soft epilogue
Where were they going? Had he not heard her entire plan?
No. It had been an internal dialogue to keep her focused and distracted from the coercians of sellers, packing of weapons, clanking of bionics and all other cacophonous and overwhelming noise en route back to the ship through the bazaar.
“Oh, right.” Loske evidenced a loopy grin, her train of thought had continued on an internal track and she’d forgotten to say out loud what her idea was. That thought was funny to her, apparently and she tittered a bit while crossing through the ship to the cockpit. The ship was starting to warm up, and finding the navicomputer in the system didn’t take too long. She beep-booped through the requirements to setting their trajectory, sitting on the edge of the seat pilot’s with the box on her lap. She wasn’t sure if the co-pilot’s chair could control the systems or not.
“Kiffu -- my plan is Kiffu. There’s a Jedi Master there who’s really good at Art of The Small. It’s a practice where you can rearrange molecules to recreate new substances or states. I can do it in little spurts, and really only on myself, but if she can teach me, and I can get it down pat well enough, we can make this little vile go a long way.
I’ve put in some codes that’ll let us go straight through unencumbered by CIS patrols.” Even though the last time she’d visited had been unsettling and awkward, she’d come away with an open door invitation and regal ID. At least that way the Sheyf and Guardians would know she’s coming. “I think. Might want to check them. They should be uh..Frank. You do it.”
Frank rolled up to her and produced a plastic bulb filled with water. “Thanks.” Loske offered, a little sheepishly, and took hearty sips. Meanwhile, the astromech made a binary huffing sound and reviewed what Loske had input to the system and made corrections to the first five digits.
“Heh.”
With some sense, the kiffar maneuvered from the pilot’s seat to let him take care of takeoff. It wasn’t as graceful as she would have been sober, and ended up flopping into the co-pilot’s seat. Her motor skills were basically at the level you’d expect after someone had three or four bantha blasters. “Yeah, I’m -- no. Maybe? Maybe in a bit. That little den was riddled with spice, and I am nottt built for that.” Her tone was more animated than usual, gestures accompanying most of what she was saying. Her thumb lined the box, which was still fluctuating with wavy lines around its perimeter, making it difficult to visually assess how big it actually was. “You were great out there, by the way. Really in your element.”
At that admittance, she narrowed her eyes in pensive recollection, levelled at Maynard Treicolt . “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk.”
No. It had been an internal dialogue to keep her focused and distracted from the coercians of sellers, packing of weapons, clanking of bionics and all other cacophonous and overwhelming noise en route back to the ship through the bazaar.
“Oh, right.” Loske evidenced a loopy grin, her train of thought had continued on an internal track and she’d forgotten to say out loud what her idea was. That thought was funny to her, apparently and she tittered a bit while crossing through the ship to the cockpit. The ship was starting to warm up, and finding the navicomputer in the system didn’t take too long. She beep-booped through the requirements to setting their trajectory, sitting on the edge of the seat pilot’s with the box on her lap. She wasn’t sure if the co-pilot’s chair could control the systems or not.
“Kiffu -- my plan is Kiffu. There’s a Jedi Master there who’s really good at Art of The Small. It’s a practice where you can rearrange molecules to recreate new substances or states. I can do it in little spurts, and really only on myself, but if she can teach me, and I can get it down pat well enough, we can make this little vile go a long way.
I’ve put in some codes that’ll let us go straight through unencumbered by CIS patrols.” Even though the last time she’d visited had been unsettling and awkward, she’d come away with an open door invitation and regal ID. At least that way the Sheyf and Guardians would know she’s coming. “I think. Might want to check them. They should be uh..Frank. You do it.”
Frank rolled up to her and produced a plastic bulb filled with water. “Thanks.” Loske offered, a little sheepishly, and took hearty sips. Meanwhile, the astromech made a binary huffing sound and reviewed what Loske had input to the system and made corrections to the first five digits.
“Heh.”
With some sense, the kiffar maneuvered from the pilot’s seat to let him take care of takeoff. It wasn’t as graceful as she would have been sober, and ended up flopping into the co-pilot’s seat. Her motor skills were basically at the level you’d expect after someone had three or four bantha blasters. “Yeah, I’m -- no. Maybe? Maybe in a bit. That little den was riddled with spice, and I am nottt built for that.” Her tone was more animated than usual, gestures accompanying most of what she was saying. Her thumb lined the box, which was still fluctuating with wavy lines around its perimeter, making it difficult to visually assess how big it actually was. “You were great out there, by the way. Really in your element.”
At that admittance, she narrowed her eyes in pensive recollection, levelled at Maynard Treicolt . “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk.”