Bad Kitty
In his mind, the boy was transported away.
The Kurai Dome on Atrisia. A rave with Herglics pounding in the mosh pit, while Atrisians crowd-surfed to a phat beat spinning off two turn tables and a microphone. Or maybe it was the Thunderdome on Denon. Holding the headphones against the side of his head, the Nautolan's body swayed to the rhythm as the music sparked his imagination with how he might transform the song for the remix...
"DYMO!"
Cloudy, abyssal eyes fluttered open. Turning his head, the boy rocked the headphones back slightly as he looked over at where a rather perturbed medical droid stood in the doorway, as if it had been trying for some time to get the boy's attention.
"What?" the boy asked innocently.
"Second degree burn. Room Kresh-Twelve," the droid stated flatly.
"Fiiiiine," the boy uttered, his head rolling back along his shoulders as he gave a huff and started to slide the headphones back up on his head.
The medical droid leaned forward, putting its ocular sensor closer to the boy's eye level as it stared right at him and snapped, "NOW."
Head back, the boy let out an exasperated, "Uuuuuggggghhhhhh!"
He. Couldn't. Even.
There were a dozen possibilities for a Jedi hopeful's work study. A lot of the options were hella lame -- like Jedi archives and some chit. Working alongside
Kassogtha Cthylla
and seeing firsthand the bravery and strong moral fiber that went into dusting shelf after shelf after shelf of holocrons.
Said no Jedi ever.
In between the hella lame and the meh, there was the slim possibility of getting the temple hangar bay, shadowing the Jedi ace, or getting the armory and assisting the Jedi weaponmasters for the day. It made the work study aspect of the Jedi Academy curriculum something like a lottery. A chance at something great, but a better chance of something stupid.
And this week? Zak had landed on the hella lame. Working in the Halls of Healing. Doing work that, by and large, droids could do. It ranged from cleaning bedpans to using Force Heal to handwave cuts. He'd been told that it taught a Jedi empathy, compassion, service, duty... honestly, that was about the point he stopped listening. Seriously, slap a bacta patch on that chit. Let the droids clean the bedpans. Let the Zak get back to the music.
As the young Jedi crossed through the Halls of Healing, he stepped into a partitioned room in which a technician in a jumpsuit was laid back on a bed, cradling an arm that was a bit of a mess. At least whoever had done the intake had already cut away the sleeve.
Grabbing a disinfectant spray, the boy set to work cleaning the wound. As soon as he did, the man bristled at the sensation.
Then, dude wanted to start talking.
They always wanted to talk.
"I was replacing an oil pump on a starfighter..."
Internally, Zak was screaming. He didn't want to talk about fuel burns, he wanted to talk about some sick beats! "Uh huh. Sure. Whatever," the boy uttered vapidly, barely pretending to listen. Holding out his hands, the youth followed the flow of the Force. Connecting him to the man. Connecting them to the Force. Subtle manipulations that pulled those stands toward the burn. Pushing the Force into the damaged cells and letting it feed regeneration.
Okay, so maybe he'd learned some things from
Iris Arani
Don't tell her that.
"I thought I'd tagged out the electrical system, but..."
The slight roll of the boy's head was an indication of his rolling his eyes. Sadly, as Nautolan's didn't have a discernable iris, humans couldn't really tell. Letting his arms drop back by his side, the boy grabbed a bacta spray and passed it over the still reddened area.
"Fascinating! But we're done here," Zak uttered flatly, swapping the bacta spray for a slap patch and bandaging the arm.
Then, rocking the headphones back onto his head, the Nautolan turned the music back on as he wandered back out into the halls.
Hopefully no one at the nurse's station would notice him and he could get some time to just practice some moves.
The Kurai Dome on Atrisia. A rave with Herglics pounding in the mosh pit, while Atrisians crowd-surfed to a phat beat spinning off two turn tables and a microphone. Or maybe it was the Thunderdome on Denon. Holding the headphones against the side of his head, the Nautolan's body swayed to the rhythm as the music sparked his imagination with how he might transform the song for the remix...
"DYMO!"
Cloudy, abyssal eyes fluttered open. Turning his head, the boy rocked the headphones back slightly as he looked over at where a rather perturbed medical droid stood in the doorway, as if it had been trying for some time to get the boy's attention.
"What?" the boy asked innocently.
"Second degree burn. Room Kresh-Twelve," the droid stated flatly.
"Fiiiiine," the boy uttered, his head rolling back along his shoulders as he gave a huff and started to slide the headphones back up on his head.
The medical droid leaned forward, putting its ocular sensor closer to the boy's eye level as it stared right at him and snapped, "NOW."
Head back, the boy let out an exasperated, "Uuuuuggggghhhhhh!"
He. Couldn't. Even.
There were a dozen possibilities for a Jedi hopeful's work study. A lot of the options were hella lame -- like Jedi archives and some chit. Working alongside
Kassogtha Cthylla
and seeing firsthand the bravery and strong moral fiber that went into dusting shelf after shelf after shelf of holocrons.Said no Jedi ever.
In between the hella lame and the meh, there was the slim possibility of getting the temple hangar bay, shadowing the Jedi ace, or getting the armory and assisting the Jedi weaponmasters for the day. It made the work study aspect of the Jedi Academy curriculum something like a lottery. A chance at something great, but a better chance of something stupid.
And this week? Zak had landed on the hella lame. Working in the Halls of Healing. Doing work that, by and large, droids could do. It ranged from cleaning bedpans to using Force Heal to handwave cuts. He'd been told that it taught a Jedi empathy, compassion, service, duty... honestly, that was about the point he stopped listening. Seriously, slap a bacta patch on that chit. Let the droids clean the bedpans. Let the Zak get back to the music.
As the young Jedi crossed through the Halls of Healing, he stepped into a partitioned room in which a technician in a jumpsuit was laid back on a bed, cradling an arm that was a bit of a mess. At least whoever had done the intake had already cut away the sleeve.
Grabbing a disinfectant spray, the boy set to work cleaning the wound. As soon as he did, the man bristled at the sensation.
Then, dude wanted to start talking.
They always wanted to talk.
"I was replacing an oil pump on a starfighter..."
Internally, Zak was screaming. He didn't want to talk about fuel burns, he wanted to talk about some sick beats! "Uh huh. Sure. Whatever," the boy uttered vapidly, barely pretending to listen. Holding out his hands, the youth followed the flow of the Force. Connecting him to the man. Connecting them to the Force. Subtle manipulations that pulled those stands toward the burn. Pushing the Force into the damaged cells and letting it feed regeneration.
Okay, so maybe he'd learned some things from
Iris Arani
Don't tell her that.
"I thought I'd tagged out the electrical system, but..."
The slight roll of the boy's head was an indication of his rolling his eyes. Sadly, as Nautolan's didn't have a discernable iris, humans couldn't really tell. Letting his arms drop back by his side, the boy grabbed a bacta spray and passed it over the still reddened area.
"Fascinating! But we're done here," Zak uttered flatly, swapping the bacta spray for a slap patch and bandaging the arm.
Then, rocking the headphones back onto his head, the Nautolan turned the music back on as he wandered back out into the halls.
Hopefully no one at the nurse's station would notice him and he could get some time to just practice some moves.
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