Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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The Green Hills of Naboo

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Search: Cover Stories​
Month: 5th​
Year: 845​
>Accessing selected article: Cracking the Can
>Written by Loden De Maal
>Page 1

I had no plan for this meeting, I'll admit. The former heads of state for the Protectorate were oft considered a cagey lot, even in so far as heads of state go. While Cira was known for her vision and matronly affection for those in her charge, and Alcori was a mental powerhouse more than capable of not sinking the ship, it wasn't until Cater stepped up that we truly lost sight of the fact that these people were, well... people.

Hidden beneath the brim of a hat, Cater was a no-nonsense technical mastermind with a mean streak as long as the cannons he so favored arming the Navy with. And while his replacement was short lived, it seemed we only went further away from 'humanized' rule by the time the former Sergeant Major of the OmegaPyre took office. Or, rather ironically, ascended to the Iron Throne.

But so it was I found myself shocked to be headed towards Naboo, and so it was I was further set onto my heels when I was greeted not by an armed escort or a servant, but an unassuming man with short hair the color of Starcaf with added cream. Or, rather, he would have been unassuming were it not for his eyes - pools of black that rippled like the ocean's surface by moonlight, sharp and jagged in their intensity and yet weighed down by the gauntness that clung like baggage to their undersides.

There was no armor on the man, save a white tee shirt that showcased the broad musculature of his shoulders and struggled to fit the flex of his biceps. Biceps flexed by hands casually slipped into the front pockets of a pair of casual grey shorts that cut off just above his knee - a pair of tan lace up shoes completed his affable look, curving beneath his ankles. The reason for the attire was clear - it was an oppressive forty degrees here in Theed.

Were it not for the threatening stoop of the former Lord Protector's shoulders, you'd be forgiven for mistaking him for any well-off tourist in the area; he looks uncomfortable. But as he extends a bearish, calloused hand to shake my own, it's clear he's only out of place because he's out in public, and as I greet him in kind he seems to melt into a genuine affability that makes it clear he's likely the sort of man you'd love to see at the bar when the hour grew late.

His disarming smile is bright in it's honesty, and he eagerly places a hand on my back to guide me along and out of the starport. I would, perhaps, be offended if his easy demeanor hadn't kept me from realizing how fully he was controlling this experience so far. So I pose the question, of course, of how a man so notoriously grouchy and reserved is able to so effortlessly speak with a total stranger as if they're an old friend.

And even as we make towards a nearby speeder - an unassuming, mid-range craft of muted gray - his smile wanes ever so slightly. What follows is the somber tone of a man speaking without filter, and he casually remarks upon his role in greeting most of the newcomers to the Galactic Alliance; all the recruits freshly assigned to whatever base he's on. He likes to get a measure of everyone coming in, and it's an easy way to get it.

It's a lack of trust, he says, in his fellow sentient that drives him. Or so he says.

There's a measure of earnestness to his voice that says he loves company, when he can afford it, and I wonder how much of his armor he's still wearing even in a teeshirt and shorts. Climbing into the vehicle, he casually moves the sidearm he was keeping on the passenger seat and apologies for not thinking of putting it away before coming inside to get me. "Most people aren't too keen on guns.

Especially around me."

It's humor as dry as the air inside his speeder. 'Two hours to Lake Country' he explains, and before long we've left the city limits behind, crossing seemingly endless fields of green that are just now turning to brown. A drought, he says, that's gotten a bit annoying but is projected to go away soon. There's a scoff to his tone that says he doesn't believe it. Our conversation turns to his reasons for choosing Naboo, his past - though he gives nothing of the years before he joins the Pyre - and I begin to wonder how much of him I can realistically expect to see over the next few days.

Regardless, I made a mental note to ask again a bit later and kept the conversation light. Things flowed far smoother then, and it's clear why he was so well liked by his men - a keen mind is hidden beneath his sharp words and short temper, and while he's quick to move off subjects he feels are fruitless or bothersome, he's nonetheless well informed on a startling array of topics; from the history of Duros to the cultural reasons for Dathomiri Witches have 'free men,' there seems to be little he can't fill the silence with.

But before long we're passing shores and tourist destinations nestled alongside lakes and waterfalls, shuttles overhead again pulling a question from my lips. "Literal tourists." He says, amused, "They're not here to vacation. Most can't afford it, or don't feel like spending a month out here." A month, it seems, is usually the minimum amount of time for renting a residence in the affluent area.

"So they take day trips. They're quite nice." He speaks as though he's reminded of a quaint, childhood memory. "You fly out, spend a day going about the area, taking pictures of homes and scenery, maybe go for a hike or two. A taste of a life that isn't yours, or maybe that you don't want to live.

We used to do things like this when I was little, and while my parents always enjoyed the experience, we never went anywhere that gave them the feeling that they should stay. There's no fault in that, really." He remarks dryly, and when I ask him to name some of the places he was referring too, he just shakes his head.

It's no secret Corellia is - or was - his home, but he remains cagey on his place of birth and where he grew up.

He seems a bit relieved by the time we pull into a town at the base of a sharply angled mountainside, the homes densely packed around small streets of cobbled stone. Easing the throttle down until we're practically inching towards the waterfront, we wind up outside a cream colored home of three stories, squat, with a porch jutting off of the second level and a pair of doors the color of burnished copper marking the likely entryway to the home.

All the windows are cracked open, at least facing the water, and it's clear the drought has had an effect on the region. The small stone stairs that formed the 'dock' show accumulated grime for nearly half a meter where the water level has dropped. He motions to the door, and we head inside, and he takes the sidearm from earlier and casually stows it beneath the back of his shirt, held in place by the waistband of his shorts.

He opens the door for me, and a gush of cool air tells me he prefers his home frigid rather than simply cold. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the glare outside to the dimness of the immediate interior of the home, but he has no problem as he simply heads forward and takes a sharp left, past a couch and a series of game tables to take the stairs up a floor.

We've come in the basement, and I wonder if there's not some purpose to making the entrance down there. He's a military man, after all, and from what I've been told he's notoriously thorough in his planning for all of the worst eventualities. "Come upstairs." He calls down, sounding like he's chuckling to himself, and I move to keep up, having been caught flatfooted by not following immediately.

Upstairs, the brightness of the exterior returns, the windows of the balcony doors allowing plenty of the glare from the water's surface to come inside, and he's got a glass of ice water already set out for me. He's halfway through his already, and I come to stand at the island he's on the other side of, a dip in the floor behind me accented by a wraparound couch, a holonet receiver and a fireplace covered in his medals.

"That's usually where people find their eyes going to." He says quietly, "...they tell me I'm still the most decorated soldier in the Pyre. Took me as long to put my awards onto my uniform as it took putting on the damn uniform." Shaking his head, it's clear that despite their display, he cares little for them. When I ask why they're up if he doesn't want to talk on them, he simply says, "A reminder of what anyone can do when they believe in something."

I press about his belief, and he's quick to deflect, offering up platitudes most soldiers default to. The inherent worth of their chosen state, the livelihood of the guy next to you, all the people you're keeping safe back home. But I've never been one to listen to regurgitated lines, and I take aim at the elephant in the room. The moment the name left my lips, he paused, blinking those sharp eyes at me before they drop in thought to look to the counter.

He pushes himself off the counter, instead leaning on the one behind him, arms folding across his chest as he loses the affability I'd swiftly become accustomed to. "I never did believe in her." He says finally, and that's when it was my turn to pause and blink. Alderaan - the entire invasion and the loss of life - had been about retrieving the first Lady Protector, the visionary behind the state and PMC that he still worked for as a consultant.

"She never needed me to." He adds with a shrug, "But I needed her to believe in me." What that admission means, he doesn't offer any elaboration, and I move to the medals to size them up myself. There's a myriad of deployment awards, given for every planet he was sent to, and several for various valorous actions including the apprehension of a notoriously wanted criminal.

While the space pirate wound up being a footnote in history, the action of his apprehension wound up being a plague on a wall, half-forgotten by the man who'd lived out the action decorated on bronze-plated oak. He's quiet, apparently content to let me roam, and I find myself appreciating the simple tastes of the man. While the home was no doubt expensive, and the furniture is too, nothing about it sticks out to the mind.

The space is artfully planned and arranged, giving it the feel of a well used home with materials and possessions purchased for functionality rather than opulence. There's a clear bias towards darker, earthy tones in the furniture, though most of the paint remains light to match the outside, and likely to capitalize on the abundant sunlight the main area clearly gets during the summer.

A floorboard creeks upstairs, and when questioned I'm given merely "Ya'aburnee." A mental note is made to look up the meaning, and the language, later, if I can puzzle it out, and I take a seat on the couch. He notes that while he'd love to sit and converse, he was requested at the local garrison while on his way to retrieve me, and he shows me where I'll be staying for the evening before taking leave, "Just for a few hours." He's deeply apologetic, but the rudeness of the gesture isn't lost on me - or him, though he doesn't seem fazed by the appearance it gives him.

Though that, well, that's not surprising.

I've still got tomorrow, anyway.
 
I looked up that language - that word - and my brow was furrowed in both confusion and sorrow as to it's meaning. Where it came from has been lost to time, but roughly translated, it stands for the wish you hope you die before the one you love. In this manner, perhaps, you're never without them. It's selfish, and when confronted in the morning, he admits to the truth of that particular matter.

"But isn't love always selfish?" He asks quietly, and I'm afraid to say I disagreed. We spoke at length about the altruism of giving yourself wholly to another's happiness, and while I extol the virtures of compromise - and he does agree to an extent - it's clear that he believes in a more 'classical' form of love. One in which he gives himself entirely over to his significant other.

Perhaps that's why I felt so watched at night. The Lady Protector herself roamed the halls, a specter brought back from death to haunt the halls of the one man who loved her more than any other.

I'm realizing, slowly, how absolutely enthralled he is with her. It's almost a shame, but at the same time, I find a twinge of jealousy twisting at my heart. How does he manage to so lose himself in her? What qualities does she possess that elicit such loyalty?

I would ask, but I know he doesn't answer.

We spend the morning on the water, a pair of lures marring the otherwise pristine surface of the lake. There's little fish here, he admits, but being alone on the water is a good means of getting to know someone, he says. I'm inclined to agree. His affability is back, and it leaves me convinced of the sincerity in that authoritative tone of his. At middle age for a human, he's hardly old. But he speaks with the command presence of a man nearing the end of his life.

Experience drips from his words, his coarse voice a whispered promise of the knowledge he seeks to impart.

I don't ask anymore questions. He's more keen to share when not pressed.

And so we talk, of love, and life. He's a simple man of simple pleasures, he admits. A man as happy with a smile as he is a gift. He kills because it's the only skill he was talented with, and it afforded him no small amount of credits. But does he believe in the killing? He doesn't seem to think so. Rather, he looks at it as a job. He admits to rationalizing it on the basis of not working for Sith.

It's , frankly, a good goal. They're the most vile scum this galaxy has ever produced. But even as he speaks of past action, it's clear his mind is elsewhere, on things he won't mention.

Not yet.

Perhaps another time? It's hard to say with him. He's a shadow wrapped in an enigma, burdened with deceit yet layered with promise.
 

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