RPlog:Interpreting the Vision

Main Corridor - Uwannabuyim This is a good sized, round room. To the port is a set of benches in the walls, a little nook, surrounding a holochess table. Beside that, running along the wall to where the short corridor to the fore section is, is a series of terminals and computers, whose primary function is extra-cockpit monitoring; cargo, sensors, weapons control, et cetera. The low bubble of a ceiling is dark, graphite colored, metallic. The floor is much the same, though composed of grates instead of sheeting. To the starboard, there is a door leading into a stateroom for passengers.

Orson Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. Wearing a white tank top that reveals his broad shoulders and thick chest, the man looks as if he's been on safari. Grey trousers are covered in pockets and grime, tucked into heavy boots which run mid-way up his calf. He is sporting a rough beard, dark but striped white at the center. A black beret sits on his head, lopsided. A heavy blaster in a holster sits within easy reach. Jessalyn The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills.

Jessa is dressed in a drab green sleeveless shirt, and a pair of kakhi pants with plenty of pockets. Around her waist is a black leather utility belt. Her hair is held back from her face and clipped behind her head, though stray curling locks continue to fall into her eyes. The fit of her trousers and the sturdy brown suede boots on her legs emphasize her narrow waist and the long-legged rhythm of her strides. ************

As Jessalyn stomps up the ramp, she stuffs a pair of grubby work gloves in her hip pocket and glances up the corridor, eyes narrowing in the relative dimness. What had been a light mist that morning was a full downpour by noontime, and Jessa's hair and clothes are damp and cling to her skin. Pausing by one of the storage lockers, she tugs out a towel and pats it against her forehead, keeping her aura somewhat dimmed, unsure if Orson is on board or not, and wondering when she's going to tell him about the unexpected visitor she had yesterday.

He's in the open cargo bay. A smooth ripple every few moments, punctuated by very subtle draws on the Force. Orson is slowly learning to restrain his hunger, like a man who is dying of thirst putting his cracked lips to a class of cool water and being made to drink slowly. The tension! That tension is making him stronger, helping him realize that the best control is arrived at through careful moderation and discipline. That tension is strengthening his body, and stilling his mind.

Even so, his spirit is somewhat withdrawn. Contemplative. A pensive Orson, focused on the moment, is able to manage his present task by hiding his tangle of feelings. There will be time, he knows, to sort out the Karrde-Jedi conflict. Time to sort out the conflict between his feelings for Jessalyn and the awkwardness of the teacher-student relationship. And time to consider Stasus, and what the Dark Jedi had done when he had boldly entered the mechanic's mind.

But for now, there isn't Time. It's a form of healthy escapism. With a whipping motion, his bright blue saber blade arcs downward in his grasp and twists, deflecting a trio of stun blasts riding a straight line in a staggered wave at Orson's shoulder. The bolts disappear with yellowish bursts. He jumps, curls in a neat flip, coming mere centimeters from the top of the cargo bay, and returns to the floor without a sound. A second barrage, three bolts again in tight formation, and the blade cuts into their path again. The remote whirrs thoughtfully at the broad-shouldered man, momentarily defeated.

Following the subtle stirring in the Force, Jessalyn hesitantly makes her way to the cargo bay, a troubled furrow carved in her brow. She punches the control pad and hovers in the doorway as she looks in on Orson, unable to keep from smiling as she catches the end of his last little maneuver. He was a more dedicated student than she had ever been, in many ways. "You might want to check on your project outside," she says in a casual tone. "It's raining out. But I didn't want to go peeking, so." She tries on a smile, but it's an uneasy one.

Mouth open, Orson turns, blade still aloft in his customary but unique en garde position. For a full measure of chest-heaving breaths, he simply stares at her. Then, the blade is extinguished and he moves the long handle to the horizontal sheath at his belt. "Thanks," Orson replies, taking a pair of steps across the bay to snag the remote out of the air. He grabs it vigorously, like a master would a pet that's been naughty, enjoying briefly showing its little droid mind who was really in control. Grinning at the thought, he drops it lifeless to the side and starts across the bay. "What have you been up to?" he asks, some warmness creeping into his voice as they start out. "Not much," she replies honestly, falling in behind him and toweling off the rest of her hair as they move back out into the main hold and towards the ramp. "Watching Mira collect more mud, making sure everyone's going to be ready to leave. I... didn't know if you saw the ship that landed here yesterday," Jessalyn adds incidentally as she tosses the damp towel over the top of the storage lockers and starts down the ramp.

"I did," Orson replies plainly, dabbing his brow with the last dry spot on his arm. His torso is covered in a thin film of sweat, like one who has been engaging in mild but steady exercise. A lightsaber is sheathed at his belt, and the observant would note that this statement is a rare one for the quiet-mannered mechanic to make. The weapon is usually concealed.

He walks with Jessalyn down the cargo bay ramp, striding heavily along the incline. The question is not 'who was it', or 'did you meet them'. "What did they want?" Orson's Illuminati tendencies are showing themselves. He had already done a little checking himself; of course. The mechanic takes a quick mental inventory of the people and vessels on the landing pad.

Jessalyn's hair and clothes are still damp from her morning stroll through the rain, and as she steps back out into the downpour, she gives a little sigh, realizing it'll be a while before she gets a chance to dry completely out. Half-heartedly, she shields her hair with her hand as she clomps to the bottom of the ramp, shooting a glance towards the fenced off section of Orson's project. "To talk to me," she answers just as plainly. "It was the _Lady Luck_."

"You've," Orson starts, adjusting his tone like one might smooth a wrinkle out of fabric. "You've been in contact with Calrissian." The mechanic wanted to make it a question, but he couldn't really. There was only one real answer, only one real way for him to find her. It's fortunate that he's put his feelings and concerns somewhere else for the moment, because it would be evident, even visibly, that he's suddenly crestfallen. With mist landing softly on his burdened brow, Orson watches Jessalyn with searching gray eyes. "Why."

Puzzled by his reaction, Jessalyn tilts her head and steps closer to Orson, but is afraid to reach out to him. "No, he came here on his own. Perhaps Karrde told him we were here, I'm not certain. The topic didn't come up." It would have, if the visit had not been so short. Jessalyn had assumed when Calrissian arrived that she would have the chance to ask him exactly how and why he knew they were on Yavin. But any questions she had posed had been met with Lando's typical manner -- brushed aside as if it were water off a water bird's flight feathers. She wrinkles her brow at Orson, not bothering to hide her concern for him this time. "What's wrong?"

"Karrde would have told me," Orson replies, pursing his lips. Of course, he doesn't suspect Jessalyn of deception, but something's not right, and it doesn't make a brooding Orson any happier. "It's no matter. What's Calrissian doing these days?" Orson blows a lungful of hot Yavin breath out and finds a little overhang that's large enough for both Jessalyn and he to shelter under. The light rain patters across the landing pad in slow swirls. "We, uh, mostly talked about me," Jessalyn replies under her breath, folding her arms over her chest and speaking to her boots. "He's been worried about me, or so he said. Not sure where that came from, but he was concerned I've been hanging around with the wrong crowd." She purses her lips and suppresses a weary chuckle, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Cronos had actually been working in his ship, so he has no idea of the conversation going on outside. The entrance door of the White Ghost goes open, and Cronos starts walking down the landing pad. He looks up, at the rain and smirks. It has been quite some time since he has seen something like this, considering he spent a sizeable of time in Tatooine. Not being bothered by the rain, he starts making his way around looking for the others.

"I'm sure," Orson comments, matching her tone, pleased at the dual-meaning of his assuredness. She -had- been hanging around with the wrong crowd. Leaning against a landing strut and crossing his arms over his chest, he adds this business with Calrissian to the hidden pile of pending issues to puzzle out. Cronos' appearance quickly refocuses the mechanic, and he asks Jessalyn, with no hint that he's about to change the topic: "Any ideas? About the thing we've been seeing?" Any other person would call it a dream, but for the non-sleeping Orson, it was another vision. Last night, the stars had spun in his head again, impatient almost, but not as vivid as the first time. The vision had been recurring for Jessalyn, as well, and Cronos' approach reminds her of the demanding little itch in the back of her mind that comes whenever she closes her eyes and sees that whirling pattern of starlight. Even the memory of it is a bit unsteadying, and she fights back a feeling of dizziness as she turns her gaze towards the newest member of their growing entourage. "I don't know what to make of it, Orson," she confesses. "I mean, I don't know where to start. Maybe... the best thing would be to just... fly where the Force takes us." It sounds like a dubious idea, but she has no way of knowing how often that very tactic has worked. Wiping raindrops off her brow with her bare arm, she turns towards Cronos. "Afternoon. I was just wondering what you were up to."

Cronos arrives, nodding at the other two in greeting. "I was taking care of a few things with the White Ghost, before I leave it here. That ship and I have been together for far too long," the white haired man says, offering what would pass for a smile. "How have you two been?" he asks, his brown eyes moving from Orson to Jessalyn and then back to Orson. He is not sure how the other feels about him yet, so the expression on the bearded man is somewhat tentative. Something tells him they are going to spend a lot of time together, might as well try to make it somewhat pleasant.

"Fine," Orson replies to Cronos, lying, but cordial and showing some of the same concerns about pleasantries back to the eccentric Jedi. Manners above all else, his mother always stressed. "Well, okay I suppose. We're just considering this vision." With Cronos introduced to the topic, Orson points his own beard at Jessalyn. "The backdrop of stars. They seem familiar. But I can't place it. I've looked through the files, but I don't have the programming skills to construct anything smart enough to take the fragment in my mind and figure out where in the Galaxy it belongs." Some synergy -- of some sort -- is called for. All of this based on the assumption that the vision is directing them to an actual location and not representative of something altogether different. Sensing the underlying fib beneath Orson's reply, Jessalyn looks away. She just can't help it. She stares into the forest, the space between filled with streaks of rain drops that pour from the gently rumbling clouds overhead. It's quiet, the animals and insects and birds that usually fill the air with their sounds having sought dry shelter to wait out the storm. She's grateful that the rain has reddened her eyes.

"That's a good idea," she hears herself saying, gaze shifting first to Cronos, who gets a small smile, and then to Orson, whose icy eyes she meets with a nervous swallow. "Find a way to identify that sector, and we're almost there. Do you know anyone who could pull that off?"

"Who says it is in this Galaxy?" Cronos asks, his right hand coming up to scratch his chin. "Or on the other hand, who says that the vision is showing the perspective from inside the Galaxy, and not from outside?" he asks. The man pauses for a moment, and then shrugs. He honestly doesn't know where the place is, but one thing he has learned is that only when you consider the impossible, are you really considering all possibilities. "Maybe we are just supposed to let the Force guide us," is his last comment, becoming thoughtful for some strange reason.

"Well, I know a lot of people that could do it," Orson begins to Jessalyn, phrasing the qualifier that, just because people are capable of doing it doesn't mean they're the right people for the job. Cronos should have just grabbed Orson's head with both hands and slowly turned his face to point towards him, because that's what happens. Incredulity, then thoughtfulness passes over the mechanic's face. "Maybe we are," he says finally, but has no idea how to let the Force tell him where to fly. Using a lightsaber was one thing. But plotting hyperspace coordinates? Troubled by Cronos' assessment, Jessalyn frowns deeply, rubbing at her chin as she props her elbow into the crook of her arm. "If the Force is guiding us, I think it would do it in a way that would make sense to us. A perspective that we could recognize," she muses. "It's worth a shot. Besides, with the way things are in the galaxy right now... I'd rather know where I'm going before I just start flying. I'd hate to end up in the middle of an Imperial armada because we didn't check our flight plan."

"Would it?" Cronos asks of Jessalyn. "How much sense does this Vision makes then?" he adds, smirking. "The Force may or not operate in ways that are obvious to us or not. Verifying that we are not entering the middle of the Empire is one thing, but who says the place is not in the middle of Imperial territory? Are we not going to go there in that case?" the white haired man asks. Then he shrugs. "Those are my thoughts anyway, you guys are the ones leading the group. I do think that we shouldn't limit the Force to our frame of mind, when the Force itself has no real limits that we can see. It's around us, we shouldn't believe that its insight would be linear or structured. We are the ones in fact giving it that structure."

For his part, Orson's arms remained crossed. This sort of discussion held no interest for him for the moment, whereas the philosophical nature of the Force -- of anything -- typically fascinated him. Perhaps it's two other experienced Force users so close that dampen his normal enthusiasm for throwing out a crazy idea. Or perhaps the bad mood that Cort Stasus threw him into is still lingering. "Cronos, can you operate a NavComputer with the Force?" he asks, serious, looking across Jessalyn at him. "If you felt that this was the correct thing to do, I'd be willing to at least see what the computer came up with. I don't know if that's what you mean or not."

Mollified, Jessalyn gives Cronos a serious look, though she doesn't say anything, letting Orson fill the silence. She's had her own doubts about her right to teach anyone, and at this particular point in time, regrets that the idea had ever been suggested to her.It's suddenly a much heavier burden than she believes she's ready for -- especially with no one to reassure her or guide her through the process. She's far from being a Master herself. Casting a quick glance at Orson, she tightens her arms around herself. "You can try it if you want," she relents. "I don't know what else to suggest."

"I can't," Cronos admits, bowing his head. "But I imagine you can use the Force to help you plot hyperspace routes and the like," he comments, thoughtful. This is one of those moments, he wishes he had a more formal instruction of the Force. A lot of what he can go on, is pretty much guts most of the times. Cronos seems to note Jessalyn's reaction and he internall sighs. "I may be wrong myself. It just feels to me that the Force is a lot about following your instincts, right? But yet we are too attached to our material world..." the man stops then, grunting. "I'll just continue packing my stuff," he finally says, creating again a wall around him. "Let me know when you are ready to go."

"Perhaps so," Orson agrees glumly. Back to the slicer idea, he supposed. "I've got a dozen or so good contacts that might be able to do this. But there's one... do you remember the Horansi cub? With the Griffons? He's supposed to be pretty good. Perhaps I can send him a message." He shrugs at his own idea and looks to the pair for approval, hardly considering himself the leader of this effort. There was no way he was going to get saddled with that, the responsibility for their idealistic deaths falling on the leader's shoulders. As Cronos begins to depart, Orson grins at him, finding something amazingly funny in what the Jedi has just said. Not just manners this time, Orson is starting to like him.

"I remember," Jessalyn replies quietly, recalling the nervous cub who'd almost shared dinner with them at the Sandbar back in Plaxton City. This sort of networking and efficiency was really more Orson's forte, and she gives him a curious look, seeing the grin as he watches Cronos leave, and puzzling over it for a moment. "Can you contact him?" she asks, pushing a dripping lock of hair back from her eyes and suppressing a shiver.

"Sure," Orson comments with a wave of his hand. "I'm almost certain he'll be either on Caspar or Pride-1, unless he's more involved in their intelligence operation than I thought..." His voice trails off as he considers this possibility. He could approach Toryn on the level of friend and not so much as Karrde employee, or even as Jedi. It was nice to have that option. "Let's load. We can get out of here in a few hours. No telling if our Stasus friend has..." Orson begins to clomp back toward the cargo bay, pondering his choice of wording. "Er, more friends on the way."

Turning to follow, Jessalyn watches the back of Orson's head, struggling with the swirling thoughts she's had locked away for what seems so long now. "Yes, that's one thing to be concerned about," she says grimly, wrapping her hand around a landing pylon as she pauses at the base of the ramp, and not knowing if her next words stem from some inner strength in her or a terrible weakness. "Orson... are you... afraid to talk to me anymore?"

Orson's boots scuff on the tarmac and he pauses, slumping his shoulders forward lightly. Turning, he looks over the slight woman beneath the _Uwannabuyim_, face remarkably unmarred. "Not ready to address things," he replies instead, correcting and matching the pacing of her voice. "Just," he starts, holding a hand out to catch a line of rain out from under the ship's mass. "Sorting things out." "It's not like I haven't noticed, you know?" she blurts out heedlessly. "You've been so preoccupied, and... distant. Ever since -- ever since your meeting with Karrde." Her tone softens, an effort to emphasize her acceptance and respect for his business relationship as well as his friendship with the smuggler chief. "Maybe I should... do you want me to go back to Corellia? I understand if you do, I have... other options. I'm not dependent on the Uwannabuyim."

Her feelings are raw and battered, but just the look in her wide, bright eyes conveys how frightened she is by the prospect of leaving. Recognizing her vulnerability for what it is, she bends her head, exposed and aching, but giving up the struggle to pretend he doesn't mean everything to her now, that her heart wouldn't shatter without him. He was the one who had renewed her faith not only in love, but even in the Force itself. He gave her strength and hope for a future more fulfilled than she had ever even dared dream of. The distance hurts. The lack of regard for her feelings hurts even more.

Orson purses his lips. "I said I wasn't ready," he repeats carefully, stepping tentatively around the issue. Even though his compassion wells up at the sight of her, the man quietly keeps a finger on that bulging seam. If she wanted to force him to talk now, well, he could go along with that. But like he said. Orson considers her a moment, considers his feelings for her, frowns again, and turns on his heel, painfully aware of her attention on his back. He stomps up the ramp.

Wrapping both her arms around the pylon, Jessalyn watches him go, then leans her forehead against the column, closing her eyes against the tears that well up, and fighting off the tremor of her lower lip by biting down on it. As she lets him go, she cries quietly, constructing the careful barriers that had protected her before, uncertain if her own emotional resources are going to be enough to deal with this. Patience is a fragile thing when her heart is living with such uncertainty.