Wearing:
Interceptor Gear
Armed With:
Nathan's Saberstaff
Objective: Humanitarian Relief.
Nathan Bloodscrawl watched from a lawn chair on a hill overlooking the massive refugee camp. He sipped a coffee, ate a firaxa shark meat sandwich with Mayo.
Moya Virtu
sat next to him, clad in an armor weave purple catsuit.
"Wow, did you
ever call that one, Nathan." Moya noted as she watched with a small range finder the various goings and comings of the camp.
"I hate being right." Nathan admitted. "When's that Bacta-Works Cruiser get here?"
"Another fifteen minutes..." Moya answered. She stared intently as a fight broke out in the distance.
"The Ashlans don't seem to be doing too hot." she noted.
"
Good." he retorted spitefully. If there was exactly
one thing Nathan counted as a small gift from fate, the Force, whatever, was that he had been brought back just in time to witness the death of the Ashlan Kaiserreich.
"Nobody is doing too hot down there."
"That can be alleviated." he replied. "How're you doing, my friend?"
"I'm worried about you."
"Oh?"
"You're getting chummy with Vera." Moya reminded tersely. "I fear you might be developing the same weakness as your daughter."
"
Now how else do I resemble her?" he asked, not looking as he ate his sandwich.
"An attraction to dangerous personalities." she explained, watching the camp still. "Watch the feth out. Vera's a killing machine."
"We're
all killing machines, Moya. You, me, Vera. Lynda. Everyone around us. All killers. Vera's simply not letting a little thing like
nuance blind her to that."
"But how do
you feel about it?"
Nathan sat back, took another sip.
"I feel that I don't want to be reminded of Lysandra." he finally said after a moment, very quietly.
He ate the rest of his sandwich and drank his coffee in silence. Finally, the
Bacta-Works Cruiser arrived and descended through the atmosphere., Settling on a bare area not used as traffic. The company had cleared it with relief effort authorities beforehand.
"Do you derive
any joy in helping others, Nathan?" Moya asked him sincerely.
"Not much."
"Then why go to this trouble?"
"I do
not abide
chaos..." he answered. "Had enough of that during the Plague."
He got out of his seat.
"I'm gonna go play nice with the locals, Moya. What about you?"
"The same." Moya answered with a small smile.
But then she frowned.
"Mind what I said about Vera. I can't stop you. But don't come crying to me if it blows up in your face."
"Noted." he replied in annoyance, walking down.
"Like I need relationship advice from
her..." he said under his breath as he walked across grassy plains to the encampment, watching in the distance as Bacta-Works employees clad in blue jumpsuits filed out of the loading bays of the vessel unload storage tanks full of the company's
artificial bacta. The Government had paid
full price, because it was a rush delivery. This may have been a humanitarian mission, but it wasn't a charity. If Alderaan didn't mind being responsible for everyone fleeing for their lives, they didn't mind paying full price for the medicine needed to treat them. Bacta-Works was about two billion credits richer just on this one planet alone because of their two primary rules:
Rule 1: Always deliver a quality product worth every credit it took to make it.
Rule 2, to paraphrase Liotta: Got struck by lightning? Feth you, pay me. Got your esophagus crushed by a Sith? Feth you, pay me. Got your arm hacked off by a lightsaber?
Feth you, pay me.
It wasn't a very Jedi mindset but manufacturing equipment, investment, setting up outlets, offices? All of it required capital. In exchange for not taking financial pity on customers, the product was made and delivered much faster than regular Bacta.
Nathan grabbed a med kit and started tending to injuries by hand. He spoke to none as he walked among the refugees, a thorn of black amidst a sea of bandages and alien blood. The sounds of alien tongues drifted through the air as he walked and worked, never speaking, never even seemingly
breathing. He had no bedside manner, moving in almost mechanical fashion as he swabbed Bacta on burns and sealed up cuts. He avoided the area where the Ashlans were concentrated until a knight went through his area asking for more volunteers. Nathan cringed inwardly but volunteered.
He didn't look at any Ashlan Jedi, to avoid scowling at them as he treated them. An unpleasant twitch of his eye as he tended to their wounds left the Ashlan patients silent, not thanking him as they had the others, only wishing to be anywhere other than where
he was as he treated them.
However, one incredibly old Ashlan man in a tweed suit gawked at him as he passed by.
"You!" he hissed.
Nathan turned around.
"Something the matter?"
"It's you! It must be! You even have the voice!"
"Dunno what you're talking about--" Nathan started to walk off.
"You're
Morris Crownwraithe!" he hissed.
"Never heard of him. Got the wrong guy." Nathan called out without looking back.
The old man pursued him. "No, it is you! I've seen your one photo from the plague, next to Moya De Lifte! I'd know your face anywhere!"
"Your eyes are playing tricks on you." Nathan falsely assured him as he walked deeper into the Ashlan's part of the camp.
"I'm not senile!"
Nathan turned around.
"I'm not whoever you've mistaken me for. Now if you don't mind, I have more pressing business..."
He turned away, leaving the old man staring at him.
"I'm not senile. My memory isn't playing tricks. It
is him..." the old man whispered...
Alicio Organa
Kel Se'Taav
Isla Draellix-Kobitana
Lila Doneeta
Sonya Provost
Regnar Sodun
Balthus Larr