RPlog:Karrde Visits

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.

Footfalls disturb the quiet of the employee quarters as Karrde steps in and makes his way down the corridor. It occured to him to check and make sure his guests were comfortable; it was the least he could do, all things considered. Finding the rooms assigned, he knocks on the first one he comes to.

Stretched out on the small bunk, Jessalyn is reclining on a pile of pillows while she simultaneously chews on a piece of fruit with one hand, and punches information into a datapad balanced carefully on her lap with the other. She looks up at the sound of the knocking on the door, and calls from around the bite in her mouth, "Come in."

Karrde pokes his head in, glancing about. Ah, this was the room Jessalyn picked. "Evening," he greets neutrally. "I thought I'd make sure you were settled, and see if you needed anything. Host duties," he adds, to perhaps differentiate between personal goodwill and obligation.

"I'm fine, thank you. Mr. Rahn was by earlier to bring dinner." She regards him thoughtfully, setting the fruit down on a nearby tray, and straightens her back. "He asked some questions. I hope I was helpful." The young woman truly does want to be helpful, but she also realizes that she has brought more harm than good, however unwittingly. But it is a galaxy divided right now; those who choose neutrality do so at their own risk, and with great difficulty. "There was something else I think I should talk to you about."

Karrde closes the door behind him and leans there, crossing his arms thoughtfully. "Oh?" Casual question, and he doesn't address Declan's questioning or the results of it.

"Yes. In fact, I don't think it should be discussed with anyone else except for you, Mr. Karrde," Jessalyn goes on, standing up from the bunk and walking towards the window positioned between where she and Karrde are standing. "I don't know exactly what it is, but there's something alive in the forest here that seems to... block the Force. It keeps anyone normally adept from being able to use or sense the Force at all." She smirks slightly and turns to look over her shoulder at him. "Needless to say, this isn't the kind of information that should get out. But you should probably know about it. I trust your judgement."

Karrde gazes somewhat blithely at the woman a moment, before inquiring, "Have you verified that with the others? It's not something we would have knowledge of." But then his mind's working on the flicker of information, recalling some of Mara's behaviour while on base.

Jessalyn nods her head, her gaze returning to the forest outside, dimly lit now as the sun dips behind the treeline. "Yes, Simon is experiencing the same thing. At first I thought there was something wrong with me. I apologize for how I was behaving."

There is a heavy silence, before Karrde comments, "I've come to expect it." The statement carries some amazingly bitter overtones, but then the man still hasn't come up with a solution to his problems. "But that's interesting, perhaps you would care to run some experiments to isolate the source of the blocking?"

Jessalyn glances at him, green eyes sad and heavy, not bothering to disguise the hurt behind them. She swallows and places her fingers on the cool glass, averting her gaze quickly enough. "Mr. Rahn brought me some bio-scan records from the archives. I was just looking through them, but I didn't see anything that jumped out at me. Perhaps when it's daylight I can go exploring. I'm pretty sure I can find it." She gives a deep, resigned sigh, her chest rising and falling with the exhalation. "I'm not sure I trust Simon with this information. I don't plan on telling him about it."

Karrde's brows knit, and he asks the predictable, "Why? What do you fear he'd do with the knowledge? From what you say, something here blocks the Force. I don't know much about it, but yes, I can see the implications."

"I don't know him well enough yet. I don't know where his loyalties truly lie," Jessa admits as she folds her arms. "I'm just trying to be careful." Chuckling wryly, she turns and leans her back against the windowframe. "And since he thinks that reading another person's mind is a 'sin,' we don't have to worry about him getting the information out of an unwilling party." Karrde runs a hand over his forehead, slowly. With the patience of someone meeting walls at every turn. It takes him a while to speak. "I agree then, he doesn't need to know the results. And neither do you." He unleans, rubbing his hands. "Thank you for the minor insight, I'll look into it later. I don't think we need any experimentation."

Jessalyn shrugs her shoulders mildly. "As you wish, Mr. Karrde," is all she says, in a very quiet voice, watching him unflinchingly.

Orson enters suddenly, slapping at the barrack door controls with his elbow and holding his hands up in the air like an inverted surgeon. Hardly sterile, his hands and forearms are covered in a neon green grease; no doubt, something from his recent hours in the maintenance hangar. It was good to be with some of the crew and have a real facility to work in, but working hard and good results seemed mutually exclusive these last few days.

He notices Karrde and Jessalyn. "Oh, hi," he says hesitantly, studying the expressions of each person's face. "How is everyone." It's a simple statement, really. He doesn't really want an answer.

Karrde glances at the local disturbance, unsmiling again. Taking a step out of the room and into the hall, he nods to the mechanic in a manner heavily remiscent of right before he started throwing things. "How are things?" he asks in turn, sounding as if he'd like the answer. Whatever went on, it looks to have ended on a sour note.

Jessalyn hears Orson's voice in the hallway, and her eyes flicker momentarily toward Karrde as he exits. Then she turns on her heel and walks back to the bunk where her datapad had been discarded. She picks it up, turns off the power, and places it on the tray next to the empty plates and glasses of her evening meal, and she closes her eyes.

Orson leans in to look over Jessalyn carefully, perhaps basing part of his answer to Karrde's question on whether Jessalyn was still in the room, and perhaps also, how many wine stains appeared on the wall. They both seemed to like that.

"Okay," he answers, turning his attention and greasy hands back to Karrde. "The Uwannabuyim is about at ninety-percent. We repacked the pneumatic pistons on the landing struts - they took a beating being tossed around like that. It would be almost funny if so much rework weren't at stake ..." He pauses to find a spot in the hallway to lean against, awkwardly keeping his arms up. "But we've made about every simple mistake there is to make getting all that squared away." Perhaps ship repair is much like a microcosm of this situation. It's always been a good metaphor for life for Orson. Karrde listens to the report about the repairwork dimly, with the expression of someone trying to keep a straight face for... whatever reason. It's not laughing. He's trying to cling to some semblence of normal. "We might want to look over the others," he says quietly. "I had the Sea Flat loaded into the Wild Karrde before takeoff, and the Ice. It's something to do." Tight... control...

Idly listening to the chatter about the ship repairs, Jessa sits down on her bunk and leans over to pull a small crate out from under it. Some kind of device in mid-construction rests inside, its wiring and component parts exposed. Without looking up, the young woman begins tinkering with the device, trying almost too hard not to look towards the door. Orson rubs his thumb and forefinger together, clearing at least one little spot of grease. "I will. Good idea, loading them up and bringing the ships with you." As in, good idea to not leave them behind because the Empire will probably be taking everything of ours they can find. But he doesn't say that. Orson has just enough Karrde sense to avoid going that far. It would be - rubbing it in. He cuts an interesting glance to Jessalyn's bunk, pursing his lips.

With a nod, Karrde just... stands looking at Orson a moment, with the same neutral expression. Not like he's eyeing the mechanic's neck or something, but that he's taking a huge amount of time to make a decision on speaking or doing right this moment.

Her head bent, Jessalyn's expression is out of view as she opens up a small toolbox and pulls free several delicate instruments. Moving efficiently, she begins crossing and snipping wires, her hands seemingly moving of their own accord, and at a surprisingly fast rate. She looks up only once, sensing Orson's glance, and she offers him a brief smirk.

Orson's interested glance switches easily to an approving nod, colored with some curiousity. There'll be time for Jessalyn later - he's already in trouble for giving her and the others the attention he has, so it's better to avoid making a show of putting them front and center. "Can I .. help you with anything else?" he poses to Karrde, looking up at the semi-glowering smuggler. "Besides ship repairs. Guess I don't have my lucky jacket on. Things aren't going my way with all that." He lifts his grease-covered hands one more time to illustrate this to Karrde.

Moving out of the doorway and off to the side, more to avoid, if possible, Jessalyn overhearing, Karrde remarks softly to Orson, "I wish Luke were here. He helped me before, even after what I did, and I could really use some advice right now. Everything is poised to unravel on me." Aside from his own people, perhaps, embroiled in the issue itself. He purses his lips. "Ships. And watch my back. Alright?"

If the Jedi overheard, she doesn't react. She's enthralled with the work in her lap, all her attention seemingly focused on the schematics in her mind and the project she's working on. "Fair enough," the mechanic replies easily, with a creeping nod that indicates he is slow-to-understand. It seems clear, in Orson's limited view, that Luke's advice would be pretty clear. But then, as good as Orson is at holochess, he doesn't see Galactic business and politics that way - as individual pieces moving and interacting with each other in complex patterns on a dejarik board. Karrde does.

"Have you tried to contact him?" the small man asks. It's hard to be geniunely sympathetic to a friend when you also feel you've helped create the circumstances that are making life difficult. Orson's slight, wavering smile says as much.

"Yes, no answer," Karrde replies, glancing to a wall. "Even forty-eight hours later, I still don't know what to do, and my options all seem..." Well, violent would be a good word. Extreme. Final. All good words. He doesn't use any of them. "It would be simpler to give in. That sort of thing."

"Yes, it would," Orson remarks, repeating a phrase he's recently heard. The man moves to cross his arms over his chest, a standard defensive posture for him. But the moment his hands touch his opposite arms he remembers the grease and not-so-gracefully jerks his stance apart. "Blast ..."

"He clears his throat and looks around the room, seeing where he dropped that last thought. It was somewhere near Karrde's foot. "Is that your plan?" He asks this as neutrally as he can, but his face reveals his disappointment with even asking the question.

Even in his doom-packed mental state, Karrde sees the expression, and hears hint of it in the tone, and his own face tightens. "Orson, this isn't easy," he tries to explain, still quietly. "You keep telling me to do the right thing, but I can't even tell what's right anymore. Not right now. Is 'right' what's right for the NR? For galaxy? When did I decide that, Orson, right for me has always been right for me, the people who work for me. I'm not a crusader, galactic events don't live and die by my decisions. I just want to... I'd like people to stop thinking they do, maybe I could figure a way out of this."

Orson looks at the floor in front of him, mouth tight, arms held out. No rest for the weary. "I don't know what to say," he replies quietly. "I told you I wouldn't insult you further by repeating that I was sorry." He shakes his head, preparing to say, preparing to apologize again, but doesn't go that far. "I know it's hard," is all he can come up with. But he can't know how hard it is for Karrde. He's got a finger on the resources, the people, the situations of the org, yes, but they aren't his. And, as much as he's committed to Karrde's group, it's not his way of life.

"Very," Karrde replies, and takes a breath. "Ships. I'm going to go for a walk." He's feeling distinctly like running, fleeing, and not just to avoid the grease all over Orson's arms. Nodding to the mechanic, he steps past him, striding to the exit. Maybe a long walk.

Orson chews on his lower lip and nods back. The man made far less trouble when he was working on ships. In fact, he was often able to contribute something to the organization when he was working in his technician role. He's been contributing lately - but the contributions seem to have more negative character than positive. He watches the smuggler leave, and moves to find his own temporary barrack space, kicking the door open and beginning to wash his hands thoughtfully. Those power unit arrays on the Sea Flat looked at less than one-hundred percent last time he saw them ...