punchsmith
Private Eye in the Sky
[member="Azula Yeshevsky"]
In Orbit: Brokellia
The ship gave Dev claustrophobia. And when he felt claustrophobic, he needed to act.
LM-22 rolled in a delicate holding pattern in the narrow hallway just between the hygiene pod and the autochef station. She was waiting for her master's dinner to complete production, while Dev was powering through a three set, 15-rep pull-up routine. Each rep equalled one pained grunt, and each grunt caused Ellem to wince on her ball axis. He installed the bar and a health diagnostics system across from his bunk in the narrow ship. The railroad layout of Skystar's Honor, a trusty but vastly outdated heirloom from years gone by, was ill-fitting to his wide musculature.
Or rather that is what Dev told himself as means of deflection. The truth was this ship, this new home, paled in comparison to the floating city that was his original home for the past 32 years. Space travel was not his strong suit because he hadn't done any. He never left Bespin. He barely left Cloud City -- in life, and in the case of his escape from the First Order and the political machinations that felled his family's company.
The clear solution was to tire himself out with exercise and medical-grade Marcan herb, the strain so-called "Dagobah Green". Dev did not pull this off a perp in his last days as Sergeant for the CCPD. No, he bought it off Nora, his grandmother. After relocating her to a safe haven on Chandrilla, Nora entrusted her grandson with Ellem and the Honor. And also a wooden box containing about an ounce of Marcan, "to take the edge off". She was always worried about Dev's rigidity.
"We're descended of loose morals," she'd say. "and you're wound tighter than a gasan drum."
It hurt Dev's heart to leave Nora, but it was her insistence. She had contacts on the planet, people who made too much money off Bexel Mining Co. to sit still for their downfall. Good people, it seemed. And so after a brief interlude with his grandmother, whereby she showed him hyperdrive controls and tried not to bore him with talk of compressors and thermal valves, he set her to safety.
There was still no word on where the rest of his family was, but Dev knew not to concern himself. For now, the Bexels were scattered throughout the galaxy. They existed as whispers. For their sake, the name was just a rumor. For his sake, he'd keep clear out of First Order territory. Many officers and soldiers died trying to kill Dev Bexel, and the same would happen to whomever wanted to try again.
The new experience of artificial gravity made him feel awkward and clumsy. In fact, Dev was afraid of setting foot on solid land for fear that the actual gravity would either crush him or stretch him. Chandrilla was a welcome relief. Still, he did not know whether it was advantageous to continue to maintain his muscle mass, but activity was his only solution. It kept him moving. He could not stop, lest he consider the blood on his hands.
Ellem rolled to Dev with a protein shake, made from the auto-chef. He regarded the droid's sense of duty as he bent the straw to meet his lips.
"Thank you my friend," he said amidst the first sip of long-expired nutrients. "Oh wow that's awful."
That was all one word. Dev spat the expired swill onto the floor, as there was no time for him to endure further discomfort and look for a receptacle. Ellem jumped into action, clawing at a low shelf for any old rag. Dev held a hand out to stop her.
"I'll clean. Just tell me what we're orbiting."
Ellem's head rotated 180 degrees as she strolled forward to the skinny cockpit. Dev got onto his knees and sopped up the mess as Ellem's coos and whirs echoed out to him.
"Brokellia? No, that's not right, we're supposed to be in the Corellia System."
Ellem chirped with insistence that they were and nothing had gone horribly wrong. He was entrusted to return his grandfather Jo's ashes to Corellia. What was he to do now? Go halfsies?
"I don't know -- pick one of the halves," he threw the rag into a bin and stalked to the cockpit. "Let's set her down at the nearest port - here," he pointed.
Great. Another anomaly of a planet for Dev. He smirked at the HUD while Ellem did the work. Back to the bunk area, Dev threw on his shirt and jacket. His gunbelt hung on a hook near the landing hatch. Both guns were heavily antiquated and overworked from his escape. They were in need of repairs or a long vacation down a trash chute. Any sign of trouble, he was going to have to make his shots count or rely on his vibrojack.
As the landing gear vibrated under his feet, Dev saw fit to grab the capsule containing Jo's ashes. He stashed it in his slanted breast pocket. The Honor spun in a slow twirl to landing in a nondescript docking bay.
"Good?" he asked to Ellem, who bounced her head down and up as an affirmative. "Stay here. Make sure we're locked tight."
Losing the ship would be heartbreaking, but losing Ellem would be losing another family member. Dev cleared his throat and straightened his posture as the landing hatch lowered. This was for no one but his own self-respect that he look sharp upon the return to his ancestral home.
Well... half.
In Orbit: Brokellia
The ship gave Dev claustrophobia. And when he felt claustrophobic, he needed to act.
LM-22 rolled in a delicate holding pattern in the narrow hallway just between the hygiene pod and the autochef station. She was waiting for her master's dinner to complete production, while Dev was powering through a three set, 15-rep pull-up routine. Each rep equalled one pained grunt, and each grunt caused Ellem to wince on her ball axis. He installed the bar and a health diagnostics system across from his bunk in the narrow ship. The railroad layout of Skystar's Honor, a trusty but vastly outdated heirloom from years gone by, was ill-fitting to his wide musculature.
Or rather that is what Dev told himself as means of deflection. The truth was this ship, this new home, paled in comparison to the floating city that was his original home for the past 32 years. Space travel was not his strong suit because he hadn't done any. He never left Bespin. He barely left Cloud City -- in life, and in the case of his escape from the First Order and the political machinations that felled his family's company.
The clear solution was to tire himself out with exercise and medical-grade Marcan herb, the strain so-called "Dagobah Green". Dev did not pull this off a perp in his last days as Sergeant for the CCPD. No, he bought it off Nora, his grandmother. After relocating her to a safe haven on Chandrilla, Nora entrusted her grandson with Ellem and the Honor. And also a wooden box containing about an ounce of Marcan, "to take the edge off". She was always worried about Dev's rigidity.
"We're descended of loose morals," she'd say. "and you're wound tighter than a gasan drum."
It hurt Dev's heart to leave Nora, but it was her insistence. She had contacts on the planet, people who made too much money off Bexel Mining Co. to sit still for their downfall. Good people, it seemed. And so after a brief interlude with his grandmother, whereby she showed him hyperdrive controls and tried not to bore him with talk of compressors and thermal valves, he set her to safety.
There was still no word on where the rest of his family was, but Dev knew not to concern himself. For now, the Bexels were scattered throughout the galaxy. They existed as whispers. For their sake, the name was just a rumor. For his sake, he'd keep clear out of First Order territory. Many officers and soldiers died trying to kill Dev Bexel, and the same would happen to whomever wanted to try again.
The new experience of artificial gravity made him feel awkward and clumsy. In fact, Dev was afraid of setting foot on solid land for fear that the actual gravity would either crush him or stretch him. Chandrilla was a welcome relief. Still, he did not know whether it was advantageous to continue to maintain his muscle mass, but activity was his only solution. It kept him moving. He could not stop, lest he consider the blood on his hands.
Ellem rolled to Dev with a protein shake, made from the auto-chef. He regarded the droid's sense of duty as he bent the straw to meet his lips.
"Thank you my friend," he said amidst the first sip of long-expired nutrients. "Oh wow that's awful."
That was all one word. Dev spat the expired swill onto the floor, as there was no time for him to endure further discomfort and look for a receptacle. Ellem jumped into action, clawing at a low shelf for any old rag. Dev held a hand out to stop her.
"I'll clean. Just tell me what we're orbiting."
Ellem's head rotated 180 degrees as she strolled forward to the skinny cockpit. Dev got onto his knees and sopped up the mess as Ellem's coos and whirs echoed out to him.
"Brokellia? No, that's not right, we're supposed to be in the Corellia System."
Ellem chirped with insistence that they were and nothing had gone horribly wrong. He was entrusted to return his grandfather Jo's ashes to Corellia. What was he to do now? Go halfsies?
"I don't know -- pick one of the halves," he threw the rag into a bin and stalked to the cockpit. "Let's set her down at the nearest port - here," he pointed.
Great. Another anomaly of a planet for Dev. He smirked at the HUD while Ellem did the work. Back to the bunk area, Dev threw on his shirt and jacket. His gunbelt hung on a hook near the landing hatch. Both guns were heavily antiquated and overworked from his escape. They were in need of repairs or a long vacation down a trash chute. Any sign of trouble, he was going to have to make his shots count or rely on his vibrojack.
As the landing gear vibrated under his feet, Dev saw fit to grab the capsule containing Jo's ashes. He stashed it in his slanted breast pocket. The Honor spun in a slow twirl to landing in a nondescript docking bay.
"Good?" he asked to Ellem, who bounced her head down and up as an affirmative. "Stay here. Make sure we're locked tight."
Losing the ship would be heartbreaking, but losing Ellem would be losing another family member. Dev cleared his throat and straightened his posture as the landing hatch lowered. This was for no one but his own self-respect that he look sharp upon the return to his ancestral home.
Well... half.
