Into the Galaxy

[Cen Tessek]

[Note: Currently, I am reediting all of my previous posts. This is to clean up my writing (this was my first time RPing on the forum and I'm a perfectionist :C] and to all around make it more understandable; future changes to the story were made and by reinforcing them through edits of previous posts I hope to make the story a stronger read!]

Mos Eisely, the infamous spaceport town resting south of the Jundland Wastes, was home to the derelict lowlife and scum. The young chiss was well aware of this, and even counting on it, as he stepped through the initial white arch leading into the settlement and began making his way past the first of the plastoid homes. His synthcloth coat, now stretched and tattered by the journey, stained with days upon days-worth of sand and grime, had soiled in color and wear. He shed it as he stepped into the Tattooine town, allowing it to flutter away, free and independent, in a way, just like him. The ragged straps of cloth billowed in the soft, dusty wind, as if waving goodbye before sinking away into the world behind him.

As he strutted down the street with a light bounce to his walk, dirty goggles banged and bounced loosely against his blue neck. His black synthleather jerkin clung tightly to his chest, flanked by blue biceps that flexed with each casual swing to his stride. The streets were empty this early in the morning, the silence pervaded them only to retreat with each thunderous clunk of Cen's heavy boots that smacked the ground with each step. He glanced up the the dry sky with opaque eyes, attempting to catch signs of foreign spacecraft. The heavens were empty, save for a few rogue clouds drifting lazily through the blue and the twin suns rising beyond the horizon.

He was in a housing district, flanked by pale houses and dilapidated markets. He sighed in annoyance and impatience; after such a long travel, Cen was aggravated by the additional travel distance to find a cantina or tavern. His right hand found itself slipping into his utility bag for comfort, a black satchel which hung from his belt and rested against his thigh. Largely, it contained only mementos: a small wooden figure tied together with string, a gift from his son; a pale, polished rock that served as a keepsake from his mother, who insisted it was "magic"; a small chunk of soapstone, carved into the shape of a star by his handicapped, and now deceased, younger sister; and then the lightsabre, his sole reminded of his once powerful mentor, Karr Dalmos.

As his thumb ran over the hot metal hilt, Cen stopped walking. Paused, his mind began to flow back to that period of time like an untamable current, thrashing and ripping wildly with a life of its own through the present and into the past. "Karr..." he muttered aloud, oblivious to his surroundings until a shove from behind knocked him to the ground and from his daydream. "Watch it, poodoo," growled the iktotchi as he pushed past. The sheer level of grime and grease that caked the creature offered the briefest hint of a waft for Cen to smell, and truly, that was enough for a lifetime. Gagging, he rose slowly to his feet, blinking at the sudden rush of the crowd around him. How long was I out? he thought. They flooded forth from every nook and cranny of the ramshackle town and flooded towards a large, low-set building nearby.A cantina, he realized, quickly submerging himself among the writhing crowd of scoundrels and letting the passersby-river's flow carry him directly into the overcrowded bar.

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

Wearing his full suit of light armor, Usa'ar Obath strolled into the cantina. Nodding his head to a flirtatious Twi'lek that was noting him with interest, he removed his helmet and took in his surroundings. The decent filters on his helmet couldn't erase the stink of the dregs of society that lingered here. Creatures of countless races stood, sat, and even lay sprawled over the cantina. Sighing, he approached the bartender and asked for a drink.
It had been awhile since Usa'ar had his last job, and the incompetent Nemoidian tried to cheat him out of his share at the end. Luckily, some classic threats ensured the delivery of the credits into Usa'ar's hands. However, spending a bit too much a bit too often, he had to resort to the local cantina to find a new job, or else run out of money altogether. Hopefully one that would be more stable, or at least better paying.

 

[Cen Tessek]

Cen took a place at the back of the saloon, watching the crowd mix and churn together like a massive, filth-ridden blender as they imbibed in sickly-colored drinks and other more unsavory indulgences. He lightly brushed his fingers along his utility pouch once more, weary of the pickpockets who threatened to stalk among the wild crowd of drunks. He sat like this for a while with his sullen gaze dancing across the cantina's minute details, attempting to discern the cause of the events that collected so many drunkards in one place at this particular time. The he saw it, briefly, before the drunk, burly Wookie tore it down from the ceiling: a bright yellow banner emblazoned with a "Happy Birthday, Imisiya!"

He groaned and planted his face firmly in two upraised hands for a double facepalm, concealing his expression of disgust. How was he going to find a pilot at a birthday party? He scooted from the booth and calculated the safest route to the exit, lest he fall victim to the drunks or concealed thieves. He resolved to delve into the expanse only as a last resort, should things become hectic, but something felt so certain about the subtle path. It was such a small decision, an almost entirely unimportant detail to his movement, a simply conclusion to avoid theft, yet it felt so correct to him.

He slipped himself through the dispersed clusters of patrons who occupied the edges of the cantina in frenzied fits of screaming, yelling, and gulping loudly from their cups of liquor. As he weaved through a pair of chattering Gands, Cen noticed a sole man occupying the alcohol-littered bar. He dressed oddly, in light armor, and his presence simply stood out from the rest, though whether it was the attire, the calm demeanor, or something else, Cen could not say. It was as if his state of being there completed some mental puzzle, unlocking some vortex of fixation that slowly, slowly drew him into it. He was walking into a psychological whirlpool.

Tessek swallowed loudly, nervous by his mental implications, and approached through the amalgamous masses of hooch-fueled partygoers. He seated himself directly beside the man atop a pale, rather uncomfortable, stool. "You wouldn't happen to be a pilot, would you, sir?" he inquired, bracing himself for the Mos Eisely Special, the trademark aggressive and violent response of the more unstable patrons and locals. He stiffened his shoulders and locked his knees, eying the man with a heavy gaze with the intent of appearing imposing, to dissuade a potential attack, and cautiously braced for a potential facial suckerpunch.

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

Usa'ar raised an eyebrow at sudden Chiss stranger approaching him. Somehow, even though there was mass diversity in this one cantina, this stranger seemed... Out of place.
"Who's asking, stranger?" Usa'ar grunted, giving the Chiss a cold look. He held it for a few moments, then couldn't help breaking out a smile and laughing. It was too straining to appear grizzled and angry sometimes.
"Yeah I'm a pilot. Been all the way to Mygeeto and back. What do you need? Provided you have credits for pay, of course..."

 

[Cen Tessek]

"Cen Tessek," he chortled, gripping the pilot's outstretched hand with firm fervor. "I'm a moisture farmer, right out on the edges of the Jundland Wastes." His eyes wandered from the friendly stranger to the gritty bar, watching the busywork bartender flail about, attempting to appease the hammered patrons with unholy stamina. He dashed to and fro from the great bronze and silver contraptions, pipes, and flasks like a blouse caught in a hurricane, twisting a nozzle here and there, which released a fizzling geyser of alcoholic froth pouring forth into a dry mug.

Life always seemed to slip away when it just comes to a head like that, causing it to fly by in the blink of an eye, or pass entirely unnoticed. It always seemed that way to Cen, when the hours of toiling sunk away into the dry sand like the precious few drops of cool water, drunk up by the dirt and never to be seen again. Like that, it was just a memory or forgotten. Every day blends into one, like the same day on repeat. It was as if he was floating through a limbo, sleeping only to wake up once again that very same morning, to knowingly repeat all that he has done to see his family survive to the next waking day.

The thought of family only brought about a tidal wave of guilt. He had left his young son behind tearful and heartbroken. Gald Tessek was young, only three years of age, but he now sat in the arms of a dying grandmother, believed to be forgotten and discarded amidst the fatally treacherous dunes of Tattooine. Cen's heart sank and his head slumped forward. "I'm so sorry," was the first thought racing through his mind. Then came the reinforcing thoughts of self-justification: It was necessary, I had no choice, I did it for him, I did it for his mother, etc. It was in reality just petty excuses, and deep down he recognized that, but on the outside it was the sole comfort in the chilling dark.

It was then he realized he had drifted off again, stirring him to sputter, pause, and then offer an apologetic smile. "Forgive me, I was considering a proper pay for your services was all. How does seven thousand credits sound, half up front and half when we arrive at the destination?"

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

At the mention of seven thousand credits, Usa'ar's full attention was caught. That would be enough to carry him over for the next few months. That's exactly what he needed right now. But he focused on revealing nothing and warmly accepted the offered handshake.
"I'm Usa'ar Obath. Nice to meet you. So what's the job, exactly?" Usa'ar leaned back on the counter of the bar and stared at the Chiss. "Couple of warnings, just in case you're that kind of person - I don't kill children, and I'd rather not kill women, unless they're trying to kill me." Usa'ar looked to see if he would get any reaction in Cen's eyes at that last part.

 

[Cen Tessek]

As a philosophy goes, "From the spoiled tree of the soul it drinks the parched ground, flavored only with the black rain of imperfection. It is the ultimate curse of mortality." These flaws are what nourishes our tree, the roots of the heart drinking its fill from the downpour of tar, and in return, these flaws define us. Ironically, it could be said that they are what makes us unique, that they not only divide us through our differences but give us a sense of self. It also could be said that it is the greatest tool of the Force from which it challenges us on our different path, and inadvertently, may even help us decide on which to walk.

Do we walk in darkness, in light, or among the shrouds of gray? Do our virtues really lead us? Does the desire to be good truly triumph over the desire to do good in the benevolent soul?

No.

"That's perfectly fine," Cen cooed with delight. He clapped his hands together cheerfully and slouched on over the bar, patiently awaiting the passing bartender. "I just need a pilot capable of taking me from this planet to the other. Discreetness is required, naturally. Especially in these times-" He was interrupted by the girth of the bartender, which blocked out the light in a vast eclipse of obesity. "Wha' cen I geh fah ya?"

Cen (heavily resisting the reply: "The hell out of my way") replied kindly, "Water, please."

The bartender barked with laughter, "Wha' ah ya, a pansy.?"

Unsure of what exactly the man had said, he responded, "Fine, give me your hardest liquor."

"Nah, I get ya' some wata'. Want eh' in a sippin' cup?"

Cen sighed in defeat, his blue fingers gently gripping the bridge of his nose as if to manually stifle the snorts of frustration. His hand collapsed away and he leaned back slowly, his posture straightening as his expression turned from fiery anger to cold distaste. "Yes please," he said and with that the bartender waddled off, laughing himself into a coma. Irritated and now impatient, Cen was ready to finish the conversation hastily. "I need transport to Coruscant. I need somebody who won't ask questions and who can weave through Sith space without getting me killed."

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

The secrecy of the mission was a bit surprising, but then again Usa'ar had run into these situations before. "Coruscant. Yeah, I can do that. Give me the rest of the day to plan the route and gather my things, then meet me in Hangar 117 tomorrow morning." Usa'ar rose from the barstool and slid his cup to the bartender and laid down a few credits.
"I'm sure it will be a pleasure working with you, Mr. Tessek." Usa'ar smiled and reached out his hand to Cen.
This would be interesting, Usa'ar thought. He generally tried to avoid any galactic warfare, but this might be the spice of variety in his life that'd make a great adventure, one that he could tell his dad back home and make him jealous about.

 

[Cen Tessek]

Why now, out of all the days he had been breathing, out of all the days he had walked this graveyard of a planet, the day he would be free from it all? It was as if the regret had acted as a catalyst for sorrow and grim, radical philosophy, conjuring it through a raging inferno of wild thought that burnt through the process of communication, rendering Cen mute and silent. "Usa'ar Obath, I'm certain it will be quite the pleasure," he forced himself to comment after a long pause. He was acting wholly suspicious, this he was well aware of, but there was some cases of emotion in this world, those banging their tin cups fervently along the walls of iron bars that compose the prison of psyche, that could simply not be freed.

"What kind of vessel do you have, I wonder?" he slowly choked out. He was desperate for a subject change, one that would release the choking pain that clawed at his throat. It was certainly sorrow, tossed into a swirling pool of guilt that created this vicarious potion of pain with the seemingly vicious intent of beating him away methodically until he crumpled and begged for release. He had no intent on such an occurrence and continued with a stoney tone of voice, lest he would fall forward and begin to weep under the mental pressure and exhaustion. "I hope it isn't some, say, Clone Wars-era vessel, right?" he laughed pungently, his hardened expression betraying the sheer insincerity of his humor.

"Heh, I'm certain you've got something with a bit more bark than bite," he concluded, turning away to sip at his water. The condensation that softly clouded the external bulk of the hefty cup kissed his hot fingers as he gripped along the perimeter of the mug, teasing him for the drink to come. He raised it to his lips, anticipating the brief taste of coolness that would wash over his parched tongue, then cease to exist, left behind only as a memory. It would be left behind only as a memory. He choked up slightly, but was quickly to play it off as a simple coughing fit before he lowered his drink back to the bar to once more gather dew atop the table.

"The, uh... The Sith, could you imagine it? Us, a moisture farmer and a starpilot, from out of the Wild Space, dodging the most advanced military technology ever to ascend to the dark heavens of the Galaxy! The look on their faces would be priceless."

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

Usa'ar frowned for a moment at the Clone Wars era ship comment, but quickly hid it. He'd taken a lot of flak for his starfighter throughout the years, and only a handful of opportunities to prove how fast and maneuverable it actually was.
"All you need to know is that my baby can get you anywhere you need, and with my modifications, we shouldn't even be noticed." Usa'ar gave a grin. "Yeah, nothing will get in the way of your trip. You could fall asleep the whole way there. Well, I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow, Mr. Tessek." Usa'ar glanced to his side at a slobbering alien trudged by, leaving a long strand of drool on his arm.
"Disgusting. This was custom-made." Usa'ar reached out his leg and tripped the bumbling creature, sending it sprawling on the floor. He then nonchalantly walked away to the door, whistling a childhood rhyme.

 

[Cen Tessek]

Cen raised his hand in a small, friendly wave of goodbye. It was a wave of goodbye. He choked up once more in distress, yet lacked the power to subdue it. He keeled over the bar with eyes tightly squinted shut and once more earned the attention of the uncultured bartender. Yet, for this one moment, the large creature no sneering remarks; it only gathered a thin bottle of pale alcohol and presented it before him on the bar. "On the house," it said placidly before wandering off into the decrepit wall of metal contraptions that backed the behind of the bar. Effectively, he had stepped out of his life and had left the drink as his sole vestige. It was his sole vestige. Cen scooped up the drink and lowered it gently into the snug embrace of his belt, polishing the smooth surface lovingly before he departed from his bench.

It was yet another remnant of the past.

He paused to eye the alien lounging on the floor contentedly and solemn, as if excepting his existence forevermore as a mere floor-crawling bottom-feeder following the brief and uneventful descent, courtesy of Usa'ar. A trail of drool pooled beneath his hairy, blushed cheek and his mouth muttered the unintelligible language of the drunk and depraved. Cen stepped over it; his hand gently planted itself over the glass neck of the flask, wishing to avoid the leeching grasp of the drunk in their everlasting intent to further imbibe in hooch. In his worrisome toil, however, he failed to recognize the faint tug of his belt, and the somber snap as his satchel of credits was cut free.

He wandered into the petty streets of lost travelers and fools, feeling in company with his ilk. The sweat began to bead along his blue forehead, dripping down over his pale, opaque eye, stinging softly as it swam over the blind, pink surface. His scar itched as the wailing walls of sand blew about him, fluttering scraps of paper and cloth about as it whirled wildly about the spaceport town of Mos Eisley, and in the distance, he could have sworn he saw the phantom of a milky cloak, tattered and worn, flying freely about in the dusty-colored distance.

He pursed his lips somberly and crumpled his brow; it seemed that the ghosts would only haunt him further tonight.

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

"NO!" Usa'ar awoke the next morning with a start, panting. He had had a terrible nightmare about Sith and chaos and destruction. He didn't want to be caught up in that. He slowly collected himself. He checked a nearby end table for the clock. 15 minutes until he had to be at the hangar for the transport of the odd Chiss. Usa'ar arose and dressed in his custom light armor and slid his helmet on. He gathered his few belongings, including his coveted DC-17 blaster pistol, and set out for Hangar 117. The wind whipped him a few minutes later as he entered the hangar and saw his beloved ARC-170 resting there.

 

[Cen Tessek]

Karr Dalmos motioned pointedly towards the gaping gorge before them, his black, billowing cloak wildly sweeping about as a vast blast of stuffy air whistled past them with the force of a proton torpedo. "Here we are," he said with finality, once more through that distortional vocoder box planted firmly about the mouth of his black mask with its red visor gleaming evilly in the hot glint of the twin morning suns. The gorge had no obvious depth to it; it simply descended into hot darkness, rimmed by heavy desert vines and sharp, twisting rocks of obsidian and other volcanic glasses.

Cen twisted his gaze haughtily towards his teacher, "And you think this kind of crap will still be a challenge to me?"

"I want you to jump."

"Yes, and I repeat, the challenge in that?"

"The krayt dragon."

"Krayt dragon?"

"Krayt dragon."

Cen blinked in disbelief, slowly turning to face the full front of his shadowy mentor with the full bulk of his muscle, as if to express the fear that even one such as himself could muster in the face of such a harrowing obstacle. "You want me, a moisture farmer, to jump into a krayt dragon lair?"

"Yes."

"And why the hell would I do that?"

Karr froze stiffly for a moment and in natural reaction, so too did Cen. It was in these moments that Karr would often express unfathomable rage towards his pupil and, as a result, Cen would often experience the physical brunt of this outburst with a whipping like none other. This time, however, it seemed that he was in for a surprise. "I'll show you my face," said Karr sternly.

"E-Excuse me?"

"I said I'll show you my face, provided you jump in and survive."

There was a brief pause for thought, no, it was more like the minute moment for the body to calculate a response based solely upon the purest of instinct. There was this moment, long and quiet enough to listen to the short-lived whistle of the desert's sandy breeze before Cen stepped back to the cavernous cleft and descended into darkness. There was the rush of the rotten breath of the depths, the stagnant wind of the underworld, and then the underbelly swallowed him whole into darkness with visceral gluttony.

It was like this he awoke with a piercing flash of white hot pain in his head. The bottle of alcohol, now empty, lain out, shattered, by his booted feet, glistening sharply across the desolate hanger floor. He was splayed out beyond the ARC-170, atop a burlap sack of dried roots and herbs. He was experiencing a rather intense hangover, attributed to his light weighted-ness. "A buh?" he sputtered heavily, drearily raising his head to state at the pilot-intruder. "Muah, I've been waiting here... all night. Is t-that thing alright? Can it even..." He seemed to lose train of thought, until he shouted in completion, "FLY?"

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

"An early riser, aren't you?" Usa'ar said as he eyed the bleary-eyed Cen. And you don't worry. She's gotten me through more than you know." Usa'ar immediately climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and hopprd in the pilot's seat. He began pressing several buttons and levers.
"Just gotta do the preflight systems check and we're good to go. S5, fire up the primary launch phase." He commanded his personal astromech. Usa'ar noted Cen's cautiousness. "Come on, she's perfectly safe. Hop in the navigator's seat and we'll be off."

 

[Cen Tessek]

Cen initially groaned in response. This had been his first time tasting an alcoholic beverage and it would be unlikely that he would ever indulge in one again. His appreciation of the bartender's gesture would now be marred, wrongfully so, bu his regret-inherent lack of self-control. Through the initial dream he had felt his heart throb with woe. It was a day that would live with him forever, the harbinger of both a beginning an end. It was creation and destruction, a romantic ideal trapped within the confines of reality. He recalled the removal of that dark mask, a symbol of mystery that had shrouded so much, and with such ease it had shifted away, as if turned into smoke. Karr had-

"Come on, she's perfectly safe. Hop in the navigator's seat and we'll be off," interrupted the pilot, shattering the process of thought that, up until now, had currently been clinking about like clockwork in the recesses of Cen's consciousness. Snorting in unspoken frustration, Cen rose gently to his feet, stumbling awkwardly with the initial jolt of failing balance. It was as if the grey matter dedicated to his sense of balance had leaked out through the thin trails of spittle that flowed stickily from the corners of his cracked lips in the midst of his deep, drunken slumber.

He approached the antique craft with hesitation, his calloused hands sliding across the deep, hot radiator sinks that trailed along the outer fins before he advanced upon the left-most retro-thruster. The massive cylinders flanked the craft's body horizontally, providing the expulsion of the fusion emission from the engine to propel the craft forward. Initially it had been state-of-the-art, the forward shielding reduced air resistance and dramatically increased the speed of the gunboat. Now, it was an obsolete machine, and Cen's hands began to have a ethereal tingle, perhaps with the imaginary sense of time travel, as they traced over the hulking breadth of the ancient beast before him.

He suddenly had the urge to vomit and, naturally, keeled over to retch. Yet nothing flowed forth, earning him the mixed senses of relief and disgust. With a mysteriously coppery taste flooding his mouth, Cen scaled up along the edge of the titanic thruster and gently pulled himself into the unlocked cockpit. The navigator's station was thick and crowded with wires and digitalized panels, and as Cen lowered himself beneath the unhinged glass shielding he found himself tangled within the nest of technology. "Clone Wars-era, why were they so insistent on the complexities? Do we need to go get some guy to manually crank up the engines while we're here? Is the hyperdrive powered by some womp rat running on a wheel?"

Through his frustration, his trouble had inadvertently vanished, shrouded behind a layer of sarcasm and disdain. He tapped a small comlink, directly presented on the glass dashboard in front of him, snuggly tucked between the plates and blooming forth upon a stiff, flexible wire like some technological lily. "These cockpits aren't directly connected, save for the awning. Can you hear me back here?" He was replied to, initially, by the wooshing of the canopy pistons expelling compressed air as it gently closed around him and sealed him within the pressurized vacuum. "Hey can your astromech even here me? We don't even have a tail-gunner operator!"

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

Usa'ar laughed at Cen's distress.
"Yeah, I can hear ya. And I've already got a tail gunner. You think all my astromech does is start the fighter? Nah, he's got better accuracy than most sentient beings." He pressed a few more buttons, notified the tower of their leaving, and spoke in the headset. "This is your captain speaking. Please keep all limbs inside the vehicle at all times. And please, don't disturb the womp rat, or we'll lose all power." Usa'ar laughed as he slowly pushed the accelerator and nudged the fighter upward, increasing speed until Mos Eisley faded to a shimmering speck in the endless desert of Tattooine.

 

[Cen Tessek]

[member="Usa'ar Obath"]

It took all of Cen's willpower to prevent himself from plastering his face to the glass. He watched in awe as the landscape steadily began to slip away, his mouth once more unintentionally falling slack. Amazing, he thought, it was the first time he had left the planet before. Steadily, the realization struck him that this could easily be the last time he would ever see it. No, he did not miss the planet itself, all those Tusken Raiders and Jawas could rot in Hell for all he cared, but the family he left behind was certainly on his mind. He brushed a hand against the glass, watching his past life slip away like water through his fingers.

Then he turned away, swallowing his spittle and inhaling sharply. "Alright, alright, let's get this antique monstrosity going already! You're getting paid, aren't you?" With that, he patted his belt, and he felt his heart rise up his throat like Venus from the sea foam. The pouch with the credits were gone. He said nothing, only offering a nervous laugh as he attempted to subdue the looming panic attack. "Yep, yeah. Seven THOUSAND credits."

Holy fething Sith, he thought quietly to himself. He could only clasp his hands together in deep thought, his thumbs twiddling at mach 9 as beads of sweat formed on his forhead. Shab, chit, fark, feth, crink, and krong, he continued, his thoughts seeming to boil and froth madly in the recesses of his conscience. Just play it cool, I'll think of something.

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

"You good back there?" Usa'ar asked Cen. He thought he heard Cen mumble something after mentioning the payment, but he hadn't been speaking into his com directly. "Don't worry about the up front payment right now, just give it to me at our first stop. We can't get all that way without refueling." Usa'ar then focused on keeping the old ship steady against the turbulence as they pushed against gravity, lifting the ship through the atmospheric levels until with a lurch they broke free and were in space.
"That your first takeoff? Spectacular, isn't it? And a bit nauseating, too." Usa'ar chuckled to himself and started entering in the coordinates for the first jump to light speed.

 

[Cen Tessek]

[member="Usa'ar Obath"]

Cen nearly threw up at the mention of fuel. "O-ho, yeah this is my first take off," he forced himself to say. "Yeah, I'm feeling a bit woozy back here but I think it will, uh, settle down as time goes by." He forced his thoughts away, instead returning to the steady gaze of the planet below. It was dusty looking too, just like everything on it, a thought which made Tessek smile a bit, alleviating his worries for a brief second until he had also promised to pay for the fuel. If I make it out of this I swear I'll convert to the light, he swore in silence.

Rapping his fingers impatiently across the board of the navigation panel he leaned forward, speaking heavily into the comm, "So is there anything I need to manage while I'm in the navigation seat?"

 

[Usa'ar Obath]

"Usually my 'mech and I do all the course plotting and technical stuff, but I might as well put you to work. Pull up the galactic map and pick a planet below that big warzone that we can refuel at. A civilized one, preferably. Let's see if you've got good intuition, even if you are a farmer." Usa'ar smiled, sure that Cen would pick some freezing wasteland or scorching volcano planet. Getting near the warzone was the easy part. After that, though... That he would have to pull a few tricks up his sleeve to get by the sith and the Republic authorities.
He turned his attention back to Cen. "Find a good location?"