Faction [THR] It's a Beautiful Day, and I can't stop myself from smiling...

[Michael Angellus]

​

Journal Entry:

PERSONAL LOG – ENTRY #221
Location: Naboo, N-3 Seraphim Landing Pad
Status: Systems powering down... and brain powering up?
“A Jedi doesn’t have normal days,” Master Quin once told me. But I think today might actually qualify. And weirdly enough? I’m kinda into it.”

Well… we made it.


Back on Naboo. Bright sun. Blue skies. Clean air that doesn’t taste like rust and regret. A landing pad crew waved at me like I was someone important. BRED beeped something smug (he claims it was “thank you for the guidance,” but I heard [you landed five degrees off again, flyboy]).

Classic.

We touched down about twenty minutes ago. The moment the struts kissed the permacrete, I swear it felt like the Force itself took a deep breath through me. Systems are mostly off now—reactor cores idling, shields down, transponder muted. BRED’s already rerouting power to auxiliary because he knows I’ll forget. He gave me one of those shrill, attention-grabbing chirps just before I walked off the ramp. You know the one.

[“If you die forgetting something, I’m haunting your gravestone with pop-up ads.”]
(Thanks, buddy.)

I looked around the landing bay while I sealed the hatch. People moving. Droids whirring. Officers checking manifests. Nobody special… and yet everyone seemed like they had somewhere to be. Something to do… and for the first time in a long time—I do too. Not some galaxy-spanning, fate-of-the-stars mission. No Sith lords. No Force visions. Just… duty. Purpose. Direction. It fits.

I think I’m starting to wear it well.

Heh. I caught myself smiling in the reflection of a loading crate. Not smug. Not nervous. Just… glad to be here. To show up. To try. That’s the part no one really tells you about, right? Showing up is half the job. The other half is being present enough that someone else feels like they can show up too.

So yeah, it’s not glamorous. I’m not dueling anyone on a catwalk or outrunning TIEs (yet). But I’ve got my saber, my helmet, my droid, and a walk in my step that says "Hey, whatever today is? Let’s meet it head on." And maybe, just maybe… if someone sees me walking that way—they’ll decide to walk too.

Duty calls. But today, it’s not shouting. It’s more like a nudge… and I’m okay with that.

Now if only BRED would stop rearranging my flight playlists...

Log End.
(—Michael out.)


TAG: Wide Open ( Milla Caranthyr ? , Eerie Omera ? )

This is where he is speaking

 

[Milla Caranthyr]

Curiosity could be a wonderful thing at times. A driving force to seek and explore. A defining trait of nearly every Kiir, and Milla was no exception. She had been on Naboo for only a short time now, and the desire to turn over every rock still hummed in her blood. Even though it took some time to readjust to civilization, she was quickly adjusting to her old ways.

Bare feet quickly carried Milla across the landing pad as a new ship touched down. Sharp blue eyes took in the sight of the pilot and his rolling droid as the exited the vessel and began to depart the hangar. She could sense how strong thee force was within him. A Jedi moat likely. This planet seemed to have quite a few of them.

Quiet as a shadow, she weaved her way through the crowd. Barely noticed, mostly ignored. Her target never leaving her sight. Her force presence mostly hidden. She was curious to see where he went. For the Jedi on this planet were different than the ones of others she had been to before, and she wanted to see what they were truly like.

Michael Angellus

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

Journal Entry:

PERSONAL LOG – ENTRY #222
Location: Naboo, Flight Operations District
Status: Walking to the line. Boots dusty. Helmet shiny.



There’s a rhythm to life on the flight line. Somewhere between a military march and a power ballad. You get used to it. The smells, the sounds—the electric hum of a half-awake starfighter like it’s stretching before the big show. I swear my N-1 winked at me when I turned the corner.

We’re on time. For once.
(Write it down, BRED. You didn’t have to fake a fuel leak to keep me from chasing a lead on those weird encrypted whispers on Odessen. So, yes, I was right.)

I mentioned I felt like someone was following us, right?
Of course I did. Out loud. Multiple times.

And, of course, BRED gave me the tone. That chirpy, overly-polite “affirmative, sir” tone he uses when he’s absolutely convinced I’ve been sniffing hyperfuel fumes too long.

[“Unless they’re invisible, intangible, and also allergic to logic, you’re imagining things again, captain.”]

Direct quote.

Anyway, we were about ten meters from the check-in terminal when it happened.

I stopped.

Mid-step.

Did the slow turn.

And there she was.

A little girl. Maybe ten? NO! Don’t think that! The last time you did, the “not 8 year old” was gonna kill you. Half-hiding behind a cargo crate with all the stealth of a Hutt at a dinner party, sure, she was good at what she did, but when you were taught to notice things by a paranoid uncle, a paranoid cousin and the military…. When I turned around, she looked like she wanted to duck. Classic.

I crouched, peeked under the crate and said:
Tag. You’re it.

Cue the most dramatic gasp in the history of ever.

I smiled. Held up a ration bar I’d snagged from my locker. The really good kind too—not the chalky bricks they issue to the troopers. You hungry, stowaway-shadow-watcher?

Didn’t say a word. Just vanished behind a maintenance droid like a magician’s assistant.
But not before I saw the edge of a lightsaber hilt tucked into her robe.

...Interesting.

Of course, BRED caught up five seconds later, wheezing like he’d sprinted a marathon.

[“Was that the threat? A child with snack-based espionage? Should I activate countermeasures or just throw you into a lake?”]

I told him he owed me twenty credits.
He told me to trip over my own ego.

Then he beeped a [“gotcha”] that sounded way too smug for someone who just got proven wrong.

Anyway… mission clock is ticking. Got check-in, preflight, and a stack of routine patrols with my name on them.


But maybe I’ll swing back by this area later. Just in case.

Because sometimes the Force doesn’t yell.
Sometimes it tugs your sleeve, hides behind a crate, and steals your best granola bar.

---

Log End.
(—Michael out. And yes, BRED, you still owe me twenty credits.)


TAG: Milla Caranthyr | Still open

This is where he is speaking