He licks his lips. And with that, Simon Sezirok proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that even men from Telgosse occasionally let their testosterone do their talking. Orson moves his hand across his face, dragging it slowly across the light field of stubble there. He's staring back at her with an equal intensity. "What I'm willing to do," he repeats, wondering himself. "It's not just /them/," he reasons. That's a partial truth. "It was that they needed help. I would have done the same for you, even if I hadn't known you. At first, it wasn't like that. I thought they could help /us/." He stands suddenly, leaving a wake of fluttering paper-like flimsies where he sat. The man moves over to his spherical painting and runs his fingers over its edge with some thoughtful intensity. "And then, when the Emperor," Orson adds some mock emphasis to this title, "... arrived and they were fighting. I didn't want to see them die, so I helped. If that's ideology ... then yeah, that's me!" He turns on her and looks angry, but it's more frustrated with his inability to cope. He's holding a thumb against his chest. "What I'm willing to do? I don't know. Would I do it again?" Orson, mechanic, idealist, leans forward, jabbing a finger through the air like he's conducting an angry symphony. "Yes." Not quite believing him, Jessalyn looks Simon over, as if inspecting his health, and then takes another swig from her canteen. "I still feel bad about that. I'm so sorry, Simon," she sighs, replacing the cap and looking down at her feet. "Next time I'll let you get a piece of me." "It is nothing," Simon says, sounding like he meant it. He turns his attention toward Orson's door, the volume of the discussion taking place on the other side occasionally crescendoing almost to the point of being understandable. He cocks his head and says, slowly, "Maybe we should check in on them. In case Orson is changing his mind about coming with us." Drew mumbles, "You're going to get yourself killed that way, Orson. I'm sorry, they can't even take care of themselves. Sure, that was a valiant effot back there with the Emperor but..." She exhales softly, "What I'm telling you is standing for the right thing is a perfectly good thing to do. You just have to have some sort of /plan/... It's not like you can go: Hey, sure, Jedi with death warrants on your heads, I'll take you around. Y'know?" She stands up too, about to start pacing but...there's no room to walk. So she stands there, almost bouncing with pent up frustration. She's been quiet long enough. "I can't stand the thought of you putting yourself on the line all alone like that, especially with these two. They're magnets for trouble." Jessa hesitates, suddenly chilled as the cooler interior air begins to dry her skin. She rubs her hands over her bare arms, then gives Simon a nod. "All right." She starts down the hallway to the door of Orson's room, and raps at it lightly with her knuckles, glancing back at Simon with a somewhat nervous look. It was hard to miss those last words from this proximity. When Jessalyn turns her back to Simon, the Selas brings his right hand to his chest and sticks a finger under the bandage, itching around the wound carefully. He lets out a quiet, satisfied sigh, then winces when a stray fingernail dips too closely into the tender flesh. Swallowing, he takes a few hurried steps to stand behind Jessalyn after she knocks on the door. He folds his arms behind his back and stands behind her like a guard, donning a stony face. "Well," Orson replies, voice quiet. Dark. "Like you said. There's no turning back now." When Orson found Karrde again, after those years, it was like a rebirth for him. A bit of light, purpose, niche, and most of all, some family that he sorely needed. The mechanic could feel this family slipping away. The man looks to Drew, about to explain, about to yell at her, or perhaps about to take it all back. But then, the knock. "Come in," he whispers. "I mean, come in." He improves his voice tone and volume on the second round, but can't erase the lingering frown. When Jessalyn knocks on the door, Drew takes a few deep breaths, staring intently at Orson. Her tone is quiet enough not to carry. "You know there is. It's just not something any of us are willing to do, despite the fact that it's very, very probable we will all die." When they come in, she'll still be in that position. The look on her face is intense, almost angry-looking for the sunny Drew. Still not certain it's a good time to enter, considering the tension in the room, Jessalyn reluctantly hits the keypad and looks inside once the door opens. She smiles awkwardly, trying to hide the guilt when she sees the stricken look on their faces, and steps forward, looking briefly back to see if Simon is following. "Hi. If we're interrupting something, we can just... well, I thought maybe...." Damning her nervousness, she shrugs, and gives Orson a sympathetic look. Simon steps into the room after Jessalyn, stiffly at first but making his movements more smooth as he realizes that he's letting his minor pain control him. He gives Orson and Drew each a measuring glance, frowning when he sees what sort of mood they are in. He opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to disturb them. "Make yourselves comfortable," Orson says with a wave of his hand, voice fairly dripping with sarcasm. The mechanical rodent-like object plays it safe, sitting still, keeping its eye fixed on the wall. "We were just talking about you," he says, returning his direct attention to Drew, but obviously not speaking to her. While its contents have already been shown to the room, he reaches over and turns his spherical painting around, hiding it belatedly. It's not for sharing. Not in this mood. "About what the next step is." The squat man just stands there, ignoring or not seeing Jessalyn's look. Ignoring. Drew crosses her arms over her chest and somehow manages to tilt her hip up. Kinda sassy, for such a cramped space. She gives the Jedi a brief look, lacking in any of the poison Orson seems to have in his tone. She's aware that they might have heard her before they came in. Nothing against them really, except worrying about saving her associate's skin. She turns her stare back at Orson, now with her brows raised. He's playing the pouting game when he knows she's trying to help him, and that's making /her/ angry now. She's thinking that maybe the Jedi will feed her whatever got Orson laying life and limb to save them, and part of her wouldn't mind being convinced as well. It's hard to ignore being ignored, but Jessalyn struggles to do so as she averts her eyes from Orson, and draws a breath to speak. "Simon has mentioned some ideas to me for our next move," she says quietly, stuffing her hands down into her pockets. She's curious about the various gadgets and artwork in the room; it's not exactly how she had pictured Orson's room. "It's vital that we act strategically from here on out. If we're smart, we can stay ahead of them." Simon lets out a sigh. He didn't need the True Source in order to know what the discomfort was about. The level stare from Drew, Orson's mentioning of how they had been talking about them... it was obvious. Shaking his head, Simon takes a step back towards the door, his blue eyes fixed on Jessalyn. It had seemed a good idea to investigate the conversation, and now it seemed like a good idea to let Jessalyn do the talking. Drew's eyes follow Orson as he moves around in his room. Glaring. Just a little bit. She's wary of the 'we' in Jessalyn's words, but still remains silent. After watching him for a few moments, she lets her eyes drift back to Jessalyn, and she gives her a level look. 'Yes, so what is the plan, then?' Because she needs to know what else she's getting herself into. And, she thinks, what lion's den well-meaning Orson is being tossed into. Again. Orson's field of vision tightens around Drew. "You can trust me to keep my word to you. To keep true to what I believe," he says evenly, perhaps unaware at just how idealistic this sounds. He shuffles forward and tilts his head, trying to explain, hands out to his sides. "Drew, I won't blindly follow anything. Not Karrde, and not my feelings either. The things I did to help these ..." He pauses and flicks his hand at Simon and Jessalyn, "I /did/ because it felt right... but also because it /was/ right. My head and my heart, you see." He takes another step forward, a serene, burdened smile sculpted deep within his weary face. He pats his chest, voice quiet. "They have to be friends. I can't have just one or the other." Drew doesn't deserve preaching, or talking down to, or an explanation that money isn't everything. She's a Big Girl. Still, Orson wonders if this'll be effective, and his pleading look is a scrutinizing one at the same time. Drew is quick to realize that Orson is revealing his true nature to her. That's... pretty overwhelming. To deny what Orson is telling her is to admit that she knows what the right thing is, but doesn't have the strength to follow through. And that's hard. The blonde woman averts her eyes from Orson's - her whole body in fact. She swivels so that in one movement she has turned her body away and sat on her chair again. After a silence that seems unusually long, she drawls out, "Things are never that simple, Orson. Doing the right thing for two people can sometimes mean doom for dozens of others." Suddenly restless again, she springs up, "But you probably know that already." Argue. Anything, except think about what she's going to do about this. Orson closes on her but then stops as she sits and then stands again. "Dozens? Perhaps thousands. If I've damaged this organization to the point that it can't find the Death Star ..." he starts, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets and tugging them upwards as he shrugs. Billions is a hard word to say. "I don't know. I don't know what I'd do." The core of the matter, the weight on small Orson's shoulders, has just been revealed to the room. In the end, this is much more intimate a showing than the art which he has concealed, moments ago. "But I know that if I had watched them die. And not acted, then... then, what would have been the point of finding that Death Star later? To save lives? No, it couldn't have been. To make money?" He frowns and moves to sit on his bed, flimsies crackling beneath him. He hangs his head. "I don't have the answers," Orson finally appends. "But that's where I stand. That's what you can trust. That's all I'm sure about." The small man, short and suddenly tough, looks back up, bobbing his head slowly. Drew scratches the side of her nose. Does a good job at covering her face. She stares at Orson for another long, long moment. Her jaw sets, her lips tighten and then she murmurs, "You're very naive." And with that, angry, shamefaced, she turns away and storms off. Or tries to. Would have been a glorious exit. Blonde, crazy hair flying behind her, long legs taking her much faster than Orson's could, that would have been pretty cool. Unfortunately, there's stuff lying on Orson's floor that impede her from walking very fast, so she sort of storms/shuffles off. Not very graceful. "I wasn't always this way," Orson replies automatically, that statement seeming flippant but carrying deep meaning coming from a man that's almost twice Drew's age. "Drew," he says with a huff, standing and picking his way through his floor-full of gadgets quickly. "What do you want me to tell you? That I'm a mercenary? That I'll do anything for money?" He reaches out to grab her by the shoulder but she's already gotten past. "Drew!" he calls out as she reaches the door, voice pleading now. "The truth is," he says, taking a different angle and jumping over to her. "The truth is, I don't know. The truth is, I need you to help me do the thinking part. I've got to have someone with me, that understands. That can help me keep my head and my heart friends. I know ..." the technician soothes, reaching out for her shoulder. "I know I've not been a very good partner lately. I want to be." Drew stops to hear Orson's reply. Or gets her foot stuck under some sort of gadget. She hrrmphs quietly, listening. When he's done speaking, and places a hand on her arm. A smirk crosses her face, "You know, that's the problem. You're the kind of associate one should be scared about. But I can't deal with the thought of you going at this alone either. Bunch of big-headed Jedi types," Pardon, Jessalyn and Simon! "the Empire, and Karrde on your back." Her face sobers, and she stares down at Orson. In a quieter, lazier drawl she says, "It's not about money Orson. It's about survival. You've got to be practical about these things sometimes. Y'know?" She huffs again, and attempts to pull her leg off the thingmejig on the floor. "What you need is someone to beat some sense into you. Honestly." "I know!" Orson agrees. It wouldn't have mattered what she said at that point. Orson was willing to make a bold stand at any point where he was about to lose good support. Like a broad, squat building, with a lot of its foundation being knocked out from under it. Praying that the next one to go doesn't mean the collapse of the whole building. If she left, all it would take was one of those sympathetic glances from Jessalyn; he doesn't want to break down and cry in front of these people. "Drew, I need you. I do." He puts one arm across the door. Words were hardly his specialty when he had the screws put to him. Just in case they aren't enough, he'll wrestle her if she tries to go. "I'll do better. It's not just Simon and Jessalyn I want to do right to. With. I mean, it's you too." One side of his mouth curls up in a smile and he shrugs, hoping she'll get the drift. What drift? What's he talking about? Drew blinks down at Orson a few times, then replies, straightfaced, "You have just told me that you are not going to compromise your beliefs. That is understandable and admirable, Orson. What /I/ am telling you is that you are going to die that way. It's just a fact. Had I remained in the New Republic any longer I would have probably lost more than just my kneecaps." Another huff, and a pull of her leg. Hard. Her foot is released now, after her leg crashes into something behind her. Oops. She blinks, takes a deep breath, looks past Orson. Maybe she can make her escape. "Now you're telling me that you /want/ me to beat sense into you?" She crosses her arms over her chest, squinting. "Make up your mind." Orson looks down now, but not at the crashing noises. "Drew," he says softly, waving his hand at her lower half. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." He does indeed seem sorry, for her loss and for the insensitivity he's shown. She's felt real pain and knows the weight of his present burden. He drops his arm from the doorjam and touches the door panel, hitting the open button though the door is, of course, already open. It beeps back testily. "What I mean to say is, I know I won't make it far without friends. I've been down that path. I know I've put you in grave danger, without so much as asking you what you were feeling. And thinking. I'm sorry for that, too." He gives a check glance to the Jedi, still careful to avoid Jessalyn's 'look.' Not much help, otherwise. Drew doesn't think it's that big a deal, really. "Good part of my forearm too," she says hastily, almost dismissively. "But that's not the point." She squints at Orson, "You can't be gallavanting around, saving Jedi, and expecting others to deal with the fallout y'know. You're obviously sorry about it, but that doesn't mean you're going to act any differently. Right?" She smirks, "You certainly chose the wrong people to work for." Orson leans back, resting his bulk against the wall at the entrance to his room. "I don't think I've ever gallavanted, Drew," he replies tightly. He won't waste all this effort he's just put into keeping Drew around - he meant the things he's told her - but if he wanted lectures, he'd call a meeting with Declan and Karrde and let them beat up on him. Still, it's not all that bad, and she deserves a chance to vent. Orson has a good sabacc face. "On the contrary," the tech replies. "Fitting in would be the easier way to go, that's true." No elaboration required, apparently. "I'm sorry you and others are having to deal with the fallout, yes. But I'm not sorry I did it. That would be a waste." He gives the door a frown, and considers lunging for the close button to prevent her possible escape. They're not getting anywhere at this point. Orson is not going to see reason and Drew isn't sure whether or not she's willing to stick to him. If he's going on like that. She glances past the door again, bites her lower lip, then continues, "Let me think about this, Orson." She's starting to think that he might not let her past that door at all. "Please?" No, they aren't getting anywhere. Drew is only seeing reason, and has somehow left her heart out of the exchange. Strange. She did not seem a heartless person. He inclines his head and holds out one hand at the door. "You should," he says in a whisper. "There are others. Other cells, places. It's not too late for you Drew." The small mechanic steps away from her. Back toward his own room, his own place. Back toward the Jedi. Drew eyes Orson wearily. If she had heard the 'heartless' part, she'd have spat. Or maybe she'd have looked even more shamefaced than she does now. The look on her face is hard to describe, between angry and stubborn and very, very embarassed. He's taking her through a guilt trip, and he knows it. Well, he can stuff it, she thinks suddenly. She's right and he's being narrow. That's just it. "I'll talk to you later then, Orson," she murmurs, looking. With a hard-edged, angry glance in Jessalyn's direction, she walks out.
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