A massive cataclysm has struck the universe, and destroyed most everything in its wake. The survivors are now trying to pick up the pieces, and figure out exactly what has befallen them. Gather together, lightsiders!! The darkness has shattered the peace and calm of the galaxy...and they will do anything to stop anyone from finding out exactly what has been done! This is our first sitewide RP plotline. Lightsiders, you are looking for the source of this massive event. Clues must be found, lackeys tracked down, and bits of memory discovered. Darksiders, you guys don't want that to happen....because of the one behind the whole thing is furthering his ultimate goal. Mandalorians, and non-force users, you guys can decide where you stand on this line....do you side with the Jedi, and try to discover the reasons behind the ruined universe, or will you side with the darkness, and protect those secrets. Will the secret of the cataclysmic reaping be kept under wraps? Or will the Jedi and their allies find out the truth? Your RP and writing will decide the outcome!
BATTLE ARENA
Welcome to The Saga Continues. We have a section called the Battle Arena. Here you can use your characters to fight other characters. Hone your skills and see what you are made of. Don't worry, anything that happens here, does not effect your characters in posts, so if your character dies, you can still use them over and over. Have fun and check it out!
The Saga Continues is the product of the mind of ADMIN ADI; all contents are copyright their original owners. All characters belong to their original creators, and may not be used or replicated without permission. All images are copyright their original owners. This skin Operation Mindcrime was made by pharaoh leap of Pixel Perfect and put together by ADMIN KRYSTAL
A challenge to Ishmael Equipment will be the optimized sets we'd envisioned for the future - cybernetics, crushgaunts, the works. Post equipment details in the first post.
*Indeed, it is only fitting that Darth Andor would seek to cast doubt on the outcome. As if it hadn't already been decided.*
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*I light my shield and saber, and extend the hand with my gun towards Andor. From that hand, I gather and expel Telekinetic energy with the potential to pull him from where he stands into the canyon behind him.*
*Having expressed this much, the two ends of Trogdor flare to life at the push of a button, eight blades in total, bathing the darkness around me in a red glow. Saurez lights up with a flick of my right wrist, adding orange tint to the mixture as this energy shield rises to the occasion. And I extend the right arm to which it's mounted, leveling the blaster Crux at the man who I've been sent to purge.
A smile flickers across my face. When the pieces are set and the game is afoot, that's when things are best. Once the match is laid out and the inevitable conclusion becomes obvious, that's when there is no more enjoyment to be derived. But when the outcome is known, and the route is unknown, well... that's when the idea of exploring just one of the many possible routes is compelling.
I draw upon the Force, and I imagine full well that Andor will do likewise, as soon as he senses it. I've just got something simple in mind, something to test the mettle of the Lord of Deception.
It's nothing more complicated or difficult to deal with than a Telekinetic attack.
Channeled through the fingertip of that outstretched arm, of my right index fingertip which points parallel to the gun's barrel, the Force at my command rushes out. In short order it jumps the distance between us -- ignoring scaffolding and fixtures of the ruined ship along its way -- making its way straight and unimpeded towards Andor's right thigh.
Should this go unopposed, then at my command his leg will be swept up under my Telekinetic influence, and, quite simply, he'll be pulled backward by his own leg. After a certain point, he'll become unable to maintain his balance, and will fall facefirst, and subsequently will be dragged across the glass-littered ground up to and over the edge; at which point I will relinquish my grip, and gravity will take care of the rest.
Yet I am sure that this will not succeed as imagined. Darth Andor would not stand where he does today if this was all it would take to end him.*
*Oh, yes. The conviction that Galen was a mind-reader was now firmly rooted into the spacer's brain. It's worth applauding the attentiveness that this new companion had paid, though, given the ease with which a drunkard's ramblings can be so thoughtlessly dismissed. Dorian's not able to appreciate it, of course, but any given third party with just enough insight into the matter would nod, and probably raise their glass on Galen's behalf, and give him a nod of respect for this compassion he's displaying. Too much insight would alter that reaction towards the unfavorable. But what's for sure is the one with the least insight of all is young Dorian.*
[/i][/font][/span] "I'm a pilot, that's me. There's no one, uhh, better at flyin' than me, not on this side of Carida."[/font][/span][/ul] *His eyes close, and his head slowly nods for severaly beats. He's trying to keep himself from sounding over-eager, and to cultivate an air of thoughtfulness about himself, but it just comes across as yet another in a string of drunken antics. Peeling his eyes halfway open again, he continues the slow nodding movement.*
[/font][/span][/ul] *Schiff finishes this comment with a flourish of his right hand, but as he upturned his palm and extended the arm, he knocks over a basket of garnishes and hops hastily down from his seat to try to clean up the mess, to no avail. The bartended catches a glimpse of the tail-end of this, and mutters an audible grunt of disapproval as he turns back to cleaning the glass in his hand.*
[/font][/span][/ul] *From his kneeling position cleaning the mess he'd made off of the floor, Dorian peeks his head above the table's edge to place this inquiry. His left hand snakes up and deposits a handful of salvaged drink trimmings back into the container from which they'd been scattered; only a few flecks of dirt testified to the fact that they had lost 'sanitary' status. With a smarmy grin, he made to straighten up.
At just that moment, however, the door to the bar slides open to admit a robust Ithorian, being flanked on either side by a Weequay guard, complete with vibro-axe. Crime syndicates have a fairly well-established aesthetic, after all. Upon catching sight of the new arrivals, Dorian's eyes widen, and he drops once more into a crouch. Taking what cover he can from the table, though it's certain not to last. He glances up at Galen, with his eyes panicking ever so slightly and his forehead clearly conveying the impression that, at this moment in time, he would far rather be on any planet other than this one.*
{▼}{ ▼} *The use of a Barrier to form a garotte-wire is an inventive application. Unfortunately, I never got to see it; the waves of darkness being generated by Loki clouded my vision to the extent that my Force Sight proved incapable of piercing through it.
Consequently, the single-mindedly driven Galbakhor, charging in with reckless abandon, never stood a chance. With no means for either of us to perceive and counter Adi's attack, there was no other outcome than the inevitable. Coming into contact with the invisible razor blade placed with unbelievable precision and timing such as to deny all other means to counter it, the flesh of his throat instantly began to rend itself in two, ever further, as Galbakhor impaled himself by his own enraged charge. It was finished in a flash, yet even after his head and neck bid their adieus, blood spurted with each pulse of his still-beating heart, showering the floor in its torrential outpouring. As the body slumped, and still-snarling head rolled off to the side, the pumping gradually began to subside. As if they were attuned to the life force of their maker, the synthetic crystals inside the two ignited lightsabers found a way to detune themselves, for no particular physical reason, but the Force has a way of doing things that defy rational thought. The sabers, suddenly devoid of their primary tuning element, lose their coherence and in turn fall dark, their hum going silent to the sound we all are intimately familiar with.
All of this, while certainly tragic and all, was lost on me. Even the sound of the extinguishing blades could not be properly heard over the blaster fire being hailed down from above. Besides, I was far too focused on the Force Drain to do anything else; I'm certainly stretching my focus too thin here, trying to fend off several opponents at once. Fortunately, not a single one of them has moved in such a way that requires me to adjust my stance, so at least I don't have to worry about my own movements creating an opening.*
*Loki's attempt to reverse my Drain fails. My Drain has begun to succeed on some of the light siders, so I continue my efforts.*
{ ▼} *Loki senses my Force Drain, and I see the movement in his aura as he attempts to reverse the flow. Another inventive move! But to no avail; when two beings of the same strength in the Force get into a tug-of-war, there's nothing more than a stalemate to be had. Yet, in this arm-wrestling contest, I have the upper hand: because I began to Drain him first, and because his focus has been split between generating these opaque waves of aura, creating a Force Barrier to shield himself from the thermal detonators, and now having lost some ground thanks to me getting the jump in with my Drain.
I'll siphon him dry along with the rest of you, don't fret. Some of them have already begun to feel the effects; and I, I am invigorated! Their energy becomes mine, I am strengthened, I continue to Drain. Yes, it's little wonder that for many such practitioners of this power that it could become a never-ending cycle. It will take a great degree of self-control to know when to end it.*
*Loki's resistance of my Drain by pulling back on his aura has the side-effect of returning functionality to my Force Sight. In turn, I see that Mike has begun to circle behind me.*
{ ▼} *With his maneuvering to re-gather his previously-disseminated aura, Loki's impediment upon my vision disappears. This in turn reveals to me the new location of Mike, who had begun circling behind me. I applaud the choice of a man to actually move in such a way that might ...you know... make me take a step. That's a thing that no one else has done yet. But to Mike's discredit, he is circling at such a distance that there is no need for me to do anything about it yet, so I've still got no need to move. Perhaps it's that he doesn't know that I'm using Force Sight, or that it affords me a full 360 field of view, so long as my attention is not otherwise impeded. (Hmm but he must know that I'm using Force Sight, because he knew to make a move when Loki created his burst of aura, so I guess there goes that thought)
I can't imagine how you intend to win, numerical superiority or not, if you are all too frightened to engage in close quarters against a lone opponent. But I suspected as much going into this; that's why I had planned on and am continuing to use my Force Drain. The lightsabers on your belts or in your hands as the case may be have all been about as useful to you as a napkin to a rancor. So if I'm to succeed, it'll rely on my ability to deny your use of the Force: by Draining your energy unto myself, thereby to give me the advantage in the dimension of Force prowess despite the numerical disadvantage.
But that's as likely to bear fruition as the barrage of essentially un-aimed blaster bolts scorching the floor.*
*Mike shoots. I block. This comes at the expense of Adi's EMP hitting as intended.*
{ ▼} *Mike gets to his stationary point directly behind me and draws his blaster to arm's length. He's gotten the bulk of my attention with this maneuver. Perfect. I am well prepared for this attack, by virtue of the phrik weapon, Trogdor, split in two pieces, both of which are affixed to my back. All I'll need to do is watch for him to shoot, and then deflect it. It won't break my concentration on using Force Drain, and it won't require any significant movement on my part. Are we even really enemies? As far as attacks go, it would be hard to come up with one that has been more friendly than this. Oh, maybe all of Drez's shots, since he stands no chance of hitting anything but my shield, and so all of his blaster bolts just reflect towards Adi. Those are friendlier, I guess.
Speaking of Adi, he has drawn a lobbed a grenade in my direction. Bereft of any interference from the now-dead acolyte, and focusing on Mike and the Force Drain, I have no recourse but to let it travel. It flies, and explodes five feet out from me, conveniently just out of range of where any of the light-siders would be hit by the electromagnetic pulse. The ion burst washes towards me, though the highly-charged energetic field of the shield repels the bulk of them. It creates a shadow in the interference blast, protecting most importantly the generator circuitry on my right forearm. Nonetheless, Vol was not held behind the shield, and the circuitry within that lightsaber is temporarily overloaded. The saber flickers out, creating an opening. Should've used a conventional grenade, you'd have had better results.
But there is yet a more pressing matter, which is the shot that Mike now takes. Having telegraphed his attack, being that he presumably believed himself to be undetectable, management of my own defense is trivial. I lean a mere five centimeters to the left in order to insert the shaft of my yet-unused weapon between the blaster bolt and my skin. The shot deflects away, harmlessly.
I shouldn't call it a harmless shot. It's been as effective as anything else that has been done to me so far, it seems.
So I think, at the very moment when just one of the many blaster bolts sent my way from the jetpacking man buries itself into the center of my forehead.*
{ ▼} *A lucky shot! As if by chance! Or was there more skill to it than I'm tempted to give it credit? After all, my head was an exposed target, and I had been counting on Saurez to keep me safe from those shots to the point that I had completely discounted his shooting as any threat whatsoever. But of course, there was no way that I could keep my focus on him when all of the rest of these events keep unfolding around me. No way! There's no way that anyone could be so hubristic to think that they could fend off this many opponents at once. Ah, but we were.
The score has been tabulated, and the results are in. Consequently, we read: Ryu was wrong about his true power. There were just too many of them, after all.
As I fall backward, my lips part ever so slightly, in an expression betraying just a hint of shock, the grin of irony still gripping at my lips. Of course this isn't what I was expecting when I said that we should make our destinies. But, most of the time, it simply isn't possible. Why should anyone hope for a death that befits the way they lived their life? As if you have any control over when and how it happens. If there is anyone who could lay claim to being powerful, I certainly number among them. I, who devoted my entire life to the understanding of what power is, and how to gain it, and what to do with it; and for all that striving, did not gain enough to avoid the reality of my own mortality.
A dull metallic clatter is the sound that echoes as Ryu falls backwards; it's the sound of his unused lightsaber hilts striking the floor of the facility. The rest of him follows; the first time since he declared war about five seconds ago that his feet left the ground.
Yes, here falls Ryu, less than a minute since the announcement of war, and less than ten minutes since his arrival in the facility, to breathe Honoghr air no more. A testament to miscalculation, perhaps. Or, more fittingly, an explanation of what happens when one doesn't fully comprehend the implications of what it is that they're asking for. Wouldn't life have gone on just fine were it not for the desire for cybernetics? Ah, but getting the cybernetics wouldn't have saved him in this case. It doesn't seem like any amount of power would have been the right answer.
Looks like you're on your own to find the Way from here, Tal.
The last thing that went through my mind, before everything went dark, was that I never did get to have that cup of caf.*
*Nah, just kidding. The last thing that went through my mind, before everything went dark, was a blue streak.*
*The advent of conversation -- or rather, being talked to -- took a little bit of time to register for Dorian. When it did, he gradually lifted his eye from his waistline and made contact with the Sakiyan. Then, he turned his head to see the charitable offering on the bar counter in front of him, at which point he lifted his head out of his elbow and opened his other eye, too.
Words still couldn't quite make their way out of his lips, but his eyebrows were creased in a sign of comprehension having yet to set in. His mouth, slack-jawed, kept starting to and stalling at formulating a reply. He turned his head from the chit to the samaritan a couple more times before it finally hit him.*
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*But that was the old Dorian speaking, the child who was a bright-eyed spacer-in-training, who loved reading stories about his favorite heroes and dreaming about the famed adventurer he'd become. If only he could have seen the future, maybe it all would have turned out differently. Every now and again, that incorrigible optimist and relentlessly well-mannered guy speaks out. Fortunately for Dorian's sake, his body knew what his mind wasn't in any shape to put together right now, and almost as though apart from any conscious command, his hand slapped down on top of the credit piece and pulled it off the table into an open and waiting pouch on the inside of his vest.
Then the rest of what Galen had been saying started to fall into place, and Dorian silently stumbled his way to the conclusion that this man could read minds. His mouth dropped a little wider and his squint grew a little bit narrower. The rest of the universe would piece together that someone who uses the phrase "by the Force" is really just a little more attentive to detail than most, and pretty good at picking up on context clues. But let's give Dorian a pass on getting hung up on the whole 'mind-reading' schtick; it's been a solid day's worth of drinking so far. His eyes slid to the left, peering at the table for a second, before rising back up to meet the stranger's.*
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*'Stupid Dorian!' he thought to himself. 'You can't lie to a mind-reader!' So he let his words just trail off there and abandoned that whole train of thought. ...Introductions! That would be a better way to go. Still notably flustered, he stuck out his hand in a feeble attempt to offer a handshake. And accompanied it with an introduction for the ages.*
*I am sure that there are many who would survey the scene unfolding within this hangar and swell with a sense of pride at what they had wrought, were they in my position. But I've said it before, and I'm sure I will say it again: I am like no other Sith. There are two reasons why I do not revel in this.
The first reason is that it is not my doing. The accolades or the curses, depending on your preference, are due to Abaddon. I am here, on his behalf, because I chose of my own volition to aid his endeavors, out of a desire to help him reach freedom. Thus only he deserves to take any credit for this. The second reason is that the initiation of a battle is no cause for celebration; it is the sign that there is work yet to do. Few and far between have been the occasions for which I needed to use my power to any notable extent; so, if I claim to be free and if I claim to have no reason to fear this lot, the time is now. Let's put it to work and prove that those are not empty words.
What happens first is that Receptionist Adi realizes the threat we pose. Not even a second later, the facility shudders and power begins to fail as the ion barrage rains down. And then Receptionist Adi gets angry, and stomps towards me while the troopers raise their weapons. I don't blame you; after spending time asserting that we were not a threat, only to have it demonstrated otherwise, can get on a man's nerves. That being said, I'm in the same situation, having asserted our peaceful intentions and then being forced to recant those words. Difference is you don't see me getting all worked up about it, but such is the way of things on Honoghr.
As he stalks my way, flaring his aura menacingly, the color shifts from that sapphire blue to teal to light green to yellow and finally coming to rest at orange, where it appears to stay. The willing embrace of a shifting personality reminds me of the Gray Jedi, and for a split second I get a vague feeling of déjà vu. But, impossible, I've never met this man before, and the feeling passes. His title's getting upgraded, though. Iridescent Adi.
Since the troopers have lifted their guns, without moving my feet I swivel towards my left and bend my knees further. The effect is that my shield now directly faces the troopers, and their subsequent volley of shots poses no threat to me. Adi, though, and Kitkazza, and Mike for that matter, are in the danger zone.
That Wookiee, by the way, has drawn his saber blade and flourishes it into the Makashi stance that I recognize well from the many years Tal had spent using that form. An elegant style meant to be used in dueling, of course, but if the plan is to utilize numerical advantage then it's not really a duel, is it? More like chaos. I silently make my wager that he'll switch to a different form within the next two seconds.
That really isn't a fair wager, though, because when the blaster bolts come a-flying, it's even more chaotic. I think there were twelve shots let loose in this first foray, plus or minus. Of those, six went past me and remained of no concern. The seventh I flicked away with my saber, off to my left; it's close enough to Atton, who has chosen to pursue Curcebithin, to threaten to strike his right shoulder from behind. The eighth through the twelfth all impact and rebound from my energy shield. Given the curvature and the number of shots, it's erratic and impossible to aim, so by chance: One blaster bolt, into the floor near Adi's feet, one back at him at hip level, and one at chest level, left side. Towards Kitkazza flies a single bolt, directly at his hand. And the final shot flashes Mike's way, who still reclines on the stool for the time being.
Loki laughs and mutters something about the Order of Ruin being weak before he takes his next steps, and I can't help but offer a rebuttal to him, and also address Adi's comments.*
[/i], Loki. I forgot that it can only be the weak who survive a plague, while the strong perish. Definitely not the other way around. And Mr. Iridescent Adi, congratulations on your numerous past victories, but allow me to set the record straight for you: You've never fought anyone like me before."[/font][/span][/ul]
*Galbakhor, upon hearing the orders from Abaddon, had bared his fangs in anticipation of the carnage to come. He put his comlink away, and then drew out two straight lightsaber hilts. Unlike his younger brother Curcebithin, he did not abide to wear metal armor and wield swords, instead preferring the comfortable company of a duraplast breastplate and two standard red lightsabers. These he drew into his upper right hand and lower left hand. If there was a lightsaber form he was most akin to a practitioner of, it would be combination of Forms I and V. Simple chops, but brutal and aggressive by nature. He's an Irrukiine, what else would you expect?
As blaster bolts fly past Ryu, one comes within range, which he bats towards Kitkazza's groin. Even Jedi Padawans could do that much.
Then, however, Kirwin lets loose a shot aiming to snipe and snuff out the life of this magnificent creature. But the Irrukiine have sharp natural senses. Galbakhor was given slight forwarning to the shot which surely would have otherwise pierced his brain -- for he heard and was alerted to Kirwin's inhale before he shot. Galbakhor flinched, and rather than a skull-shattering event, the parthian shot merely stole his right ear.
'Merely'. The shot drew a howl of pain from the fledgling Sith, and with a snarl he looked toward the source of the hit -- but that man was already fleeing. Enraged by this dishonor, Galbakhor's now-furious eyes find their way to the most appealing target: the Wookiee who stands there with an odd-colored, high-pitched lightsaber blade.
In a leaping bound followed by a break into a run, the Irrukiine boy charged the gap which stood between them. He didn't pause to see whether the blaster bolts had struck home on Kitkazza or not; instead, in his fury, he merely dashed forward. Adi was standing to Kitkazza's right, and in front of him. Galbakhor had come from the left, and so it would require a committal step on Adi's part to intercept the angered beast.
Despite his rage, however, the creature had had a solid foundation of training pounded into him. Training to use his emotion as a source of power. He called out to the Dark Side as he ran.
Irrukiines and Wookiees bear a close stature, with the dog-creatures being overall just half a head shorter. Wookiees have the edge in strength, but in fierceness, Irrukiine are second to none. Should nothing have interrupted his charge, upon coming into range of Kitkazza, Galbakhor would unleash his attacks: a one-two punch method of striking, with the saber held in his upper right hand flashing towards the left side base of the Wookiee's neck, and the lower left hand's saber delayed by a split-second to that attack, thrust forward and slightly inclined as if to slide the tip underneath the Wookiee's right-side ribcage and drive straight upwards through him.*
*Right around the moment when Galbakhor started his charge, my world grew dark. An odd thing; sure, the lights have gone out, but that is of no consequence to me. Even in pitch darkness, I See clearly. The source, as can be seen by the color, is Loki. He has chosen to emanate waves of apalpable Dark Side aura. I can't tell whether he's deliberately trying to stifle my Sight or whether it's circumstantial, but either way... twilight is upon me, but night has not fully fallen. Besides, all around me are those who are flaunting their Force energies.
The Force which I had readied for my command is for just such an occasion as this. With Loki focusing his energy on extending it over the room, there are certain consequences. One consequence is that he'll be stifling his allies' ability to sense and command the Force, because he'll be suffocating them with his indiscriminate burst of an aura steeped in the Dark Side (and if he's not stifling them, then they'll simply remain readily visible to me, still shining through the bloody wash with which Loki has tinted my Sight). Don't worry, my friends; just hold your breath for a moment longer and I'll free you, and then you'll be able to feel the Force without feeling so dampened any longer. Another consequence is that, by choosing to expand his presence away from himself like this, he's leaving it ripe for harvest. It'll be interesting to see how long he can attempt to obscure my Sight in light of this.
I consume.
I vaguely noticed Tal's devouring of the trooper a few moments ago. How similar we think! But, while he drains the life from the unworthy, my approach is to siphon the energy of the Force for those who would otherwise use it uncontested. And so it begins: my Force Drain!
With an atmosphere that has become so rich in the Dark Side aura of Loki, stealing his energy -- thereby removing the incursion on my Sight -- ought to be readily accomplished. But he isn't my only target. Like the gravitational footprint of a black hole, the presences of the light siders, having voluntarily come this close and swollen so much, are put at risk by their own doing. Adi's flaring orange and Kitkazza's brilliant yellow, and the green ligaments of the Force flowing between the multitude of shards belonging to Mike's weapon; all have come into proximity of me. All shall become sustenance for me as the Force Drain is unleashed and threatens to cut my enemies' auras down to size.*
{ On the outskirts of the Carida District, in a nondescript bar, "The Thirsty Krayt," which has seen better days }
[/span][/ul] *That's the thirty-second time Dorian Schiff had had that line given as the rationale not to hire him. Add on to that twenty-eight iterations he'd heard of "I'm able to fly myself, but thanks for the offer," plus seventeen variants of "You look like you'd get lost finding your way to Coruscant," twelve instances of "Are you kidding? You reek of rum and clearly haven't showered for days," five versions of "You? A pilot? You're just trying to get me in bed, aren't you?" (he hadn't been, for four out of the five) and finally one "I'd rather not be associated with a race that used to serve the Empire," and you've got a grand total of zero clients who've accepted the services Dorian offered, but who's keeping track? It's easier just to say that it's been too many rejections, that's what it is.
Dorian sighed, and slumped over, patchy vest and all, onto the bar table. He tucked his head into the crook of his right arm, unperturbed by the scratchy off-white half-sleeved shirt on his sloppy cheek, and let his hand slide up his forehead 'til his weathered fingers were running their way through the top of his greasy auburn locks. Yeah, that's right, he hadn't hit the refreshers lately. By now it was verging on weeks rather than days of not washing, but who's counting? Those refreshers cost credits and he hadn't had more than a handful of odd jobs for far longer than that. You've got to make the money last, and that was easier said than done when he had debts aplenty and definitely wasn't one to keep a ship-shape ledger. There always seemed to be money for a shot, though, and he'd only had to drink & dash a couple of times. Turns out bars don't like that much, though, so there were now a couple establishments on Carida where he wasn't welcome anymore. To nobody in particular, he starts rambling.*
[/i]~ droid co-pilot? We'd get hired then, yeah ...by errybody. Never hafta beg fer'a job. Nerr again."[/font][/span][/ul] *But that was the problem, and if you caught Schiff at a time when he felt like being honest with you, you'd find out that he knew the flaws with that, too. He didn't even have the ability to save enough money up for a ship, much less to spend on a droid co-pilot (priority's backwards, anyways). See, no matter how personable you are, in a universe like this one there's simply not that much demand for a chauffeur. And if someone were to hire such a pilot, they'd be looking for a reputable service which thoroughly vets their employees, not some lone washed-up Corulusian who's drunk as can be in broad daylight. His priorities are backwards, but that's all he can do at the moment is complain about fate.
He had a ship, once. But pirates have a habit of taking things that don't belong to them, and with the losses incurred on him by the shipment contractors, Dorian hadn't been given any choice other than to sell his ship to (partially) recuperate the cost. Even then, he hadn't gotten even half of what his ship had been worth, due to the battle damage. So in a certain sense, he did have reason to blame fate.
But such things are surprisingly difficult to articulate, and he'd never been one for speaking his mind all too clearly (although that wasn't for a lack of trying-- he just wasn't good enough with words to make himself understood in a sympathetic light). And there's that whole victim-blaming thing, which others tended to do and, when sober, he also participated in to some extent. "Well if you'd have just been ready for pirates..." or "Taking out insurance on your cargo would have covered the cost of stolen shipments..." and other phrases of the like, as if it had been so simple and as if they weren't taking advantage of the benefit of hindsight. Pirates wouldn't exist if there weren't thousands of other spacers just like him who can't afford the caliber of weaponry with which to fend them off! Insurance? It costs money to get insurance in the first place, that's like taking a pay cut on every single delivery! Simply not a sustainable business strategy. And yet nobody wants to listen to reason, and in all truth he regretted the incident deeply because of where it had left him. If you catch him on a day when he doesn't feel like lying to hide the pain, he'll tell you that he's relived that attack off and on every time he has an unoccupied moment -- which, seeing as he can't get work, is quite often -- and he's thought of all the ways he could have done things differently.
But there are many mistakes in this universe which follow the rule of 'one and done': you don't get retries. You don't get do-overs. He can't undo the loss he's suffered and now he's doing all he can to cope and try to get back on his feet.
Fact is, it's just not enough. It isn't working. He knows that he's just buying time.
His vacant wrist slips to the edge of the table and gradually falls into his lap with a muffled thud. Elbow grazes the gunslinger's belt that he'd bought, back when times were better. The holster contains a BlasTech X-8, its white handgrip faded to a dull yellow, and its power cell depleted to only one shot left -- but who's checking the numbers? One eyelid lifts heavily to reveal a bloodshot blue iris with a dilated pupil that then wearily drops its gaze to alight upon the weapon that had just reminded him of its existence. Dorian eyes the handle, drunken thoughts just barely able to pierce the clamor of foggy incoherence surrounding him. He contemplates.*
*Not that it ultimately mattered in the scheme of things, but Mike elected not to get stuck with the backhand handshake grip, and dropped the bottles from his right hand (catching them with the Force) in order that he might meet the handshake in a more appropriate manner. Then, he turned away and left me alone with my thoughts for a second while dismissing his apprentice in brusque fashion.
Alone with my thoughts, indeed. If you were just going to catch the bottles with the Force, don't you think it was a waste to even bother trying to tuck the one under your arm in the first place? Manners make the man, as they say, and there's three mannerisms that I've noticed about Mike which indicate to me that he's man who wholeheartedly rejects the philosophy of 'waste not, want not'.
He turns back to me, and gives a reply indicating his propensity to drink in excess. I think I was expecting something more along the lines of "one for me to drink from, one for me to offer other people," but I've already seen enough of his personality to realize how short-sighted a notion that was.*
[/span][/ul] *It's probably going to do me no good entering into this sort of a discussion with a man who's demonstrably not one to shy away from extravagance, but so? What else am I spending my time on here? Casting fruitless words to a boy who shirks away at the first sign that he might be wrong, or worse, have to admit that I'm right. Telling receptionists how to do their jobs. Waiting patiently while Tal and Loki spend 30 seconds in heaven or whatever they were doing in that side room. Getting into a conversation with a man who's unlikely to change would fit right in with today's specials.
And then Mike shows me something interesting.
Metal shards begin to divest themselves from his pockets and self-assemble into a three-dimensional structure. As soon as I begin to realize what is happening, my now-liberated right hand flies to my face and peels Devient from my skin so that I can view the display with unadulterated Force Sight. This phenomenon is something remarkable indeed, and my curiosity won't be quelled; I must see through it.
As the accursed inner lining of the mask frees itself from my cheeks, and the cold air of the hangar chills the tender pores which had laid beneath, the colorful scene before my eyes blurs and fades into a dull silver-gray scene. As my features are unveiled to the men before me, I in turn see them as they really are. A variety of hues, embrightened by their imprint on the Force and auraed with an intensity respective of their presence in it. Mine, as well; a carmine shade shining ever-brighter now that Devient's burden has been lifted from me. Yes, with unencumbered Sight I see them well, one by one. Adi, a sapphire glow, still entrained between the troopers and the new arrivals. Exile Dash Vos, who has just announced himself, awash with deep violet, with a stature just as monster-sized as Loki, who has returned and burns with blood-red. Astride him, Tal, still holding my weapons, blazes with his acidic green tint. The boy, Kirwin, a steel blue shade; neaby, the newcomer Atton who's yet to say more than seven words, himself another azure tone. The Irrukiine, in their dull reddish-brown hues. The Wookiee, a golden yellow sheen, with his incongruous wooden lightsaber hilt in plain view. The Cerean interloper, a placid jade as he excuses himself from our presences and flits towards the main entrance to develop the cure to the plague. The troopers, of the two different squads, armor and all, jsut vaguely tinted with an off-white apropos to the average man. And finally, Mike, with his chartreuse aura, conducting the fragments of Force-imbued metal whose dance I now comprehend as plain as day, now that I can see their true nature.
You see, I have had extensive practice in the domain of metallurgy and the arcane arts related to it; while I have no knowledge of the Jedi forging methods, I nonetheless can instantly recognize the presence and effects of enchantment, and while I'd in no way be able to reproduce it exactly, my mind already races to methods by which I'd achieve the same effects using the Sith Alchemy I am familiar with.
It doesn't take much effort to arrive at the solution; not because they are just that simple, but rather because it's like seeing an old friend. A lifetime ago, back when I still haunted Ison, I had forged a Sith sword with similar behavior. Fragments, yes; though in my case, far fewer; merely seven. The thousands of pieces that Mike is showing us here should absolutely be considered a more powerful evolution of that same idea. Yes, I recognize it, remember it. Nostalgic. You've shown me something worthwhile, Mike; I'll be sure to reward you in due turn.
He assembles a seat for himself, and takes it; then he offers one for me, as well. But the invitational question makes no sense. I frown slightly as I remain upright.*
[/font][/span] *At just that moment, the faint buzz of four comlinks echoes in what shouldn't be but absolutely has become the cramped space in the hangar bay area, what with a literal crowd of people clogging up the elevator area. Mine, Tal's, Curcebithin's, Galbakhor's; in a slight off-synchronicity that drives to madness those who care about such things, the encrypted message from Abaddon makes its way across light-years into our pockets to deliver his instructions.* "-- just a second, I need to check this, sorry."[/ul] *The Irrukiine are the first to decrypt and read, being far less preoccupied with us and far more attuned to the potential for communications from Abaddon. I think Tal and I are both on the same page when I say that we pretty much consider Abaddon's orders to be mostl guidelines, anyways. My hands were full, so I was the last to get to it; I slide Devient into an oversized chest pocket of my coat, and pull out my comlink to press the decrypt button. But given the responses of the others, it was only going to tell me that I had predicted correctly back when we were on Mandalore. Still, you have to read those messages, you know? Otherwise you wind up with a hundred unread messages and then you have to sift through them all to make room for new ones on the device, and it's just a pain in the long run if you allow yourself to slip into the habit of not taking care of it straight away.
So the Irrukiine have stiffened, and put their comlinks in their utility belts, to be replaced in their hands by lightsaber hilts. And Tal has not bothered even to pull his out -- suit yourself with those unreads, Tal -- and he's getting ready to use some Sith Sorcery, I can feel it already. In turn, I delete message from my device, and place it back from whence it came. I inhale through my nose, and the slight frown which had adorned my face is replaced by an ironic smile as the realization sinks in about the truth. For all of their overzealous suspicion which had borne no substance so far, the Jedi -- who had no justification to suspect us of anything -- are about to be proven right. And the Irrukiine, who now look to us for guidance, are about to have their first taste of battle with true Sith leading the way. And we, who had no reason up until this very moment to consider the men in our midst as enemies worth even a modicum of our attention, are now tasked with the responsibility to lead the charge, so to speak.
...Very well, then. If this is where the current has swept us to, then so be it. Power exists in order to be used. I swell all the more in the presence of the Force, commanding it to my side with fearsome resolve. With a flick of the wrist, my energy shield, Saurez, flares to life; and Vol, still in my left hand, ignites to join him. The two ends of Trogdor are separate, unlit, and affixed to my back for the time being. I slide my left foot forward. And, as the first barrage of ion bolts, courtesy of our Lord of Deception's battlecruiser, starts to rain down upon the facility, threatening to cut off the lights (and more), I find reason to pipe up one last time.*
*When traipsing through the ruins of a sunken ship such as The Indomitable, I am faced with a fresh reminder of how frequently the comforts of climate control are taken for granted.
The air is cold and dank, adorned with that distinctive smell of decay and corroding metal. A breeze whips through, coming from the interior of the ship and sweeping out of the many breaches into the canyon below -- caused by the pressure differential -- as if the ship itself seeks to purge its bowels and to die in peace. Its sound is a soft low whistle, echoing within the deep skeleton and piercing what would otherwise be a suffocating silence. And the chill it bears seeks to steal the very breath and life from my lungs.
How pleasant it is! I think we so often tend to the practical matters at hand during any given moment that we can easily fail to appreciate the atmosphere, and especially so with relics of the past such as this. To stop, and to meditate here for a time, would no doubt be a perfect way to refresh my spirit. Yet, that cannot come at the expense of the present. Therefore, I will take care of the business at hand and then be at liberty to repose. I'm here for Darth Andor, above all else.
Apart from the howl of the wind, the silence is further broken by two sets of footsteps. The first, crushing broken glass underfoot at the head of the bridge. The second, boot against metal, a resounding clang as I stride along the catwalk belonging to the second level of the scaffolding. My right hand traces along the metal bar at waist height. My left holds the weapon Trogdor, blades unlit, the two ends conjoined by magnet. On my right forearm is mounted the emitter for the energy field, Saurez, also unlit as of yet. At my belt are the LL-30 model twins, the blaster Crisis and the flash-pistol Crux. My mask, Devient, is strapped onto my left shoulder. Without her on my face, I am already Seeing my quarry: a deep violet hue standing in stark contrast to a silver-gray world.
I approach; a ramp is before me, and I follow it down to the first level of scaffolding, about two and a half meters from the ground. And as I do, I pay heed to Andor, contemplating his demeanor. We met, briefly, during the Battle of Honoghr. I did not come to a complete understanding of the man then, but that's hardly my fault. One's so-called allies are never the focus of your attention, not when there are enemies afoot. That is why betrayal can be such an effective tactic.
I study the man; his armament, his apparel, his aura, as I have done with hundreds before him. Without a doubt, this is a man who ascribes to the philosophy of versatility. I must say, I applaud it. But if so prepared, why do I get the unmistakable feeling of confusion? Of bewilderment? Even his very posture cries out his confusion.
No doubt he's heard or sensed my approach (or both). Nonetheless, I call out as if to announce my presence to him.*
Thousands if not millions of routes have been charted between the Outer Planets; some short, some long. In addition to the relatively small routes, there are branches of super-hyperlanes that pass through here.
The Perlemian Trade Route, originally known as The Axis, is a vital trade super-hyperroute that ran through the galaxy. From the Inner Planets, it runs by Kulthis, Sorjus, Vaynai, Columex, and Estaria. Beyond Estaria and the Tion Cluster the route became known as the Far Perlemian, and passes through Makem Te, Ter Abbes, and terminates just past Quermia. The Perlemian also passes the Roche asteroid field, The Wheel, and the Cron Drift. It was the first route to link Coruscant with Ossus.
The Outer Rim part of the Corellian Run consists of one of the three sides of the infamous Spice Triangle (with the Death Wind Corridor and the Triellus Trade Route). It passes through Christophsis, Arkanis, Gorno, Dalchon, Ryloth, Wrea and Smuggler's Run. It ends near the distant Outer Rim worlds of Naos and Lamaredd.
The Corellian Trade Spine passes through the Greater Javin region of space (which contains the Ison Corridor) before intersecting the Hydian Way and exiting into open inter-galactic space (also known as Wild Space).
The Hydian Way terminates in the Outer Rim, close to Polis Massa and Subterrel.
The Trition Trade Route is a commercial hyperlane located in the Outer Rim Territories at the edge of the galaxy. A continuation of the Rimma Trade Route—a major hyperlane that connects the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim—the Trition Trade Route commences at the planet Karideph in the Minos Cluster, extending into the remote Kathol sector before eventually terminating at Gandle Ott. The Trition Trade Route links several important worlds in the sectors together.
Innumerable local hyperspace routes exist between the Inner Planets. In addition to local lanes, several super-hyperlanes pass through here.
The Perlemian Trade Route, originally known as The Axis, is a vital trade super-hyperroute that runs through the galaxy. It begins at Coruscant and passes the worlds of Anaxes, Corulag, Brentaal IV, Carida, Nak Shimor, and Taanab before venturing into the Outer Planets.
The Corellian Run is one of the largest hyperspace routes running through the galaxy, and was mapped between 25,000 BBY and 24,000 BBY. It contributed in making Corellia an economic superpower. With the Perlemian Trade Route, it formed The Slice region of the Galaxy which was explored and populated easier and faster than other parts. It begins at Coruscant, going around the Deep Core while passing through Ixtlar, Wukkar, Kailor V, Xorth, Vuma, Leria Kerlsil, Perma, Lolnar, Rehemsa, Sedratis and Rydonni Prime, to reach Corellia, where the Corellian Trade Spine branches off. From Corellia, it proceeds to Tinnel IV, its final stop in the Core Worlds before it traverses to the other major regions of the galaxy. In the Colonies it passes through Loronar, Byblos, Pencael IV and Havricus. In the Inner Rim it passes through Iseno, Denon (where it crosses with the Hydian Way) and Spirana. In the Expansion Region it passes through Rhommamool, Tlactehon, Allanteen Six, Gamor, Milagro and Thaere. In the Mid Rim it passes through New Cov, Doldur, Druckenwell, Kabray, Algara II, Andosha II, Mon Gazza, Herdessa and Radnor.
The Corellian Trade Spine is a major trade route. It begins at Corellia and heads towards the edge of the galaxy, in the direction of Duro. It passes Devaron and Bestine IV before intersecting the Rimma Trade Route at Yag'Dhul.
A portion of the Hydian Way crosses the Inner Planets. Just after intersection with the Perlemian Trade Route at Brentaal, one of the Core Worlds, the Corellian Run is connected to it near Caamas. The Hydian Way then goes by Alderaan and Rendili, to cross the Corellian Run again, this time at Inner Rim world Denon. It continues near Derra IV in the Expansion Region and Malastare in the Mid Rim, crossing Rimma Trade Route at Eriadu.
The Rimma Trade Route is one of the major routes that crossed the galaxy. It starts at Abregado-rae in the Core Worlds, and passes through Thyferra and Yag'Dhul on its way towards Sullust in the Outer Planets.
*I'm surprised to miss my prediction. Somehow, hearing the same statement reiterated a second time has managed to convince the troopers to lower their guns. I see... persuasion by repetition. I'll be sure to keep that in mind for future reference. I allow my concentration in the Force to lapse slightly. No need for me to Dominate Mind if the troopers are going to voluntarily be compliant.
More pressingly, the obviously-inebriated man walks up. In a cringe-worthy display, he eventually manages to liberate his left hand and sticks it out, introducing himself as Mike and referring to me as Jake. Well, far be it from me to skirt on social graces. The thought occurs to me from the inflection in his voice that he might be trying to coax a reaction from me, but if that's the case then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint. There are many descriptions that fit me, but "like any other run-of-the-mill Sith" is not one of them. Those who give loose reign to their emotions, and throw tantrums at the slightest provocation, illustrate their willingness to cede certain amounts of control over their behavior to others. Far be it from me.
If that was indeed the intent behind tossing out a name at random, it'd come as no surprise at this point. The past few minutes have been a resounding illustration of the rampant bigotry of light-siders, what's one more example? Or, maybe it's just because he's drunk. I guess we'll never know.
Back to social graces: despite being left-handed myself, years of handshakes in a galaxy populated by the right-handed majority have instilled in me that it's anything but natural to offer the left hand first. So he gets my right hand. There'll be that interesting moment of realization where he'll have the chance to turn his hand around so that we're palm-to-palm; otherwise, I'm going palm-to-knuckles and shaking hands from the back side. I suppose that would give us a better measure of the level of drunkenness we're dealing with, here. In a sober situation, when you've found yourself wrong-hand-forward, it's easy to fumble this gesture and get your hand facing the correct direction. Drunk? Well, we'll see just how much control he really has.*
[/b] bottles?"[/font][/span][/ul] *...come to think, two is the number of light-siders who, in the past 30 seconds, have taken a supposition at my name, and he's the third light-sider in less than 5 minutes not to simply ask for it. Is it a Jedi custom not to ask? Rude.
You can make the counterpoint that I haven't asked for their names, either, but the difference is that they're volunteering them. Except for the boy, I don't know his name, and since he decided to call me Faceless I feel no need to inform him about mine, either. There are far more important things worth correcting than names. Just then, a Cerean walks up and starts heralding Mike. So far he seems to be ignoring me, though. It's hard to say whether that's a good thing or a bad thing; on the one hand, it's always nice to be recognized and treated like a guest, but on the other hand, I've already come to expect far less from this rabble.*
[/b] person, then that is all you will ever amount to."[/font][/span] *Beneath this mask, my eyebrows narrow in toward each other. The fact that he's calling out to the Force hasn't escaped me, but for him to be demonstrating only this caliber of critical thinking indicates to me that his talents are wasted on the likes of him.* "The Jedi, despite all their flaws, as a whole at least recognize that they walk a different path from those who are normal.
Since you've seen fit to spout off the first answer that came to mind, and call it good, let's explore what you've said a little bit further, shall we? This is what is done by those who understand what it means to pursue a goal. I advise you not to listen too closely, though. Once you start to admit that I'm right, the addiction will have already taken hold.
The first premise is that time is a valuable commodity. I hope against hope that you don't need me to explain why this is to you.
There's no reason to expect anything other than that the second-best cybernetics facility in the galaxy is equally likely as the first-best to be suffering from this sort of circumstance. Therefore, visiting place after place ad nauseum in search of what I'm after is an exercise best left as a last resort, since the chance of reducing the amount of time spent is slim to none.
So I'm left with the assurance that I will, eventually, obtain what I'm after without the need to leave this place. That means I now have the obligation to wait. But, thanks to the first premise, it means that I am obligated to seek whatever means are at my disposal to minimize that waiting; to do otherwise is an indication that I don't actually consider time to be worth saving.
The question of whether I will die if I don't attain my goal right now merely indicates how little you understood. The relevant question to ask is, 'If another option exists which has the potential to reduce the amount of time I must wait, should I pursue it?' And the answer is 'yes, absolutely' if you recognize all these things to be true. I'm already committed to waiting, so there's no detriment if it does not pan out, and therefore the only outcomes are beneficial or moot. If you truly care about reaching a goal, you will always pursue that prospect."
*He speaks! As the giant Zabrak whose name I am about to learn stalks off after Tal and Curcebithin, my hopes for a diplomatic resolution to this debacle start to fade with him. But Kirwin, the man with the eye whose name I haven't learned yet, raises his voice, so I'm not left wanting for conversation. How considerate!*
[/span][/ul] *A note: If Kirwin's cybernetic eye can peer past the shell of Devient, it will see black glass orbs occupying my otherwise-vacated eye sockets. If it's relying on thermal signatures, then I doubt it can differentiate between these and natural eyes, as the glass prosthetics have been in there for...years. They've long since reached thermal equilibrium with my body.
What's Kirwin's goal here? Why's he telling me facts about why it's not a good idea to go gallivanting about the facility? Why, even if the facility is off-limits to civilians, why shouldn't we be allowed to try to salvage something from it? Sure, the probability of finding anything is low; but if there's a goal you've got in mind, wouldn't you take any slim chance over outright failure? The wing's in an unusable condition to begin with, and from what we've been told, unable to be brought back online for another six to twelve months; an incursion from us will have no discernable effect on the RDMC's status of operations, so the reasons against letting Tal go snoop around feel pretty flimsy. Is it from a question of safety? Preposterous. Is it from a question of unavailability of staff to escort? Out of the question; Loki has already volunteered. Thinking it through, one tends to arrive at the conclusion that it is out of a desire to protect intellectual property from falling into our hands. One tends to view material attachments of that sort as typically not a light sider trait. The enigma continues.
Personally, I'm not inclined to do any of that hands-on searching. If push comes to shove, I can survey the place without actually entering it. Ah, if only I could have done that before we ever set foot on the planet! But rather than surveillance, I'd prefer to take a look at the facility records, where I'm sure we'd be able to find schematics for the cybernetics we need and have them manufactured by someone who's better able to meet our needs. That being said, if the true agenda of the RDMC is protecting their proprietary tech, then I'm convinced I'll be denied the liberty of poring over those holobooks the moment I ask. Nonetheless, it's an option I'm going to pursue; because even if there's only a small chance of getting what I'm after, that's a chance I'll take any day over the 0% chance that I'm faced with if I don't bother trying.
Now, then... what happens when you're told you must behave in a certain way by someone who you deem to have minimal if any ability to enforce whether you actually do?
You'd be highly inclined to ignore them, right?
In that way, the troopers' involvement is a foil. And as Adi is allowing himself to be pulled in different directions by the fire team on one side and Tal trespassing on the other, I wonder if there's not something I might add to that situation, after all. The one who's done all the speaking to Adi wears the dark armor; presumably he's the leader. My presence in the Force continues to swell, this time at my conscious command, with a thought beginning to piece itself together.*
[/font][/span] *I address Kirwin once more, a bit distracted.* "You work here, right? Advertised as the best cybernetics in the galaxy, and yet not in service. Suppose you were waiting on that eye replacement. What would you do if you were in that situation right now?"
*Right up until the pile of rubble exploded into dust, I had been woefully ignorant of Tal's ability to use Shatterpoint. Well, you know, if you never see it, how could you? The situations that call for it are rare enough that it's totally reasonable for him to be proficient in its use and for me never to have chanced to witness it. I turn to look.
And I see Tal making as if to dart off into that freshly-opened corridor, so I've got just a narrow window of time before he'll be beyond my reach, Adi's forthcoming protests notwithstanding.
Trusting Devient not to have steered me wrong (BOY that is a risky proposition), I sweep aside my coat, revealing the gunslinger's belt I wear. At my telekinetic command, the twin LL-30 blasters Crisis and Crux are plucked from their holsters and dart through the air. They sweep past Tal and hang, gently bobbing, handgrips profferred to right and left hand respectively. He'll be able to take them without breaking his stride, I envision it as nonchalant as possible, and make it look like we have incredibly amazing teamwork.*
[/span][/ul] *There is a brief exchange in the Irrukiine language, which I don't think anyone here natively understands, but the aftermath summarizes the content, being by which Curcebithin has indicated his intent to tag along with Tal. He moves to follow in his footsteps, which leaves Galbakhor in my care. Good luck, doggo. I turn back to Loki, whose words haven't fallen on deaf ears.
'There's more to this one than meets the eye.'
No other thought is more fitting a conclusion than that; the reply to my questions was so apt and amiable that I was dumbstruck for a moment. This is a fellow whose confidence is permitting him not to be, as he put it, trigger-happy. Whose choice not to walk on eggshells around us allows him to clearly perceive the heart of things.
Is it because the dark side gives us common ground? Or is there more to it? Either way, there's a wisdom to his words that is scarce to be found among dark siders, in my experience, and this captures both my respect and my attention.*
[/i][/font][/span][/ul] *I'll just go ahead and disregard Devient here. And, since Loki's answer indicates that they're also guests, and seems to assure that a bit of leniency on the anti-aggression policy is the modus operandi of the RDMC, I nod several times. I'll take him up on the offer to hit the mess hall.*
[/font][/span][/ul] *And just as I was thinking that the situation would de-escalate from here, what with Tal departing the scene and my intent to go get some refreshments, the remark of the one trooper indicating the squad's intention not to cordially follow Adi's orders distracts me. Adi's reply -- to both them and Tal -- is icing on the cake. I think the tension is just continuing.
Seems to me like Adi had already given them a that reason. Seems to me like, if wasn't good enough reason in Drez's book the first time around, he's not going to listen to it now. Seems to me like the next good reason Adi's going to give them is that the troopers should lower their weapons if they value their personal safety from this point forward. If I had to guess, that'll probably go over about as well as apologizing in person to Darth Vader.
The man with the laser eye (at least, I'm assuming it's a laser eye -- if you go to the trouble of getting a cybernetic eye, you'd at least make sure that it can shoot a laser out of it, right? That's what I'd do.) has his hand on the blaster adorning his side. The Wookiee, as well, is standing himself between the troopers and us, armed with the weapon of intimidation. I'll commend their readiness, and match it myself, because I'm highly skeptical that diplomacy is panning out well with the troopers; along the way of returning my arm to my side after pulling aside my coat for the blaster transfer procedure, I hook a finger through one of the grooves in Vol's basket hilt, and pull it off of my belt. I don't ascribe to the philosophy that a lightsaber is most dangerous when not in hand; I prefer to hold it, even if it turns out that I won't need to use it.
And then, just as I expected things couldn't possibly get any more bizarre, an elevator car a ways away slides open to reveal a man teetering on the edge of blacking out from alcohol. Stumbling out, he reveals his familiarity with Adi, and invites ... presumably everyone? ... for alcohol. Beneath the mask, my nose twitches. That might be the best suggestion yet; caf seems to pale in comparison to a stiff beverage with the way things are headed now.
Adi suggests we get food, instead of alcohol. And within the selfsame pronouncement, tells Tal that he's not allowed to go through that hallway. If I had to guess, that'll probably go over about as well as sentencing Luke Skywalker to death in the Pit of Carkoon.*