The Closing Act

'''Senate Chambers: Government Complex -- New Alderaan: Ord Mantell'''

This vast room is designed in the tradition of the old Senate on Coruscant; concentric rings of platform bays with the lowest holding twelve platforms around the center stage to the highest holding sixty-seven platforms. A balcony for observers is far above, separated from the main chamber by a shimmering energy field. The platforms hold the delegation of each planet represented in the Senate, with the acting Senator from each holding court from their levitating dais. In the center is the seat and rostrum of the Chief of State from which order is kept. High above, the dark, vaulted ceiling glitters with brilliant orbs and spotlights that draw attention to the action on the Senate floor.

Outside the sky is gloomy, with thick, purple clouds rolling overhead.

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The gathering began shortly after dawn, filling the chamber with dozens of sedate senators. The primary topics of discussion – recently severed relations with the Caspian Democratic Union, and worsening Imperial brutality in the Both system – drew the meeting into a three-hour dialogue, punctuated by a brief pondering of the mysterious crisis afflicting Kashyyk. Near the end, all participants were as briskly awake as Leia herself had been from the beginning, but she had caught glimpses – and make mental notation – of a few faces dozing off mid-forum.

“As always, I thank you for your input and generous participation by agreeing to gather so early. Now as promised, I declare this forum closed so as to not detract more time away from this final day of festivities. Please, help yourselves to the teas and brunch provided in the antechamber. The closing ceremony will begin in …” glancing down to her crystal chronometer, she marks the time, “four hours. I trust this will be amble time to recuperate and regroup with your families and travel-mates.” The Chief of State rises from her chair to raise her hands and bow a cordial smile to those assembled above and around. “I will review notes from today’s discussion and encourage you all to do the same, and propose we reassemble in two week’s time.”

Ambrosia backs away from the balcony rail to the tune of tepid applause, her own expression pensive. Perhaps just a touch hung-over as well, but nothing a black cup of caf and scone couldn’t fix. Pulling her shawl about her shoulders more tightly, the diplomat bumps elbows and exchanges quiet smiles and platitudes with the other observers on her way off the platform. Once she’s escaped to one of two stairwells on this balcony, she flattens into an alcove and dials a private frequency on her comlink.

“Good morning, beautiful,” she chimes to the unappreciative recipient, no doubt still huddled under covers. It’d been a rough night for both of them, old memories – some lived, some imagined – rising up from the deep of sleep and plaguing what should have been a restful evening. Sleep had eventually come, on the back of lullabies for one and a half bottle of special reserve for the other.

“Tell your Gran I’ll be back soon. Get dressed and we can refuel on more creampuffs before the final show, okay?”

Rubbing at her brow with the heel of her free hand, Ambrosia eyes the lengthy spiral of stairs with a groan, then disconnects the link. Her descent is filled with thoughts of the morning forum. It wouldn’t have been a surprise to see a delegate’s platform empty – indiscretions afflict all walks of life – but seven? Well, five really, with their common company of aides:  Sen. Nema Bobbec (Sullustan), Sen. Ahudeek of Shili and Aide Seska Hintu, Sen. Hastell of Chandrilla and aide Ms. Incinta, Sen. Sesqua of Mon Cal, Sen. Tooquay of Rodia.

Clearly, she missed the memo for what must have been a truly interesting party.

Ambassador Delgard hop-skips the last couple steps after stubbing her toe on absolutely nothing. Smoothing a hand over her hair casually, she sneaks a glance around to see who – if anyone – caught that and steers her purposeful stride towards the beautifully arranged spread. Voices and footsteps echo softly around the ethereal white of this spacious hall, hailing from three levels of grandly arched walkways. Hers, for once, is not one of them, and the woman is quick to grab a steamy cup of caf and scone on the fly.

Her silken shawl flutters in self-generated breeze as she scurries past offices and meeting rooms alike, making her escape to the atrium and sunshine beyond – at least, whatever sunshine the ever-looming clouds permit to filter through.

Four hours later, in Chianar Plaza...

It's the final day of the Republic's 20th-Year celebration, and some of the party-goers appear to have weathered it better than others. While most politicians are squirreled away in the Senate chambers to wrap up business, the general populace is either gathering on the grounds surrounding the Memorial stage or huddling around the warm spread of food, seeking cures for their hangovers. Droid and sentient servers alike mill through the crowd, performing janitorial duties mostly. A band plays lightly in the background, some members of which look also like they've partied too hard. 'Dooga Koro and the Ph'tones' is the name, a popular Jizz band named in honor of their species' venerable Jedi master.

Vophsi rubbed the exoskeleton around its antennae, chittering to itself as the hive listened quietly around it. That silence made the radio waves feel tense, like something was going to jump out and flash a bright radio signal at all of them and jump-scare them half to death. Vophsi was pleased that there were enough Verpine in this place to have something like a hive, but the silence was still deafening, especially with so much ear noises in the crowds.

phsi made an executive decision, since for some reason the group was currently looking up to it as a temporary queen. Vophsi knew more about what was going on than most, but something felt different. "Who left?" it asked.

"C'ths and Rothst," Ch'chtni responded, as nearest. There were a few moments of silence. "Are you mad?"

"No," Vophsi replied, calmly. "The mammals don't care enough to postpone their big party, so I won't get mad if our listeners want to get to safety." It looked at its datapad, filled in with data from several other listeners. "Keep listening until after the closing ceremonies," it continued. "Then lift the silence." The following silence was agreement enough. Vophsi decided not to mention its desire to leave the planet. It had taken on a temporary hive in time of stress, and until the hive decided to disband, it would stay.

On stage, the biggest (though quite small) bigwig is preparing to deliver her final speech to her people. Behind Leia, the Memorial Statue stands tall and proud, and serves as a launch point for a broad holo display. This display has been illuminating day and night, projecting images of people and historical moments of the Rebel Alliance/Republic, some happy, some sobering. It is now a clear haze of blue, a blank slate preceding the final show to come.

Ambrosia sighs, closing her eyes against the emerging sun as the stormy clouds finally part. Kudos were owed to the tireless efforts of NRI and local security teams for making this week-long event a mostly safe and admittedly enjoyable one. She's already written and signed a stack of notes. All that's left to do now is endure one more day of pleasentries - which is half over - and a final night of networking, politely boozing, and possibly - just maybe - stealing another dance.

Smiling faintly at a thought, she opens her eyes and turns attention to her Chief as the minute woman steps up to the podium. No doubt Han was content to hide off stage for this moment. She turns a meticulously-groomed head to her nearest guard - who hadn't said a word all morning - and nods. "After this is over, I'd like you to radio your mates in arms who have eyes on Gabi and have them fetch her here. I want to make sure she's presentable enough when she bids Leia farewell and thanks her for a wonderful affair."

Turning her attention briefly to the gold-linked belt cinching her merlot-colored, grecian gown at her waist, Ambrosia discretely loosens it by one link. She had gorged herself after picking up Gabi, and sitting here for a prolonged period of time was going to require a little more comfort. Not that she wasn't still polished to the nines. Her hairstyle today coils the entire length off her back. From scalp to tip, the golden locks are woven into a trio of braids, which wind together at the base of her skull and loop into a tight infinity symbol.

The final night of what can be safely called the largest celebration in the Republic since Endor has brought everybody who is anybody together. Senators, representatives, lobbiests, generals, admirals and nebulously ranked heroes mingle - in particular, Cheif of State Leia Organa-Solo and Ambassador Ambrosia Delgard who has served as Mistress of Events for much of the week stand upon a raised platform being readied for public address, Han has slunk off camera-left to where Lt Amaya Halos and several marine and StarOps officers have thwarted his attempts to escape the public event entirely with the offer of illicit hip-flask alcohol and witnesses of good character willing to swear blind to his wife that he's not had so much as a sip all evening.

A navy blue dress uniform with red piping might strike the fashion conscious as a bit garish - the clash of primary colours, even muted hues is none the less attention grabbing and pointing ou that the Republic marine corps resembles an explosion in a paint factory rarely ends well when they're in earshot. So stands First Lieutenant Amaya Halos of the 224th 'Raiders' Battalion, Executive Officer of the famed Alpha Company and member of the Children of Alderaan delegation.

Han intercepted by the small gaggle of officers she leads, a few handshakes and the discrete palming of a hipflask guarantee a warm exchange.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and Gentlebeings..." Leia begins, her voice booming overhead as some of the stage's tech droids zoom offstage to hover around the perimeter of those several hundred seated. One makes its way all the way across the expanse of lawn to park within the food pavilion. "I call your attention one last time for a moment of silence, as we remember those who could not be present to celebrate the twenty years of freedom we have fought to achieve. The Gala committee has assembled a spectacular bit of footage to share with you all, including a message from the Jedi Counsel, commemorating these past twenty years, including some highlights from this very affair. It is my sincerest hope that you have enjoyed time spent to the fullest and can walk away refreshed in mind and steadfast in spirit, to continue our mission into the next decade. And beyond."

Clasping her hands together, Leia bows graciously and takes a small step aside, turning to watch the show from her vantage point. She's joined eventually by her husband and children and amble security.

Wincing a touch as the deafening applause rumbles in surround-sound, Ambrosia finds herself fingering behind her ear in search for the nodes which no longer exist, to quiet her implants. Alas. Fidgeting in her chair, she cranes her neck around to try and spy her child in the crowd. She'd left Gabi cavorting with the te Danaan children only an hour ago, but it is beginning to seem like eternity.

For an instant, the feed flickers with static before a crystal clear image comes into view. The vast cavern of the old Republic senate chamber forming a backdrop for the seat of the Supreme Chancellor, where a pale figure in red robes stands, his withered hand uplifted.

"...in order to ensure security and continuing stability, the Republic will be re-ordered in to the first Galactic Empire! For a safe, and secure, society." The chamber erupts into thunderous applause...

Here and now, however, Chianar Plaza falls so silent you can almost hear the grass grow. It's a short-lived silence. "What is the meaning of /this/!?" Naboo's senator rises abruptly from her seat. Her outburst is quickly echoed throughout the crowd, as the confused, unnerved audience erupts into chatter.

Leia, meanwhile, looks mortified and Han Solo looks as though he's about to murder the IT crew.

Flasks are hastily lidded and stowed, or else off-loaded onto Han whose decades of experience as one of the galaxy's best smugglers encourages him to...ditch them behind a curtain. The delegation of officers, who make up the whole of the serving Children of Alderaan who could attend the event move into rank and file with a discreet call of Halos' drill commands.

"Detail, atteeeen-shun! Detail, eeeeyes right! Detail, preseeeent-arms!"

The holovid that follows is met with dropped jaws even by those stony faced soldiers. Discipline wavers, as their eyes turn upon the late Emperor and the thunderous applause that marked the death of democracy in the galaxy.

The roar of applause from the vid-screen gives way to a distant rumbling-crash, a bright flash of light from the East as a ball of fire erupts from the skyline, smoke billowing from the shattered roof of the Jedi temple. Above it rises an ominous red glow, the Imperial starburst holographically projected, slowly rotating above the carnage.

Doe brown eyes turn at first frightened, as Leia flinches at the sound of the explosion, but spark vibrantly with anger - and daresay hatred? - as she beholds that devilish glow...

Things happen fast, now. Security teams advance, moving in unison to get a handle on the ensuing chaos. The Solo family is enveloped in its own team, save for Han who manages to muscle his way free and go stampeding off toward the control kiosk for some answers. Chewbacca's furry head can be seen shoving through the crowd to lend his best friend an assist.

Ambrosia can only gawk, stunned as stunned could be by the spectacle, until the steely fingers of guard A seizes her upper arms in a vice-like grip. Startled, she screams but recovers in the form of an admonishing glare and barks her own commands while they usher her off stage. All other dignitaries are receiving the same treatment, it seems, and a gradual evacuation of the plaza takes shape. Armored speeders of all models and make are arriving to receive their precious cargo and spirit them away to safety.

But if the Temple just suffered a fiery blow...where exactly /is/ safe?

"Gabi!" The ambassador continues to call, almost tripping as she's hauled away.

Gabi is busy drowning in her own sea of confusion. Having survived the bombing of her previous home, witness to exploding bodies, the girl is frozen in fear, rooted to the spot. Bodyguards are moving in on all the children.

This isn't really the type of event that gets Jaden all excited. He's quite bored, some alcoholic beverage in hand, nearly tuning out as his green eyes sweep over the crowd. In his moment of boredom he's trying his best to entertain himself -- oh, it would be so embarrassing to doze off -- passing his gaze over the young women as he amuses himself with trying to decide on who to approach. His eyes linger over one brunette, but he lets out a sigh as he shakes his head. Too sharp looking. He glances to another, and again shakes his head. Too skinny. His gaze moves on, lingering a moment longer on a redhead as his a grin tugs over his face. Jaden is just about to approach, stalking over all sleek, all cool, maybe trying a little too much, when he starts, pulled out of any thoughts of pursuing that hot redhead as his attentions turn to the explosion. "Blaster bolts," escapes him with a grimace. He's instantly moving toward the crowd, looking around as he adapts a serious expression and he tries to figure out what's being done so he can help out.

Slack jaws give away to rigid spines. Each of these men and women have been under fire - they've held their mettle before volleys of death unimaginable by civilians. But here in the heart of the Republic, for what is not even the /second/ time, that thunderous explosion and its holographic announcement of culpability shakes, not stirs, them.

Long moments pass as fire billows into the evening sky, before action takes place. With security moving to evacuate the VIP's, Halos reaches for her belt - a short-range comlink.

"Raider Three to home command, events in quadrent four. Quadrent one with sector command clear-pending. Advise!"

"Attention!" an event coordinator has siezed possession of the podium, though the stage is almost clear. Her voice falls on mostly deaf ears, but she continues to advise "All attendees please file to your nearest security checkpoint and leave the festival grounds. Proceed on to your lodging accommodations and await further information regarding this...event interruption."

The message repeats, three times, before she also scurries off.

Ambassador Delgard hustles on as per guidance of her two guards. They seem to be circumventing the main wave of evacuation and heading off to follow the route of other senior government officials. She can seen struggling occasionally against their unyielding hold, and continues to engage them in dialogue - or tries to. Aside from an obligatory grunt or two, the men remain silent. One of them discretely silences the com hooked over his ear.

"You're hurting me," Ambrosia hisses to the one leading her by the arm and she at last rips free...probably because he'd released her. Not worth causing a premature scene. They file out in silence then, the mother looking occasionally over her shoulder to see if her daughter's ensemble is catching up. Flashed credentials grant them passage through the checkpoint without hiccup and on to an awaiting V-35 Courier...

Outside, the staging area, cams catch Ambrosia Delgard being ushered into an awaiting, armored speeder - a V-35 Courier - like the rest of senior government officials. Nothing hinky there. One guard takes the driver's seat, the other slides in beside her, to chaperone and presumably make safe the dignitary's backseat experience. The only possible oddity would be the expression - or lack thereof - on the guards' faces. Could chalk it up to being seriously calm professionals...

'''Drosshill -- New Alderaan: Ord Mantell'''

Beyond the industrial zone and nestled behind the massive framework of the New Alderaan starport, Drosshill is a favorite place for scavengers of all types. It is essentially a pile of dilapidated buildings, scrapped starships and mislocated trash. Scattered throughout this single, long, rolling hill are shanty towns out of pirated building materials, and reclaimed living quarters made out of freighter hulks. A single, rusted out maglev train line runs from north to south, and on rare occasions, a rickety old train goes lumbering past, sending sparks out as it goes.

Filthy and disreputable, Drosshill is not only dangerous, but also known to many as a warren of thieves and criminals. Not to mention the working poor. On occasion, one might find a small business of some legitimacy, small residences that actually meet the city code, or to the keen eye, some way into the rumored underground market of Lowfair. Otherwise, the place is adamantly avoided by those who don't wish to soil their reputation... or their trousers.

The sky is clear, with a gentle breeze blowing. A wispy, pinkish cloud occasionally appears overhead.

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It's here in the relatively desolate field of worn and abandoned things, known as Drosshill, that the V-35 Courier glides to a halt. The cracked, weather-pounced tarmac it's chosen as a parking space sits just outside the westward perimeter of the Starport. Debris and man-made filth litters the ground and in the distance, sounds of a scuffle occasionally drift in on the breeze. Crete rats scuttle to and fro, vanishing from view into their burrows as the armored speeder hums by.

A long minute goes by while the speeder sits, void of interior movement. Eventually, the hatched roof does slide back, unveiling a driver and two passengers. The driver exits first, then begins to stroll onward towards what appears to be an abandoned hangar, missing portions of its roof. The two passengers disembark in turn. A man, matching in garb the driver, waits for the woman - Ambassador Delgard - before moving forward. Aside from suffering some disheveled hair, Ambrosia appears unhurt as she straightens her hem and proceeds to calmly walk alongside the guards. There is no sound, but the deadness in her eyes speaks volumes: The captain's not in the pilot seat.

"Rebel control is proceeding as expected." The foremost of the pilots of a Sardakh Systems Kale-1 Freighter remarks. Their black flightsuits and face concealing helmets offering nothing but the vocabulated sounds of their voices.

Within minutes of one another, armored speeders arrive. Their back-street routes betrayed at the last instant of deviation while diplomatic colors see them through every high-alerted checkpoint en route. The window of rendezvous is narrow, and from each spills a few exceptionally calm figures who board the nondescript vessel without reference to the typically all important rank and precedence. Roars of chemical thrusters fill the hangar once all aboard, the Malphas rises from the ferocrete above a billow smoke of exhaust, its helm set skyward and blue ionic drive propelling it t'ward the stars.

''There's no way this isn't some kind of nightmare''. There's no way that Johanna would ever imperil the Jedi Temple again... and yet, she's fairly certain it /was/ her in the Temple with the bots, ensuring that their chemical mixtures were calibrated just so before they managed to blow the roof off sky-high and transmit the Imperial starburst.

''What in all hells is going on''? Even in her state of confusion, agitation seems difficult -- if not downright impossible -- to summon, and she lets herself fall helplessly into a seat aboard the shuttle taking its occupants Maker only knows where. She inspects her hands with some measure of disbelief and glances to where Ambassador Delgard is seated.

"Ord Mantell control..." the lead pilot begins. "...challenge acknowledged." They're playing for time, as their engines burn hot - the nova of quad exhausts burning brightly on their aft and every second adding kilometers into open space. The vessel rocks as it traverses through an unstable pocket of gas, the kind of emission from a living world that nobody on 'normal' transit corridors would endure.

"Transmitting diplomatic protocol. Please hold for the ambassador..."

The co-pilot rises, his weapon in hand, the compact frame caressed by nervous fingers - these /things/ were far more dangerous than their hosts could imagine. That much had been drilled into them. The frame of Ambassador Ambrosia Delgard leveled in his vision, the vocabulator demands. "Order space control to stand down for this flight."

Ambassador Delgard pauses, just inside the entryway, staring for a moment at her feet then turns her head slowly to regard the co-pilot with and emotionless stare.

*Scream, you idiot!* The voice within commands, beating at the walls of consciousness. ''*Do something! Wake up!*''

Because maybe, just maybe, this has all been another whiskey-induced dream and she'll soon open her eyes to face another shameful morning's gaze in the mirror.

Except it's not. Deep down, she knows it's not. The explosion was real. The assault mid-ride was real. The taste of guard B's blood in her mouth IS real - pretty sure she hit bone - and his loosely dangling finger will attest to that. This is real.

Facing forward again, she steps four paces inward and back before settling into a seat and fastening her restraints accordingly. Johanna's glance is met with a look of her own. Sedate expression stirring just faintly with a semblance of some intense terror hidden behind the glance of parasitic control.