RPlog:Orson the Technician

Cleared Area (Before Main House) - Karrde's Base - Myrkr

Central to the base is this open area between the main buildings is this open expanse, with its meticulously trimmed bluish-green grass and the occasional dotting of wildflowers. When necessary this area can be used for anything from special (and discreet) picnic-type gatherings to the organization of certain cargo before and after shipping. Often the clearing is the location of Karrde Group employees exercising, playing some simple lawn games, or simply enjoying the outdoors in between duty shifts. The main house is just to the southeast of the clearing; far to the west is the hanger, while the barracks are situated against the trees to the north.

It is very late at night on Myrkr, and the base is quiet in comparison to the nocturnal cacophony that can be heard coming from the dense forest. Insects chitter loud songs that rise and fall like a mysterious alien symphony; predatory birds swoop through the darkness to capture squealing, unsuspecting prey in their talons; angry howls and croaking amphibians all fill the air with sound. Since Jessalyn cannot sense the Force, she focuses instead on these sounds as she meditates, sitting outside with her back against the wall of the barracks, her legs neatly crossed and her hands resting lightly on her knees.

Orson steps out of the personal barracks, wearing an old robe decorated with some animal pattern. He hasn't seen Jessalyn yet. It's late, he's been up working on something. That, and he's got a lot to think about from his recent meeting with Karrde. He would look for Drew tomorrow. To have another talk. He was certain that this one would go better, but he was prepared for her departure from the cell if that was her choice. All that is put aside for the moment, the man stretching out his arms, holding a long metal tube in both hands and striking a dramatic stance.

It looks like a lightsaber handle. He triggers the controls, and, with a loud whuff, a ball of orange flame appears and rolls toward the sky. Back to the drawing board with his fusion cutter saber, apparently.

Drew steps out of her room quietly. Her head peeps out first, to check if the coast is clear. If there is no one outside this time, maybe she can find a secluded (and relatively safe) spot on the base to relax and think. She hasn't done much of that lately. No one in sight that she knows. Good. With a handful of flimsies which she probably won't read on this trip, she steps out of the barracks and into the clearing.

Startled out of her solitude by the sound of Orson's project going wrong, Jessalyn's green eyes open to see the orange fireball lick its way up to the sky. She gives a gasp of surprise, looking at Orson as if he is out of his mind as she staggers to her feet, brushing the dew off her trousers as she does so. "Orson?" she calls out softly. "What was that? Are you all right?"

Orson tightens his face and then releases it a few times, working the slight burn out of his face. He blinks his eyes a few times, dazed, working the moisture back into them. "Blasted thing," the mechanic grumbles, turning and giving the long handle a hard toss. It flips end over end into the night sky and, wherever it hits, doesn't make a noise. "Just working on an idea." He takes a step toward Jessalyn, wiping at his face with the lapel of his animal-print robe, still gasping. "What're you doing out here?"

Jessalyn eyes Orson warily, her hands firmly on her hips as she tilts her head, glancing up toward the sky in the direction of the orange flame that had just lit up the sky. "An idea? You're not trying to make a lightsaber, are you? You'll get yourself killed." She smiles slightly, still reproachful, but amused as well. "I was out here meditating. Besides, it's cooler out in the night air than being cooped up inside."

"Sort of," the mechanic replies. Sure, it was strange. But he built a lot of strange things. And, in the past, it didn't matter: with enough tools and time, he could most anything. Since the group had arrived on Myrkr though, his work had progressed slowly if at all. He wrote it off to stress. "Not with the crystal array, like yours. I had modified a gas pack and worked up a focusing nozzle for a fusion cutter. I cut through durasteel yesterday with my other prototype," he says, reaching down to cinch the robe belt at his waist. "That prototype weighs almost as much as I do, though. I suppose meditating is the secret?" he queries seriously. Why not? He looks to her spot, and touches her elbow. It's a reassuring touch. A touch that says, even though we're here having this friendly conversation, we've got a secret.

"As a matter of fact," Jessalyn says, chuckling, "I was much like you when I first started to build my lightsaber. Having been trained as a technician, I thought it would be complicated, but manageable. I was wrong. A real lightsaber can only be created by someone attuned to the Force. Otherwise, you can have everything technically correct... but it won't light for you." The touch on her elbow is reassuring, and she shares a conspiratorial look with him, suppressing a smile. "You're not going to believe me till you see for yourself, are you?"

"I don't understand that." The look on the smaller man's face reads confusion, but trust too. It would be easy to write it all off if he hadn't seen so much in the past few months. "I've got the general principle in my mind. Even if every move is deliberate, every piece put in the exact spot, it won't work? How can that be?"

Jessa places a companionable hand on Orson's arm, her grin broadening. "The lightsaber is more than just a weapon. It's an extension of the Jedi who wields it. Without that connection...." She gives a rueful, mysterious shrug. "It can't really be explained. In fact, lightsaber construction was often used as a final test of a Jedi's readiness. It took me a long time to finish my first one, and Luke didn't even have all of the steps for me to follow."

With a shudder that crawls up his spine, the mechanic's eyes close. Here, in the dark, it was easy to imagine he was floating. He doesn't stop to explain, just quieting in the middle of her sentence. He can see her still, in his mind, explaining lightsabers, but in his mind, the tall woman is lying down, her hair spread in dark red waves with motes of light swirling around her body like a two-dimensional tornado. There is a great distance between them, but a great familiarity too. Off, to the side, Karrde is looking on, unapproving, flanked by Drew on one side and the Empire on the other. Orson stretches his own hands out in front of him. In his mind, they are gray, wrinkled, with ancient flesh sagging off brittle bones. In his hand: a lightsaber. But it doesn't work.

His eyes snap open, and he looks at Jessalyn with a heavily disoriented look on his face, nodding distantly. His hands are still stretched out.

"Orson?" A gentle shake on his shoulder jostles Orson as Jessa tries to regain his attention, a small frown crossing her lips. The expression on his face is strangely familiar, but at the moment she cannot pinpoint it. She looks toward his outstretched hands, troubled. "You okay? You're not going to try to blow yourself up again, are you?" she adds with a teasing lilt.

"Mmm?" Orson murmurs, slowly curling his outstretched hands into fists. His eyes open, then close again, and he squints them. Trying to look again. The Orson gives up after a long moment and peers at Jessalyn's face, searching. "I just had a great idea for a new painting," he finally says, still not realizing that he's holding out his hands. Finally, they drop, and Orson licks his lips thoughtfully. "But first, I need sleep. Tired." He shuffles away from Jessalyn queerly, reaching the barracks door before he turns and looks back at her, mouth open.

Shrugging, Jessalyn follows slowly in Orson's wake, since it's time for her to retire back to the barracks as well. She stuffs her hands down into her pockets, still brooding over Orson's odd behavior, but attributing it to his usual discomfort around her. As she draws closer, she notices that he has turned to look at her, and arches her brows as she meets his gaze. "What is it?"

"Have you ever ..." Orson starts, cutting his gaze up at an angle to stare at the deep black behind her. He triggers the door controls without looking, and the personal barracks open, blue light from the hallway outlining his silhouette and making the mechanic appear rather spectral. "Can you ... like, something out of a dream." Orson inhales through his nose sharply, sniffing the night air. On it rides the acrid smell of his project gone bad and the smell of Jessalyn's dark red hair. The hair brings the other world back into focus momentarily: seeing two things at once is very disconcerting, and he steadies himself on the doorjam.

The Jedi studies him curiously, not sure what to make of his behavior or his words, and she takes another couple of steps towards him. "Maybe that explosion did something to you, after all," she says softly, a wry edge in her voice. The blue interior lights that outline Orson's silhouette cast a soft blue glow over Jessalyn's features as she lingers in the doorway. "Come on, neither of us have been getting enough sleep lately."

Orson starts with a slow nod, and then it speeds up as he focuses on the woman, his mouth still open. "I should pass out here," the stout mechanic says with a broad grin on his face as they step into the barracks. "Would make things interesting." He moves to his own door, which is just a short distance from the entrance, and pushes it open. Unlocked, as usual. "I'll show you later. Like a ..." Orson glances into his dark room, only a work lamp on. "Like a dream ... I understand now. About the lightsaber." He looks at Jessalyn solemnly.

Crossing the hall from Orson's own room, Jessa pauses by her door, wondering why she isn't surprised by his sudden comprehension when she sees the look in his eyes. "I know," is the only reply she gives, with a small, promising smile touching her lips as she opens the door to her room and steps inside. Before closing it, she hesitates, a slim white hand lingering on the doorjam. "Sleep well, Orson." Then the door snicks softly shut behind her.

Orson turns and stares at her door for a long moment, brow darkened - no, haunted - by the vision that has been stirred in his mind. It's as good a place as any to consider the vision, and he feels somehow solemn and stoic for standing there. After several minutes, he turns himself, shutting his door halfway, and picking through his things until he reaches his work table. There, Orson adjusts the angle of his lamp and sits, an old chair creaking under the strain. The man unrolls some sort of schematic and begins poring over it, thoughtful mind grappling with the magnitude of the truth she had shared with him until morning ...