Little Lion Man
Weep, Little Lion Man
Ghorman Spaceport
Tags: Open
Lander's Blaster Pistol, Lander's Prosthetic Arm, Refuge
Aboard a salvaged Paladin-class Corvette, a good thirty or so people were huddled together, scattered about the impromptu seating arrangements. Now their terrified eyes were locked onto a stand off between too men. One looked on with weary eyes and a trembling hand, blaster clutched in a mechanical prosthetic. The other's eyes were blank, a blaster hole in his chest. As the dead man fell, a communication device fell out of his hand and clattered against the ground. With a calculated motion, Lander Stalwart moved his foot over the device and crushed it.
It had been months since the Sith Covenant took hold of the Core, longer since Sacorria had been lost to the Galactic Empire. Once the elected representative of his people in the Galactic Alliance Senate, Lander Stalwart had become something he was unsure of how to describe. A vigilante or rebel? Perhaps. He didn't do a lot of stirring up trouble. In fact, his primary MO had been to slip into the Core and help civilians flee for safer pastures. They were bound for Refuge, where those who had managed to flee Sacorria were lead by him and Jedi Master
Jasper Kai'el
. Apparently, though, they had gotten sloppy this time. An informant had slipped aboard, or someone who was looking to earn the favor of the Sith. So Lander, taking no pleasure in the act, did what had to be done. "If you'd... take this one to the airlock," Lander spoke gently to one of his troops, who nodded and quickly began to pull the dead traitor away. "Sorry about that... No more surprises today. You have my word."
The refugees seemed spooked, but they settled down when the former Senator offered them his reassurance. Lander let out a sigh as he holstered his blaster. At least he was still half-decent at talking. He took a moment to compose himself before he made his way towards the cockpit of the vessel, where the crew was preparing to drop out of hyperspace.
"Bucket of bolts," the pilot muttered. "This blasted thing doesn't want to reroute power to the thrusters... power converters must be blown to hell..."
"This thing is old," Lander reminded them. "Repairs were always going to be necessary... What's the nearest planet?"
"Ghorman, sir," the co-pilot answered. "Far enough away from Sith space... Should give us room to breathe."
"Fine," he exhaled. "Bring us down. We can refuel and make repairs... We should be good for the credits."
Ghorman was at least a world that was sympathetic. A past of great lost at the hand of oppressors defined a culture that was forged in reconstruction. It would be a safe place, for now. The ancient corvette would drop out of hyperspace and enter Ghorman's atmosphere, finding a landing pad at the planet's primary space port. As his people hastily got to work making repairs, Lander himself stepped off the vessel and out a ways into a nearby clearing. He needed a moment to breath, get his head on straight.
Lander did detest killing people. Even so, he was a soldier. He knew what happened if he didn't do what had to be done.
After a moment he found himself a nearby bench and sat himself down. His body was stiff, his hair was unkempt, and he wore bags under his eyes. One would think being busy would be a good distraction from missing his home dearly. That wasn't so. Even amidst all of this, Lander's mind never stopped thinking about Sacorria.
What he wouldn't give to go home.