Log:Jedi: The Archaeologist's Plight
Is a down-on-his-luck archaeologist rescued by happenstance or has the Force guided his path to collide with a young padawan trying to solve the mysteries of Luke Skywalker's journals?
OOC Date: September 9, 2024
Location: Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Bryett Cordair, Lira'una, Qutha Buvu Pah
Nar Shaddaa.
Ugh. Is there a more morally bankrupt place in the entire galaxy to find one's self?
Okay, sure, sure. It could *always* be worse. He could actually be down on Nal Hutta itself, trying to cut deals with some slimey Hutt. So really, he probably shouldn't complain. At least he hasn't fallen quite *that* far just yet.
Still, given his current trajectory, it is a little hard not to imagine that it is only a matter of time.
Sure, this particular moon might not have been his first choice to visit. Hell, it isn't even in his top hundred, top thousand. But it does come with certain undeniable advantages, he has to give it that. The sheer mass of people crowded onto the moon makes it a lot easier to fade into the background then some out of the way, backwater world. And whenever there are people, wherever there is money, there is opportunity too.
And right at the moment Bryett Cordair could use a good opportunity or two.
That, of course, might require his luck to change first of course. One thing at a time, he supposes.
The first thing he had better do is find somewhere to bunk down. Preferably somewhere... economical. The trip in on the public shuttle hasn't exactly drained his reserves, but the dusty haired man isn't exactly flush with cash either. And it probably shows, from his well worn clothes to the battered duffle that is slung over one shoulder, the strap lashed across the beaten flight jacket that drapes over him.
Walking along the street, he casts a wary eye towards some of the locals that pass by -- those furtive looks returned, studying him in turn. Yeah, it definitely does not do to look like some wet-behind-the-ears tourist or starliner passanger on a layover. That's a good way to get robbed, beaten or worse. He definitely needs to fidn somewhere to ditch this bag -- and what little remains of his belongings.
On the bright side, this is probably about the last place in the galaxy that his previous business partners are likely to find him. Talk about trying to find a kyber crystal on Jakku.
He is, perhaps ironically, holding that thought firmly in mind as he strolls past the mouth of the alley right outside the local cantina, focused on those out on the street. Which might be why he doesn't even get a hint of that big, strong hand reaching out of the thicker shadows that envelop that narrow passage, practically jerking him off his feet and pinning him up against the grimey wall of the alley.
A startled yelp starts to escape him, the protest that instinctively comes to his lips dying as a thick, beefy forearm is planted firmly across his throat, leaving him dangling with just the tips of his toes touching the rusted grating underfoot. The squat, lizard-like Barabel that holds him pinned there offers an unpleasant smile, every last one of those sharp teeth on display. Leaning in closer, it looks very much for a moment as if the burly thug fully intends to take a bite right out of Bryett's face.
"Now don't be hasty Vangar. We wouldn't want to damage such an esteemed scholar now would we?" comes the silibant words of a lean, whiplike human male, dark hair bound back in an elaborate topknot. "Especially one that we are in business with. You do remember our business, don't you, Mr. Cordair? You were going to make us all rich with that expedition to Dadealus Five. And yet here you are and you seem to have forgotten your old friends Vangar and Kesh," he says, emphasizing those words by slowly pulling out a knife, the finely honed edge of the vibro weapon beginning to hum lowly as the man activates it.
"You owe us a great deal of money Bryett," the man continues. "And if you don't have it, I'm just going to have to carve it out of your hide," he says.
Pinned to the wall, barely able to catch a breath much less retort, Bryett can't help but start to flail, to seek some purchase, some means of escape. And as he lashes out, his fist strikes a nearby pipe, a loud clang reverberating down the alley.
Salvation? Unlikely. No one with an ounce of sense is about to investigate strage noises. Not on this moon.
Nar Shaddaa.
Ugh is right.
Still, this is where Lira'una was born, even if it wasn't precisely where she was raised. It is where she's called 'home,' for the last couple of years, though, if such a thing as 'home' even exists, anymore. It used to be whereever her family was, but now?
Well... maybe home is an overrated concept. The Force has guided her path back to Nar Shaddaa yet again, and so here she is, walking among the denizens of these shady thoroughfares and alleyways. Despite most of the 'traffic' in the area being air speeders overhead, there's still a decent amount of foot traffic -- mostly only by people who don't mind being mugged or who have a very specific destination in mind.
Lira's the latter.
It appears that some poor man that just got yanked off the street and into an alley is the former. That happens here a lot, especially in Gearhead. There's not much in the way of law down here to keep it from happening. The swoop gangs mostly take care of their own territories, but it's not like they're cops. They just don't like people muscling in on their turf, so you're sort of at the mercy of whatever gang's territory you happen to be in.
These guys were not swoop gangers. She should know. She just dealt with a swoop gang in Ko Hentota last night.
..Well, she didn't really 'deal' with them. Somebody threw a bunch of cryo-ban grenades, and there was a Mandalorian that jumped in. Actually, there hadn't been much for her to do, after all that.
Oh, right! The guy...
She's already wandering that direction, her black cloak obscuring the shape of her body and keeping her face mostly in shadow as the multi-colored white-blue-green BB-droid rolls along beside her, beeping mournfully.
"Relax, Echo.. I'm just going to... go see what's up."
Beep-Doot-BURT.
"Then cool your motivators if you don't want to get involved. Wait for me over there."
One cloaked arm raises, a lavender finger pointing, before returning to the sagging sleeves as the petite figure makes her way soundlessly to that alley.
She's visible to Bryett, certainly, if he's able to pay enough attention to see her. It's hard to make out her features. She's mostly just a five-foot-tall mass of black robe standing right behind the two men that are roughing him up until one of them punches a pipe and threatens to carve whatever he owes them out of his hide.
"Whatever Mr. Cordair owes you," Lira finally speaks up, her pleasant, youthful-sounding voice marking her as a teenage girl even before her lavender hands escape her robe to pull that hood back from her face, "I'm certain violence isn't the answer." Apparently she'd heard enough to pick out a name, at least.
She has a stick in one of her hands. Just a wooden stick, about half-a-meter-long, with a metal few bands along it -- actually Bryett might recognize it as a San-Ni staff, popular on Jedha among practitioners of the martial art Zama-shiwo.
And though she holds it there, she doesn't brandish it threateningly. She simply holds it low in front of her with both of her hands, loosely, like she might casually stand around with a baton or something.
She's maybe twenty years old and five feet tall with lekku that slither out of the neck of her robe to rest against her back.
"You do know this is Krayt territory, right? They don't like people getting shaken down here. You should probably go."
Man, this just really isn't his day.
Come to think of it, his week, month, year and decade haven't really been all that much better when you get right down to it. But at the least for the most part that time hasn't been spent beings held up off the ground by his throat, strangled by an overbearing Barabel while some slimey would-be crimelord casually discusses gutting him.
So all things considered, things are definitely on a bit of a downward trend right at the moment for the legend in his own mind, Bryett Cordair. Really, it's hard to imagine just how things could get much worse.
Then it is like a minor miracle. Something so decidedly improbably as to almost defy expectation, something so unlikely that it makes the dusky-haired man's eyes widen. More so. The lack of oxygen already had them bulging a little bit, but never in his wildest imaginings did he expect that his frantic flailings, his inadvertant striking of that nearby pipe would actually bring anyone crazy enough to actually investigate the scene. To check what was going on. Unless maybe it was some scavanger looking to clean up whatever scraps that they might find.
So it is indeed Bryett that notices that their cozy little trio has unexpectedly become a foursome, that cloaked and hooded figure appearing in the mouth of the alley. Is he saved? Well, he's not about to make any assumptions on that particular score. He has that streak of luck to contend with. It probably means that this is just someone else that he swindled... errr... another former business associate looking for proper recompense for a failed amazing opportunity that he promised but was unable to quite come through with.
As tenuous a situation as he might find himself in, Bryett does indeed take note of the usual stick gripped in the figure's hands. It might be easily dismissed by both, met with an amused smirk or quiet guffaw. In a world of blasters and vibro weapons, who brings a stick to a fight? But for just a moment a surge of impossible hope shoots through Bryett, that unexpected emotion reflected in his eyes -- even while the rest of his face goes an increasingly beet and blood red as he continues to strain to catch a breath under his attacker's assault.
And then that voice sounds. It's pleasant, young sounding... and about the last thing he wants right now. Those hopes are only further dashed when the hood comes down revealing the features of the young Twi'lek woman.
He hasn't brought help at all. He's just brought another innocent victim to share his fate.
Even more unlikely, the young woman actually intercedes, tries to persuade them that they're making a mistake, that they're risking conflict with whatever local swoop gang claims this particular neighborhood. Trying to help in her own way. And there is so damn little he can do.
But that doesn't mean he won't try. That is, just about literally, the least he can do. So he manages to croak out 'Run' in her direction, jerking his head back to the street as best as he can even as he lashes out with a not entirely feeble but only slightly more effective kick towards the alient lizard that holds him pinned, trying to pull his attention back to him.
For a brief moment the pair look alarmed at the unexpected interruption -- it would seem that they are well versed on the ettiquette that goes into disputes on Nar Shaddaa streets -- and then they merely look annoyed when it becomes obvious that this interloper is not, in fact, one of the feared Krayts.
Then even that annoyance turns to amusement as that hood is pulled back and Lira reveals herself, a smirk directed both towards her and towards Bryett. "Well, well, it looks like the oh so esteemed Mr. Cordair has found himself a protector. And she's a cute one too," the human says, turning towards her even as his collegue keeps the battered archaeologist pinned to the wall.
"Let's just say you run along now deary, ya hear? It would be a shame to cut on you anywhere near as fierce as we're about to cut on this here fellow," the man says with a sneak, waving that buzzing weapon in her direction. The smirk disappers in a flash, replaced by a smarl. "Now piss off and mind your own business."
Lira'una doesn't move. Not when both of the men turn to look at her. Not when they smirk or taunt her. Not even when one of them waves that buzzing weapon at her.
She just stands there like someone who didn't understand the danger she was putting herself in.
Oh, she did let those blue eyes of hers wander to Bryett when he managed to croak out a single word, her dark purple lips perhaps even curling, just a bit, at their corners. A smile, ever so slight. It's warm and genuine, almost grateful for his concern, but it shows none of her own.
Then her eyes are back on the two men holding them there.
"Please understand that I'm not going to let you hurt him or me. If you try..."
She hefts her stick up just a little, eyes moving from human to barabel, both of whom dwarf her (though one is even more than the other).
"...I'm going to have to defend us both, and I don't want either of you to get hurt. So please just let him go and go on your way."
Maybe they expected that a simple show of aggression would be enough to run off their unexpected and unwanted observer without a need to do anything more then that. But if that is the case, Kesh and Vangar are destined to be left fairly disappointed it would seem.
Even now her demanor is so calm, so controlled. That would appear to be more then enough to drive Kesh right up the wall, that snarl a mix of anger and exasperation. It's not that he has any particularly issue with killing. But bodies attract attention and while hauling Bryett away shouldn't be much of an issue for his Barabel companion, a second body will almost certainly attract notice, even on the streets of Nar Shaddaa.
And he certainly doesn't want to be carrying her.
"Don't say I didn't give you fair warning. Seems a shame to marr a face like that," Kesh sneers, that vibroblade coming up in front of him as he starts to move towards her, no longer just trying to intimidate, but with the clear intent to injury. "Vangar, incapacitate Mr. Cordair if you would please and join me," he urges.
If anything Bryett's struggles increase despite fighting for air, doing what he can to try and keep the Barabel's attention squarely focused on him. But it is, to put it mildly, a losing battle. each kick that lashes out at the heavily scaled lizard's legs is a little weaker then the one before, a little less effective. His hands claw at the taloned grip around his neck futilely, trying to loosen it, to escape so he can suck in some... well, what passes for oxygen on this rancor's pit of a world.
But it's to no avail. And then Vangar has his turn.
Plucked from the ground entirely, Bryett is jerked up, dangling in the grasp of the powerful alien. Then he is, quite casually, slammed into the grimey wall of the alley, head rocking back and hitting hard. Once, twice, and then a third time, he is left more then a little dazed as he is rather simply, even dismissingly, dropped to fall in a heap on the ground.
Spots fill his gaze, the edges of his sight blackening over, dimming as he tries to force himself to move, to do something. He can see Kesh sliding towards the young woman with that fighter's grace, humming blade held competently in one hand. He can see Vangar turn, start to follow behind and he reaches out, his arms feeling sluggish even as he wraps them around the Barabel's leg...
...only to be rather casually kicked free with a sort of snuffling snort that might pass for amusement, a heavy booted foot grinding down on one of his wrists for emphasis.
But Bryett can barely manage much more then a little yelp, just barely clinging to consciousness as lips again for an almost soundless 'Run' for his would-be protector.
Incapacitate.
They weren't going to kill the man, though every successive blow seems to darken the girl's expression even more. By the time Vangar's turned on her with that blade, she's resigned herself that this is going to devolve to violence. There's a little shake of her head as she takes in a slow breath.
"The Force is with me, and I am with the Force," she says softly, allowing herself to back up enough to give herself room to move, to allow the coming tight to breathe like the currents of the galaxy, trying not to crowd the man who was pinned against the wall. "I fear nothing, for all is as the Force wills it."
Still, she hasn't raised that staff, just watching Vangar stalk towards her with that vibroblade.
In the background, Bryett is taking a pummeling, trying to remain conscious, being dropped to the ground.
And just as the man reaches for Kesh's legs, Vangar lunges with that blade.
Lira'una turns to the side, letting the lunge go past her rather than blocking it. With a twist of her wrists, the piece of wood she's holding splits into three component pieces held together by power couplings, making a staff that isn't exactly rigid, but isn't exactly like nunchaku, either. It hums and glows violently as she turns and swings.. once, twice, three times, each successive attack growing closer to her target, yet each one also missing... and in this game, a miss of an inch is as good as a miss of a mile.
Kesh is next to lunge for her, but the little Twi'lek twirls gracefully out of his way, her black coat floating around her like some kind of dancer's gown. It's heavier than that, but it still moves with her rather than hindering her actions, as if she's done these moves a thousand times before while wearing it. She knows where her body is at all times, and she flips herself easily, gracefully, putting herself between the two men and Bryett's bruised and battered form.
Try as he might, Bryett just isn't able to get his limbs to respond, the stinging pain in his wrist a constant reminder of the toll his intervention has already cost. His vision remains fuzzy, blurred as he does his best to shuffle forward, to try and somehow intervene in what he is sure that is coming.
Abstractly of course, even dazed as he is, even battered, probably suffering a concussion as he is, the down-on-his-luck archaeologist still takes note of the way that she holds that San-Ni, the competence and practiced ease there. But it otherwise just does not register on his addled mind that the fight might not be quite as one sided as he fears and that -- if anything -- his efforts to somehow bodily drag himself into the frey is more likely to prove a hinderance then a help.
But then the dark haired man might have a reason for some pessimism as he watche the human Kesh advance. Already his Barabel ally is coming up to flank with him, the pair clearly used to working as a tandum and making the absolute most of that particular fact.
"If you show the proper appreciation little girl maybe we'll just cut on your face a little rather then slit your throat when we're done," Kesh snarls, showing off his own skills as he rather casually tosses the hilt of that vibro weapon from one hand to another before abruptly lunging for her, that buzzing blade practically cutting through the air...
...and finding nothing at all. Almost comically so. Kesh could have sworn he had her dead to rights, ready to cut down with ease, but by the time he lunges she has already moved, that slicing blow finding nothing but air where he expected lavender flesh. "What that...?" he exclaims in surprise, trying to compensate as quickly as he can, to escape from the vulnerable position that he has put himself in.
That that's the thing about having a partner there to watch your back. There are times that it makes a difference.
Even as the blade-wielding human makes his move, the Barabel Vangar does the same, lunging towards Lira from the other side, relying more on the sheer, brute strength of those scaled lizard-like talons. A powerful fist lashes out and while he doesn't get nearly as much as her as he expects, the alien thug still drops below the defenses offered by her own whirling weapon, catching her in the side with that heavy fist as he gives a roar, looming over the much smaller twi'lek.
And all Bryett can do is look on, watching.
Lira's faster even than any five-foot-tall Twi'lek girl has any right to be. It isn't just that she's fast, though -- it's that she seems to know what's going to happen before it ever happens.
Even as Kesh lunges menacingly with that blade, the space he was aiming for is spontaneously empty. The swirl of black cloth in Lira's wake isn't even lingering, but the San-Ni staff finds its mark on her next swing, sending a *crack* of wood and a jolt of electricity through her target that combine to drive him to the ground, unconscious.
One down.
She was still turning away from that successful blow when Vangar's massive fist drove into her side, and there's a faint sound of thudding impact and cracking rib as she releases a cry of pain she can't seem to help. It staggers her, but it doesn't stop her. She wheels on the barabel, flipping that staff through the air with one hand, noticeably favoring her side, though she doesn't back down from the fight.
Two misses. One more drastic than the other.
But with one of the men out of the fight, she pauses, looking at the barabel.
"I've already taken one of you down," she tells him, drawing in a pained breath. And though there is that obvious pain, there is still no fear in her eyes. "Take him and go. You don't both need to fall here."
His vision might be hazy, his thoughts a jumble, but it is hard for Bryett not to marvel -- just a little -- as Kesh lashes out with blade and the youthful twi'lek woman just isn't there. The downed archaeologist has seen just how deadly the human gangster can be with that blade. In it's own way picturing the young woman's blood spilled over him was almost as painful as the blows he took at the hands of the Barabel.
But instead of that vibroblade finding her, she nimbly sidesteps the attack, slipping aside with almost unnatural grace before cracking him across the back of the neck, the impact and the shock both more then enough to send the man tumbling to the ground, twitching and unconscious, that weapon sprawled from his hand to lay amidst the grime of the narrow passage running down the side of the cantina.
For a moment, despite landing that hit to her side, Vangar looks positively stunned, clearly not having expected his long-time partner to have been dispatched with quite such ease. The offer to retreat, to take his -- if not friend, his long term partner -- and go in peace is a sincere one. But it isn't an offer that the lizard-like Barabel considers for even a moment, those alien features contorting, any uncertainty vanishing behind that mask of rage as he lunges forward once more, bringing both powerful arms up together before sweeping them back down in an overhead smash right towards the annoyingly persistent Twi'lek.
But instead of finding her, it is the Barabel's turn to be set back of his heels, the attempted blow finding nothing but air. Off balance and beady little eyes trying to seek out his prey, he lashes out blindly with that club-like forearm, sweeping it in a wide arc around him as he tries to make contact, tries to drive the most unlikely of threats back and away from him before she can hit him with that silly stick-like weapon.
But again, Vangar finds nothing but air, twisted, contorted, out of position and extremely vulnerable for the looming counter-strike.
Ceasing his efforts to crawl towards the ongoing fight, Bryett just lets himself sink into blessed stillness, both head and wrist still throbbing as he watches with a certain incongruous disbelief as two of the nastier criminal figures he has had the misfortune of dealing with in the past year or so are rather casually dispatched.
Well, 'casually' might be a _little_ bit of a stretch. Taking them both on at the same time, one of them wielding that vibrodagger, was more of a battle than the laver-skinned girl was completely 'comfortable' with, but in times like these, one doesn't really get to choose their opponents.
The rest of the battle, however, once Kesh has been disabled, is much more about testing defenses and looking for opportunities, Lira's focus on making sure she didn't take another blow like that first one. She was still favoring that side, after all.
The two-fisted overhead swing that comes crashing down towards her is met with air as she twists out of the way, flipping backwards easily on one hand as she backs out of range of the blindly swinging arm. As soon as there's an opportunity, that San-Ni staff swings around again, but it connects with hard scales or is batted away each time she tests for an opening, and for a moment that seems to stretch into an hour, it seems like this might might go on forever -- twi'lek and barabel locked into a never-ending brawl. The twi'lek is too fast. The barabel is too strong and durable. Are they an even match?
No..
It's only seconds, in real time, before Lira evades another blow and twists suddenly, bringing the power coupling up underneath Vangar's arm and driving it up into his chest. There's loud electric crackle, and Lira has just enough time to move out of the way of his heavy mass before it hits the ground where she'd been standing.
For a moment, Lira just stands there, breathing heavily -- if wincing a little with each inhale -- and watches to make sure they're both down. Once she's sure, there's a twist of her wrists, and that staff collapses back into itself, a hiss of the couplings deactivating as it becomes nothing more than a stick again.
She slides it back into her robe, hooking it towards her belt as she moves, finally, to the man on the ground, kneeling next to him with a glisten of perspiration on her lavender skin.
"Are you okay?"
Her voice is soft, concerned, almost mothering in its affection. Her lekku curl up around her shoulders, and even as she kneels there, a slow whirring sound fills the air, BB-BB rolling closer across the alley's surface, his domed head and singular black optical sensor rotating quickly between the two of him as he beeps out a series of what sound like questions.
To someone who his likely suffering from a concussion and possibly a damaged wrist, the fight seemed to take a very long time. A surprisingly long time given that Bryett had assumed that the practiced thugs would make relatively short work of the young woman who intervened on his behalf against all odds. The fact that it took mere seconds in the end only makes it that much more impressive really, a fact that registers even on his pain-addled mind as he struggles to at least get back to his hands and knees.
It's not much really, but sometimes you just have to try and find whatever small shreads of dignity that are left available to her.
Then she closes that distance, kneels by him and as that simple but oh so key question.
Is he okay?
A quick glance is enough to pretty much confirm that 'Mr. Cordair' is probably a little less then okay in the grand scheme of things. While he might have made it back to his hands and knees, it is pretty obvious that he is doing just about everything that he can manage to keep any of his weight off that injured wrist. And the glassy look in those dark eyes as he peers at her -- his level of comprehension not entirely certain at first glance -- isn't likely to fill anyone with an ove-rabundance of faith in just how 'okay' he happens to be.
Still, he manages to offer up what he might think is a reassuring smile -- but is probably closer to a pained grimace -- and tries to settle back in a more or less upright position on his knees, sweaying just a little unsteadily. "Just fine and dandy," he manages to rasp out, to his credit his voice only breaking once with the effort. "You're really fast you know. I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite so fast before," he adds with a low whistle and a slow shake of his head. Which almost immediately makes him wince once again.
"Both of them," he breathes, words low, almost mumbles. "With a freakin' Sha-Ni on all things," he adds, the disbelief once more creeping into his voice. He tries to shift again, to get himself up to one knee and ends up leaning heavily against the wall of the alley, the grime that seems to cover everything down here at street-level leaving a smear on his battered jacket.
"Jus' need a minute or so I think," he says, slurring his words just a little. But he forces himself to look at her, to let his gaze find her own, those eyes clearing just alittle. "Thank you," he says lowly, though now less sincerely for that.
Just fine and dandy.
Lira allows a little roll of her eyes and a small shake of her head. "You know what I mean," she mutters, though the cursory look over he gets seem to be devoid of either medical experience or sexual interest. It's the kind of once-over that suggests she's mostly looking for major bones protruding from the skin or a meter-long piece of shrapnel sticking out of something vital. After that, she doesn't exactly seem to attempt or volunteer anything more probing.
Then he's whistling and shaking his head, commenting on her speed, and the girl's lips flatten.
"I used to be in the circus."
It's said with faint humor in her voice, Lira's dark purple lips still curled with warmth that's mirrored in her eyes. She's young, but she's pretty, by Twi'lek standards. Like... really pretty.
Both of them...
"We traveled to a lot of rim worlds." As if a Twi'lek girl traveling the rim and learning how to defend herself completely explained everything that just happened -- including her stepping in on his behalf.
She watches him move slowly, agonized, and her lavender hands come up slightly, barely visible -- they're all but swallowed in those sleeves. It's not _really_ an offer to help. Her hands are there if he needs them, but she doesn't seem to know exactly how to help him. She's so slight of build that it looks like a strong enough gust might blow her away.
"You're welcome," she answers softly, looking back into his eyes. But where someone might expect there to be interest -- romantic or sexual or anything similar that one adult might have for another -- there's only sincere warmth and concern with no ulterior motives. It's like looking into the eyes of a child who only wants to help... a purity that isn't often found on Nar Shaddaa. Not for long, anyway.
"I don't... mean to rush you, but they won't be unconscious for long. The sooner you can walk, the better..."
So, yes, she's rushing him. But she's also not pulling on him... or leaving him behind with the thugs.
"I'm Lira."
Beep-Doop-Beet-Doo.
"...and this is Echo," the girl adds, the droid beside her rolling a little in greeting. "What happened with those guys? Were they trying to mug you?"
Careful, Bryett. She already said his name once, repeating it from their threats. She obviously heard some part of the conversation.
"Hey man y'wanna buy some de....?"
"Hey man, Gimme you cr-..."
"Lookin' for a good t-..."
Voices swirling past on the passage of the man as he wandered Gearhead, he hadn't started so. He remembered a tea house. Then clothing shops near the circus grounds. Or was it memories of the circus grounds?
The passage of the zelosian was a series of voices calling out from the grime and tainted precipitation that pattered over his shoulders and a wide brimmed hat specifically chosen to keep the acid rain from his skin. His steps smooth and dreamlike in one series - then cutting to the side or bursting into a wild trot at the next.
Beggars, solicitors, muggers, knaves, the lot. Some left with credits laid in their hands and others confused with a look or a momentary distraction that carried away their quarry into the deepening gloom of the lower levels. All of it culminating in a moment where his rangy frame is silhouetted by the garish neon, casting shadow across human and twi'lek, with a distant and distracted turn to his facial features.
"Well..." the word coming out 'wail', "Done reckon this aught is why I went out a'walkin'..."
While it might have seemed so at the time, that somehow, impossibly, this slip of a girl managed to escape without any lasting effect despite the skilled bladesman and alien powerhouse that she was up against, it is slowly dawning on Bryett that might not be entirely the case.
Maybe it is the way she holds herself, or maybe some flicker in her eyes -- a glimpse of that pain or flicker of discomfort that is so very hard to suppress when one's ribs have taken a battering. And while the still groggy archaeologist isn't exactly in the best of shape to be hurrying himself anywhere at the moment, he lets a grimace curl the line of his mouth once more, sucking in that grimey, greasey air through his nose as he makes the effort to get back to one knee once more.
Maybe he feels that he owes her the effort, given what she just did for him. Or maybe -- or likely -- the reminder that the pair rendered unconscious by her unlikely stick work are unlikely to remain unconscious for that long. And when they come too it would probably be better for the both of them if they were very far away from here. "You make a pretty compelling argument," he allows, his voice still sounding a little unsteady, though the look of determination etched on his face suggests that he understands the situation all too well. As does the look he shoots towards the downed Barabel and human gangstars that lay sprawled out on that metal grating nearby.
"Well Lira, I'm Bryett. And I would say that I owe you one. A pretty big one," he manages, grimacing as he plants one hand agains that dirty alleyway wall and practically claws himself back to his feet, just barely catching himself before his knees can give out on him again and send him plunging back down to the ground, another dirty smear wiped across the shoulder of his jacket as he leans heavily there. "I'd say it was a pleasure, but, well, you know..." he says with a vague wave in the direction of the two fallen thugs. "Lets leave it with I'm grateful, maybe." he suggests instead.
The question doesn't exactly catch him offguard, but he does have enough good grace to look just a little embarassed. "Mmmm, yeah. These two are former business associates. They invested in one of my ventures and it didn't exactly go the way that they would have liked. Seems that they held something of a grudge about it," he admits.
The kind of grudge that gets one pummelled in the back alleyways of Nar Shaddaa apparently.
Before he can offer any other sort of explanation or assurances that he is fit enough to make his way out of here, another figure appears at the mouth of the alley and despite leaning heavily against that soiled wall at his side, Bryett tries to slip past the Twi'lek gril, to put himself in the way. "Company," he mutters.
It doesn't do much good to linger overlong in this part of town it seems.
On the floor of the alley, almost at their feet, lie two unconscious figures -- a human with a vibrodagger in his limp hand and a barabel. Lira's kneeling in front of Bryett, seeming to tend to him... or at least, what version of 'tending' Lira can manage. Right beside her sits BB-BB, rocking back and forth a little and looking between them with a few idle beeps and boops, like he could pep-talk them both into feeling better.
Bryett definitely the most injured of the two of them, but every time he moves -- and Lira seems to anticipate most of them, her hands shifting as if they existed in a fluid of space-time that subtly moved _with_ him rather than _after_ him -- she winces a little, preparing herself to catch him should he fall.
"_No_ fights are better than one, but I'd much prefer to avoid having the same one over again if we can help it," she muses, voice managing to remain playful after his mention of her compelling argument.
...I owe you one. A pretty big one.
"You owe me nothing except to get better."
She's on her knees, still until he's made it up that wall, and finally she begins to rise herself, her eyes closing with the effort. The adrenaline was wearing off. Worse, her connection to that inner peace that kept her connected to everything around her was... slipping away. She might have been able to keep herself calm, to breathe through the sudden, sharp stab of pain as she started to stand, but instead she cried out softly and reached out to grab the wall, herself.
Her cloak shifts, her lavender midriff bare underneath, and the nasty bruise on her side is already starting to leave a large, discolored blotch that spread out from under her crop top.
"Grateful I'll take," Lira winces, blowing out a breath as she stands and turns, leaning her own back against the wall. Keep breathing. Keep trying to focus.
'I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.' 'I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.' 'I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.'
Her lips move, but no words come out. Not like they had earlier, when she was preparing to fight the men. She's still listening, focusing on the sound of his voice, trying to quiet her mind.
"That... happens a lot around here." The part about business ventures going bad and people holding grudges. It's Nar Shaddaa. People didn't even need grudges to try to kill each other.
But then Bryett's moving, and Lira's concentration snaps again. Instead of reaching out through the Force, she's looking, hoping to catch sight of what he sees, and when he starts to move past her, she reaches out to put a hand on his arm, shaking her head.
"Let me," she whispers.
But she's barely straightened from the wall when her eyes fall on Qutha, widening, her whole expression brightening.
"Qutha!!"
It's not very Jedi-like. Though, maybe she can be forgiven, since it is rather Padawan-like.
She's 'rushing' forward, not with her normally bouncy gait, but with a hand tucked into her cloak against her side. Still, it's a straight path to Qutha's front until she's up against him, pressing her cheek into his chest and hugging him like she hasn't seen him in months.
Relief washes through her, and after a moment, she steps back to look up at him, her lekku twisting once behind her.
"We need to get Bryett somewhere safe." She pauses, looking over her shoulder at him. "Do you have somewhere safe? Close? My ship's just around the corner..."
Then the girl's blue eyes are back on Qutha, again, looking up at him... almost pleading for help.
A small shake of his head, "Aught'll be clear... ye kin git without too much trouble." A hand coming to rest on Lira's shoulder before he takes a step back. Emerald colored eyes sweeping to Bryett and then back down to Lira once more. Expression serene and stepping back, Qutha's hands push back the all weather robe hems so that he can hang his thumbs in his belt, clothing gathering about his wrists.
"Thirty two seconds, step left first. Both of you. Ten steps, two seconds wait, twenty five, four seconds, thirteen. Fifteen second... Then you'll be fine. Trust me."
How? Why? Who knows.
Mr. Pah then simply turns in an almost drunken step, as if his feet weren't under his control and the zelosian is on his way again. Letting his cloak fall closed and tilting his head to shield himself with the hat brim against the rain. Disappearing back into Nar Shaddaas' thronging crowds.
It's a little hard not to get the suspicion that he has fallen in with some very odd individuals and while he might have some pretty good cause to question that at another time, right now Bryett is just grateful that it looks like he is going to live to question anything after this particular evening.
Really, trying to position himself in front of his rescuer is, at best, something of a token gesture. A good, stiff breeze or the backwash of a passing swoop bite could probably put him straight down on his ass once again. But after what she did for him, stepping in, taking on tose two ill-advised associates, and the fact that she got injured doing it to boot, well, not doing what he could just feels wrong.
Of course the smart thing would have been to turn tail and do his best to flee perhaps. Maybe there is a reason his luck stinks. Maybe it isn't so much chance, so much fate as it is a series of bad decisions for which he is reaping his just rewards for stupidity, hmmm?
Bryett would rather not dwell over long on that particular possibility though.
And besides, running away, in the shape he is? That's something of a sucker's bet too when you get right down to it. Who knows, maybe some other minor miracle will present itself. Maybe her BB unit will turn out to be a battle droid in disguise.
None of that proves necessary however, as instead of being immediately confronted with yet another fight, it would appear that his rescuer knows this latest individual. Pretty well as a matter of fact. For a moment, Bryett simply leans there against the wall of the cantina, watching the unlikely pair, giving them their space and instead glancing around, spotting his fallen duffle nearby. With a wince, with a grimace, he takes a careful step and reaching down with his good hand, plucks the strap up into his hand, moving it gingerly over his shoulder and letting it dangle there, the weight -- or lack thereof -- something of a blessing right in this instance, instead of one more sign of his continued misfortune.
Whoever this Qutha is, he seems a cryptic sort of fellow and the battered archaeologist isn't sure if it is his concussion talking or if the words that the man offers up really are that cryptic, but he is left squinting as the figure clears out with only those durtive instructions to guide them. That's weird right? Not normal. It isn't just him, right? Not just the pounding the back of his head took from the barabel and the wall of the alley. He seems to shoot a look towards her as if to confirm, but somehow he is almost certain that she both understands what the strange figure was telling them -- and will fully follow those cryptic instructions.
"You don't really have to worry about me, really. Thanks for all your help but I don't want to put you out. I'm sorry that you got a pounding because of me. If there's anything I can ever do to make up for it, well, I'm not the best favor you could ever be owed, but it's yours none the less," he offers up quietly.
But despite that insistence, he already seems to be ready to fall in with her. Instinct? Curiousity? Or just a desire to be somewhere -- anywhere -- off the street before more predators stumble across them.
"Thirty two seconds, step left first. Both of you. Ten steps, two seconds wait, twenty five, four seconds, thirteen. Fifteen second... Then you'll be fine. Trust me."
The entire time Qutha's saying that, all in his normal drawl, Lira is staring up at him. And while Bryett might look _completely_ lost, the little lavender Twi'lek only looks a _little_ lost. Even if she didn't necessarily seem to understand exactly what he meant, the trust that shows in her face is absolute. That expression shows clearly that she didn't need to understand -- she just needed to do what she was told.
"Thank you."
Her voice is soft, and for all the warmth in her greeting, there's no goodbye. Not one more word exchanged between them before the man is off again and Lira is left to wheel, still holding her side, to face Bryett.
"Come with me."
She wasn't even entertaining the whole don't want to put you out thing, though she does seem to be grateful when he's willing to fall into step with her. She takes his arm gently, careful not to twist it in a way that would hurt him, and slips her wrist though it. It serves a few purposes -- it lets her steer him, it gives him her shoulder to lean against, it lets her lean a little back against him. In the end, it joins them as one unit in this lawless pit, as she turns them to make towards the old rigging district where the public starport is, now.
Then, the two of them are limping towards it. Lira's semi-distracted. Counting quietly.
'...thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two.'
It's like one of those prophecies that can be generalized to anything. They have a path to choose -- right slopes up, left slopes down. She goes left.
'One.. two.. three... ... ten.'
She stops them just long enough for a swoop to come out of nowhere and go racing past in front of them, then she continues walking again.
'One.. two.. three..'
Neither one of them is exactly in the best shape of their lives. Both of them have had something of a rough day so far -- though a gnawing part deep inside of Bryett is willing to concede that -- if he is honest -- only one of them probably deserves the hardship. But between the two of them, leaning against one another a little for support, limping in something resembling tandem, they are at least able to get out of that alley without any further incident.
As he walks beside her, steps occasionally shambling, occasionally shuffling against the pockmarked ground underfoot, a little of that glassy look clears from his eyes. Which is probably a good sign, that the barabel Vargan didn't permanently break something in that brain of his.
It also means that a little of that natural curiousity begins to flow back into those dark eyes. Curiousity that gets directed her way in little, furtive looks, trying to make some sense of the situation he finds himself in. Trying to make some sense of the strange man that has seemingly set their feet on this particular path.
Most of all, curiousity about her perhaps. What kind of person intervenes in a back alley fight in Nar Shaddaa? On behalf of a perfect stranger? And more, takes a not inconsiderable hit to do just that. Then not only insists on sticking around, but helps them get away before more trouble can find them?
Maybe he's overly cynical. Maybe it's just been too long since he has been around very many people capable of showing anything but self interest. But it is all pretty difficult to add up to anything that makes very much sense.
So yeah, Bryett has questions. So many questions. But he bites them back for the moment, staggering along at her side, doing his best to keep a wary eye out even as she continues to mumble out numbers under his breath.
At first he doesn't entirely comprehend just what she's doing. Why she's doing it. But as the strange words offered up by the equally strange man they encountered in the alley come flooding back a certain awareness dawns. They're following instructions.
His brow furrows and he half turns towards her, those questions in danger of spilling out now, regardless of whether or not they're safe yet, regardless of any lingering gratitude he might feel for the asist. But before he can, she continues that count, reaching ten and stopping abruptly, bringing him to a halt as well just as that swoop goes racing past, appearing out of nowhere it seems before vanishing just as quick.
A certain astonishment lights in his eyes and he gives his head a little shake. "How did..." he starts to ask despite himself before firmly biting his tongue.
No, no. It can wait. Strange as it seems, as unbelievable as it seems, these people seem to know what they're doing. So maybe just this once he shouldn't look a gift tauntaun in the mouth.
'..twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.'
This time, it's not nearly as dramatic when she gets to the end of the count. They get to another intersection with speeder traffic moving through it, and Lira comes to a stop.
'One.. two.. three.. four.'
As soon as she hits four, she's moving again. The traffic hasn't even cleared, yet she's tugging Bryett along with her into the moving stream of speeder cars, BB-BB rolling right along behind them and beeping warily.
But as long as they don't stop in the middle, as long as they keep moving, their shuffling pace keeps them perfectly timed between the speeders that zip past, and Lira seems not at all phased by it. She's not even looking. She's counting, even as they're already walking.
'... four.. five.. six..'
They come out of the other side of the traffic unscathed, and the spaceport is just up ahead. It's clearly within sight, and Lira had already mentioned she had a ship. It's very obviously their destination.
'... eleven... twelve... thirteen.'
Once more, Lira comes to a stop. This time, however, it's for seemingly no reason at all. There's no traffic in front of them. There's nothing to block their path. She's just standing there.
'... two.. three.. four..'
Still counting.
This has been one heck of a day.
And it doesn't really feel like it is slowing down anytime soon.
On the bright side, it would seem that he is unlikely to get beaten up again. After watching her take on two of the tougher individuals he has had the misfortune of dealing with in the past year or so, it seems pretty likely that she could thrash him with one -- possibly both -- hands tied behind her back. But why would she go to the trouble of rescuing him from what was sure to be a rather unpleasant fate, just to do that?
No, he doesn't really know this young twi'lek woman, doesn't really understand her and has been left with a list of questions about a click long, but somehow he is relatively sure that he is safe in her hands.
Relatively sure.
As he follows along in her wake, listening with that growing sense of disbelief as she continues to murmur that strange count that seems meaningless on the surface but has proven remarkably accurate so far, some of that certainty is put to the test.
He is a reasonably athletic person. He's not going to win any races or set new standards in manual dexterity, but the life he leads isn't exactly a sedentary one. It takes a certain level of fitness to go crawling around ancient ruins.
But on his best day he isn't very likely to try weaving in amongst speeding traffic. And this is very far from his best day.
"Oh you have got to be kidding me..." Bryett mutters under his breath as it becomes clear that she fully intends for them to step out amongst the speeding vehicles and it takes just about all of his willpower not to try and jerk her back when she starts to do so, to plant his feet firmly on the ground and haul her back to safety. Maybe give her a little bit of a lecture on doing the *sane* thing instead of blindly following some weird instructions from from some even stranger guy -- no matter how well she seemed to know him.
But he doesn't. Maybe it's because she hasn't steered him wrong yet. Maybe it's because the starport is practically close enough to smell the repulsorlift exhaust and the potential safety of her star ship.
Of course safety won't matter very much if they're left a smear on the roadway, so there's that.
But Bryett closes his eyes, steps out into traffic, shuffling along at her side, trying not to cringe each time he feels the rush of air of a speeding vehicle streak by, each time the whine of speeder engines sounds so close that he is sure -- absolutely certain -- that they can't help but hit them.
Then somehow they're through -- and in one piece none the less. Which is... impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. Casting a doubting glance back over his shoulder, Bryett continues to shamble along at her side, mere minutes from safety.
Which, of course is when she stops them again, simply holding them there, practically within sight of her ship with no seeming obstructions. Just... counting.
And while he eyes her with a pointed sidelong glance, this time he doesn't so much as mutter a complaint.
'... seven, eight...'
A massive cargo loader, used to hail huge crates through a magnetic seal system from warehouse facilities to the starport lumbers by overhead, its huge form casting a shadow like an eclipse overhead. Here, on these levels, the only light mostly filters in because of the starport nearby. Frequently, in other areas, there aren't enough places with visible sky to actually see sunlight. Only the acid rain drips through the buildings and catwalks.
'... eleven, twelve...'
Group of three beings, two female and one male, start to pass them, grumbling something about people stopping in the walkways, but Lira stretches her arm out to the side, making a barrier that they can't pass without taking a few extra seconds to go around her.
"Hey, watch it! You want trouble?!" the male gripes when the women seem startled by the sudden gesture.
Lira doesn't answer.
'...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.'
- CRACK*
Overhead, the sound of one of the magnetic locks on the cargo hauler breaks, and a shipping container falls out of the sky, hurtling quickly towards the ground until it SMASHES into to the duracrete sidewalk, embedding itself even as it breaks open and starts to spill out its contents.
It lands exactly where they would have been, had they not stopped walking, of course.
All three of the figures she'd stopped scream in surprise. "We almost died!" one of the females shouts.
"No, you didn't," the lavender girl answers softly, but she has no interest in starting up a conversation. And whatever beef the guy was going to pick with her seems forgotten.
"We're safe the rest of the way," Lira tells Bryett, looking up with him even as she starts to move again, avoiding the crashed cargo container and whatever it was carrying, even as a dozen other beings lunge at it like scavengers ready to pick a corpse clean.
And it's true. The rest of the trip to the starport is entirely without incident. They go through the main landing area, round to the public hangars that keep the ships out of the weather, and eventually find their way to a YT-2000.
"Echo?" Lira prompts. The droid beep-beeps at her side, and the ship's ramp descends to duracrete, providing them a place to board and finally, _finally_ make it out of the public's eye... out of the danger of the Gearhead streets... out of the chances of running into more muggers, swoop gangs, and all the rest.
Inside, it's much like many Corellian vessels. A circular corridor connected to the (central, in this one) cockpit, as well as the bunks, the crew lounge (complete with benches, a holotable, a small kitchen, etc). There are a few droids aboard. Notably, a heavy, humanoid police droid with a rifle is at the top of the ramp, but it doesn't flex at all at their arrival.
"Lira," the droid says, notably lacking the word 'Mistress' that most droids tend to use, "we have a guest?"
"Zee, this is Bryett. Bryett, Zee. Bryett got jumped, and he's going to rest here for a while, until things cool down. Can you close up and keep an eye on things outside to make sure no one followed us?"
That's hard to imagine, though, given the sheer number of perils they avoided, however unlikely.
"We can rest in up in the lounge," Lira says, already slipping that black cloak off of her shoulders to reveal the crop top and leggings underneath that do nothing to hide her midriff or the _very_ angry looking bruise that's spreading out. It'll be even worse tomorrow.
Any impatience that he might feel, to just get on with it already, to get out of sight finally, to take her up on that offer of a safe haven even for just a little bit is only tempered by that strange feeling that he can trust this young woman. That as ridiculous as it might seem to just stand here at the edge of the street, to stare at the starport but not approach, there is probably going to turn out to be a reason for it. No matter how ridiculous that it might seem, no matter how unlikely, there is a reason for them to be sitting here, just waiting for fifteen seconds.
Is there some tiny part of him rooting for their not, in fact, being any point to all of this? That this young woman, the strange man she encountered, that their just a couple of crackpots who go around helping out strangers by saving them from beatings and leading them through the city in freaky ways because they are certifiable? It would certainly make all of this easier. It would answer a lot of those questions playing in the back of his head for him.
But then there is probably a part of him that is kind of rooting for something to happen once those fifteen seconds are up. That little piece of him that listened raptly to stories of adventure and heroes growing up and didn't dream so much at being a part of them so much as uncovering the truth about them. The story behind the story.
That's a part of himself that he hasn't been connected to in a very long time. A part of himself that he has let the galaxy grind away in a lot of ways, day by day. And now given cause for just a spark of life.
So when that small ground comes up behind them, when they try to push past, he isn't embarassed to seemingly be caught daydreaming in the middle of the walkway. He isn't annoyed at their impatience. He's two busy muttering that countdown under his breath too. "...eleven, twelve... give it just a second," he interjects to the angry man, a strange note in his voice. Part anticipation, part disbelief even still. And part hope.
It is a strange situation at this point. Not to be disappointed. Not to end up jerked into a seedy back alley to get a, well, at least partially deserved beating at the hands of some moderately bad men. To instead see that little glimmer of hope rewarded. Because when those fifteen seconds are up there is indeed that crash, that clatter of permacrete cracking, giving way under that heavy load falling from above. And it isn't that Bryett benefits in any real way. He isn't one of those that goes skittering past, out into the road to paw at the fallen containers, trying to pry them open, to get inside and lay claim to whatever might be within.
He just gets to see that there are still truly some mysteries left in the galaxy. Mysteries that he gets to see. Not just to lie about to try and scrape together a few credits.
And that might be the most unbelievable part of it all.
Shaking his head, he falls in beside her once more, that shambling pace perhaps a little lighter afoot though he still shakes his head as they cross with no further obstructions to the starport. "I don't believe it," he mutters to himself.
The starport is exactly what one would expect to see on a moon like this -- one part run down hole, one part gaudy display, with flashing neon signs and any other eye-catching spectacle to try and catch the attention of passersby to whatever happens to be being peddled at the various little shops and stalls that populate the concourse. But Bryett doesn't even have so much as an amused smirk for any of it. No, his sidelong glances are entirely saved for the woman that he still leans against a little, and who leans against him in turn.
Stepping into the docking bay, approaching the ship proper, he lets out a low whistle at the freighter waiting for them within. Not that it is necessarily a particularly amazing example of it's type or anything -- or that he is any sort of authority on modern freighters either -- but after months of largely flying public shuttles, almost anything
So he follows her up the ramp, nodding to Zee -- and maybe casting just a slightly wary look it's way. Less then it would have gotten an hour ago. But then an hour ago he wouldn't have believed he would be following some stranger back to her ship after she saved him from being jumped. Especially some little slip fo a twi'lek. The day has been full of enough surprises to test a whole lot of his assumptions.
Try as he might to hide it, some of that shuffling shamble comes back, that little spike of adrenaline that came with the crosswalk and that little surge of exaltation is giving way to the reality of the situation. That his wrist is throbbing. That his head aches. Heck, his whole damn body aches from being slammed up against the side of the cantina by some overgrown lizard. As curious as he might be about her, about her ship, it takes pretty much everything he has not to immediately go slump down into one of those seats, to try and find some way to just sit where it doesn't hurt.
Of course, she doesn't seem to be in much better shape in truth. Maybe worse in it's own way and as that cloak comes off, the injury to where Vangar managed to get that blow in becomes apparent, making Bryett grimace in sympathy once more. "You're a little crazy you know," he says. Not snidely, not dismissively. Almost wonderingly.
"I've got a medpack buried somewhere in my duffle," he adds. It might be about the only thing he has besides an ever diminishing stash of credit chits. While he might have some sentimental attachment to his journals, to all those notes he has compiled, no one is likely to find those of interest, any more then the few changes of clothes and small collection of tools that rest there as well. "I wish I could do more, but..." he says, a helpless sort of shrug rippling across his athletic frame.
You're a little crazy you know...
"Yep."
The Twi'lek girl's maybe eighteen? Nineteen tops? Hell, even that's a guess. She might be younger. In a lot of ways, she still looks like a kid. She's small and lithe, and the more she smiles -- the more comfortable she gets -- the younger she looks. She doesn't wear gobs of makeup to seem look older. She does show off a fair bit of lavender skin without the robe on, but that's not anything unusual for a Twi'lek. Particularly one that's used to being a performer.
She's wearing a warm smile on those purple lips, humor finally touching her eyes again as her lekku settle against her back with little twitches of movement.
I've got a medpack buried somewhere in my duffle...'
"What... this?"
She's tossing the robe onto one of the tables, then unhooking the San-Ni staff that dangles against one of her thighs to toss on top of it. Twisting and holding her arms up a little, she tries to get a better look at the bruise in her side, wincing under the sharp pains of the contortions.
"Save it for yourself. I've had way worse. Besides, I've never been really good with those things. You want a meiloorun juice? Or I've got water. I can check the hold, if you want. The last guy might have stashed a bottle of booze somewhere... he was kind of a drunk."
Beet-Deet-Boop-Dwoooo goes the BB unit.
"No, in the smuggling compartments. They're shielded," Lira says.
Doot-Deet?
"I know I should have checked them, but I was kind of on a time crunch. And I've been busy."
Boop-Bwoooo-Boo.
"So go get Lee and take a look! Bring back any alcohol you find, if Bryett wants it."
Deet-Dwoo.
"I'm fine, Echo. Just go."
Bwoooooo-boo.
The BB-unit's domed head rotates to focus that black ocular sensor once more on Bryett and rolls towards him. Is the little thing trying to be intimidating, now?
"Echo..."
Burrrrr-booong. Finally, the BB-unit turns and rolls down the corridor towards the cockpit, the sound of the metal ball wheeling down the deck plates gradually fading away.
"Sorry," Lira offers with a small, apologetic smile. "Anyway.. juice? Or.. anything?"
Look, Bryett probably isn't particularly intimidated by the droid. He's not exactly in the best shape he's ever been in, but unless that droid is packing a whole lot of surprises -- not completely out of the question admittedly, certainly his master seems to have more then a few tucked away -- he's probably not in any real danger. Not unless he's in way worse shape then even he knows. It'll be fine.
Still, it is pretty reassuring to see that kind of loyalty from a droid. A pretty good sign. Not that he needs any more reason to invest a certain amount of trust in his rescuer mind you, but it never hurts to have that little bit of extra reassurance about the whole thing.
So as the BB unit makes it's little show of warning him to be on his best behavior, Bryett shows himself willing to play his part as well, holding up his hands in front of him innocently, at least a passing gesture of meekness. See? You have nothing to worry about little guy.
"I think I'll skip the alcohol given the state of my head. The last thing I probably want to do right now is pass out," he admits drily. He might be far from a medical expert, but he's pretty sure that's a bad idea if he has a concussion. Though admittedly his head is starting to feel a little cleaer, his eyes a little more focused. Though that also means the general battering he's taken -- especially to his wrist -- seems to be hitting him a lot more sharply too so the reassuring smile he tries to offer to Echo is more of a pained grimace then anything else.
"Just water or juice would be amazing, thanks. Whatever's easier.
Under the circumstances, trying to put on any sort of show, at trying to play the tough guy seems a little bit of a waste. She has literally seen him crawling across the ground, nearly helpless. There is not a lot of point in pretending that he is in either tip top shape. Or that she didn't save his ass -- and probably a whole lot of the rest of his anatomy -- from some very bad things. So he just lets a sigh escape him and gives in to what he really wants.
Sitting the hell down.
Slipping onto that bench by the holotable, he grimaces again and stretches some, trying to work out a little of that muscle soreness, gaze watching her a little more openly now. Not leering, despite that lithe form. Just curious.
And maybe there is still a hint of wonder and disbelief in those eyes as well.
He definitely doesn't blame her for turning down the medpak and any assistance he might provide. Truth be told he wouldn't use it himself for much more then cuts and scrapes really. And the pain pills. Speaking of which... he leans over and hauls that duffle closer, unzipping it and fishing around for a moment, pulling out that medpak just long enough to extract a couple of those same painkillers and laying them out on the table in front of him before leaning back once more.
"Thanks again, the drink's great. And the place to lay low for a little bit. I really appreciate not having to worry about being jumped again before the day's over," he says genuinely.
It's never a good idea to taunt the animals. And wondering around, injured like this? It's practically an invitation to every predator on Nar Shaddaa. An announcement that he's ripe for the pickings.
"Like I said before, my favors aren't worth much but if there's anything I can do for you, it's yours."
"Probably a good idea," Lira muses, failing to hide the way her smile grows when he admits that skipping the alcohol is the best idea. "It's a rare trait, knowing your limits... not many people seem to, on Nar Shaddaa."
Does she know her own? The nasty bruise and the way she still winces occasionally would say no, but the fact that they were still alive and, honestly, not that much worse off for the whole experience would suggest that she had still been well within those limits.
She watched his interaction with Echo with mild amusement still lingering on her face, eyes averting respectfully elsewhere to let the two 'have their privacy' after a moment, but she hadn't missed the way he winced when he raised his hands. Given that, she busied herself fetching a couple of plastic cups from one of the cabinets and pulling a bottle of juice out of the refrigeration unit.
Her back is to him while he's looking her over, her lekku shifting of their own accord, one twisting and writhing up around her neck to loop around her shoulders like a scarf. She's still wearing a utility belt around her waist, just pouches and stuff. No blaster, and there's not enough room in her boots to be hiding a knife or anything. Presumably, that staff is all she's armed with.
After a moment, she turns, crossing the small space with just a couple of softly padded steps to set both of the glasses down (rims pinched between the fingers of one hand) while she holds two old-packs with straps in her other hand.
"You're welcome. And like _I_ said, you don't owe me anything. The galaxy's full of people that are ready to take something from you or have you owe them something, but you'll never owe me anything. I promise."
It's pure, raw kindness in her eyes -- the likes of which is rare to find anywhere in the galaxy, much less Nar Shaddaa. She's like a bright spot in a black hole, a beacon of hope in a very, very bleak universe.
And sure, there are _plenty_ of jokes to be made about him getting jumped before the day's over, but she doesn't make any of those, either. In fact, they don't even seem to occur to her.
"So, I'm basically the farthest thing you can get from a doctor, but I'm used to getting beat up a lot." Go figure. "We'll eventually need to get you checked out by a doctor to make sure nothing's fractured." We, she said. "But these should help... and those."
She nods a little towards the painkillers, but she open up a set of straps on one of the cold packs, holding it out like she's asking him to hold out his arm. It's hard to strap something to your wrist.
"May I? Or, you can, if you rather... I'm just... trying to help."
Knowing his limits?
Maybe that is a part of it. Some of it is just what he would consider a healthy avoidance. The last thing he wants right now is to make his condition even worse. It's never a great idea to mess around when it comes to head injuries -- and despite his occasional bad choices... okay, frequent bad choices -- it is his head that he makes his living with. He can't really afford to damage it on a permanent basis.
It might help as well that he isn't really interested in playing the fool in front of her either, so soon after playing the helpless victim. He's not a lightweight, but again, not exactly at his best here either. A modicum of self-restraint does seem called for.
That duffle slips from his hands as the painkillers are laid out in front of him though he nonetheless keeps it tucked close against the seat -- near at hand but not quite hovering over it. It might not be much, but it is pretty much the only thing he has in the world and while he can't imagine that all of this was just an elaborate scheme to rob him, some tendancies are ingrained. They don't fade easily.
Otherwise he seems, well, almost relaxed, some of that defensive wariness with which he seems to carry himself vanishing as he leans his head back -- not so much that he can't still peer at her -- but clearly grateful to take the load off for a little bit. To give his battered form a chance to rest, to recover just a bit.
All things considered, he doesn't look in too rough of shape. Truthfully, he looks in better shape then her, if only because there is no visible sign of injury. There probably is a lump on the back of his head, if there aren't already bruises on his wrist, on his back there will surely be some soon, but they are all concealed by the rugged and functional clothes he wears.
Even they seem to have come through the unfortunate little scuffle without too much undue wear and tear, clearly built to stand up to some harsh treatment. The jacket might show a couple more scuffs then it had before all this began and there is definitely an unsavory stain on the shoulder of it -- either from rubbing up against the wall as he tried to get to his feet or from something he ended up laying in on the ground -- but otherwise he only looks mildly disheaveled.
"You really are something else, you know," Bryett says quietly, a little snort accompanying his words. "Fair enough. You'll have to forgive me if I keep track at least, even if it's just a mental talley. Hopefully there won't be any more cause to add to it before I'm out of your hair," he says wryly, sitting up a little straighter as she approaches once more.
"I'm not going to say no to a little cold," he agrees, eyes searching hers for a moment. "So long as you have enough of those packs for yourself too. Otherwise I don't think you'll be moving too well in the morning," he says gently, extending his injured wrist towards her, laying it across the top of the holotable even as his other hand reaches for those pain pills.
You really are something else, you know.
It's the first statement that provokes any kind of a blush from her at all. Lira had been looking down at his wrists, but just as he's finished speaking, her eyes snapped back up to his. Surprise and humor mingle just in time for the faintest darkening of her cheeks.
She might have had some snappy quip, but they were already moving on. Moving past it. Just as fast as it came, the evidence that there's any world in which she might actually be attracted to the man sitting at her table is swept away. Not hidden behind a facade or anything like that. Just... dismissed, like it hadn't even happened. She's still smiling. Her eyes are still warm. Her gaze just isn't as... intense... as it had been for that split second.
"Fortunately, that's a ridiculous human expression. I don't have hai -- "
She cuts herself off when she spots that wry smile, and as it sinks in that he _knows_ she doesn't have hair, her expression falls to something akin to, 'Really?'
"Very funny," she deadpans, stepping closer and letting her eyes fall to his wrists. Despite her feigned indignation -- the pursed lips, the roll of her eyes -- her touch is actually very tender. She's confident in her touch, but she's careful not to hurt him. Her hands, however, are small, like the rest of her. Her fingers are lithe and nimble, but her fingertips show signs of labor and her nails are cut short.
"I'll be fine," she says softly. She wasn't going to be fine, but she apparently hadn't given up on looking tough around him in the same way he'd given up on looking tough around her. At least he was sitting down, though. Standing up, he had at least a foot of eight on her. She'd only came up to his chest. Sitting down, at least she was more at eye level.
"I used to get hurt like this all the time in the circus. It's not great when your grip slips way up in the air."
So, when she said she was in the circus, earlier, it wasn't just a passing joke, then.
"Is it just this one wrist? If so, I can put one on the front and one on the back." Lavender fingers lightly touch the areas she means. "If the other one hurts, I can put one on each."
He might not understand everything that has happened in the last several minutes. Doesn't understand how his luck could have changed in such a dramatic fashion to bring one of, well, probably the only people who was likely to come to his rescue without just looking to do even worse to him. Doesn't fully understand how this little slip of a woman could beat up two hardened, capable criminals with relative ease. Doesn't fully understand why she would take in a stray, someone who clearly at least partially, if not deserved the beating he got, at least contributed a fair bit to bringing it on himself.
There is still more then a little curiousity about the circumstances he has landed himself in, the young woman playing host to him.
But as the sheer panic of his situation begins to fade, as that inherent, instinctive wariness is put at ease by her, that curiousity is at least a little bit tempered by a certain level of comfort. One genuine enough to tease her. Just a little.
The look that she gives him only gets a disarming smile in return, unabashed and unrepenitent and he rather casually pops those pills into his mouth, washing them down with the drink she brought to the table before setting it back down on the edge of the table. "I thought so," he agrees shamelessly, turning that gaze back to watching her as she attends to his wrist. "But I also meant it," he adds on a more sincere note. "After everything you've done, about the last thing I want to do is bring any sort of trouble down on you and yours," he says quietly.
Stretched out across the table, it isn't hard to roll up the cuff of his jacket up enough to bare that injured wrist. Though now that he has apparently decided there is no point in playing the big, tough man he grimaces and winces and flinches almost comically until the cold pack is applied to the area that is already showing some healthy bruising, dark purpling and some swelling already beginning to show there It's probably not broken, but a fracture is definitely not out of the realm of possibility.
"That's better, thanks," he says, trying to keep that wrist as immobile as possible, shifting it just a little where it rests, lifting his gaze back to her once more. "That's the most serious of it," he assures her. "Aside from the bump on my head. But I think I'll survive. Thanks to you."
As she mentions the circus again, one of his brows raises. He supposes that could explain it. Being so quick, so light on her feet. Being so talented with what is a pretty obscure weapon to put it mildly. "Mmmm, if you say so," he says levelly. "Just... well, you might be my hero but that doesn't mean you should try to be a hero. I might not need that cold compress but I really think we should apply it to you. I can almost guarantee it will at least take a bit of the edge of."
Lira'una works diligently and carefully on the man's wrist. Despite his earlier furtive glances towards his bag and his tendency to keep it close to him -- which she noticed but said nothing about -- it would be hard to mistake her intentions as being anything except absolutely sincere. She's already demonstrated her ability to take care of herself (and his two rather vicious attackers) with... if not 'ease'... at least competence.
She has no interest in separating him from it.
She has no interest even in looking inside it to make sure there's nothing in there that he could use to blow up the ship.
"Don't worry so much about me and mine," the girl croons softly while she's wrapping the cold pack in place, smiling softly. "If trouble wants to find us, it will, whether you're involved or not."
Says the girl with the black market bounty on her head.
"And enough with the thanks and the hero talk," she laughs softly, letting go of his wrist long enough to watch him move it around. "I was in the right place at the right time. The universe has a way of working things like that out, if you know how to listen."
Then there's the mention of her own compress, and before she can answer, the sound of big, clomping feet begins to echo up from the ramp. Lira turns, lips still parted, to find the big 501-Z Police Droid with his giant stun rifle moving into the lounge.
"Lira, I've secured the ramp and calculated the risk that you were followed is negligible," comes his synthesized voice once he's come to a halt, rigid, like a soldier ready to spring into action.
"Thank you, Zee," the lavender-skinned girl answers warmly, reaching for her glass of juice she'd set down on the table. "Could you go keep an eye on the cockpit, please? Echo took Lee to the hold to check the smuggling compartments."
A keen observer might note she just asked her security droid to go guard the cockpit to make sure the 'guest' they brought aboard didn't spontaneously decide to do anything crazy, like try to steal the ship. At least she didn't assign Zee to follow him around everywhere he went on the ship.
"Of course," the droid answers with a subtle nod of his visored head before continuing on around the corridor towards the cockpit.
Almost as an afterthought, while Zee is marching away, Lira looks back over to Bryett and offers a little smile. "Lee is my L-E maintenance droid, just... in case you were wondering. There aren't any other sentients on the ship. But, I think I'm going to go get a shower to wash off the grime before I take advantage of that cold pack. You're welcome to look around. There are crew bunks, but I was going to give you the Co-Pilot's quarters, if you wanted to put your things away and maybe get some sleep. It... has a little more space than the bunks, and there's a locker you can use put your bag in. No one will touch it, here, regardless."
The 'I promise' is almost palpable in her voice, but she doesn't say it out loud.
"Help yourself if you want more juice. Or there's caf. And there's some food... it's not super stocked, but there's stuff in there. I usually catch one of the noodle bars unless I'm in hyper."
She shrugs faintly and smiles.
"Anyway.. just.. make yourself at home."
Then, without much ado, she's collecting her cloak and that staff, folding them up in her arms and making her way around to the captain's quarters with its private refresher.
That they weren't followed is something of a relief really. Not exactly a surprise, per se, but a relief nonetheless. It didn't seem very likely that Kesh or Vangar would have hired anyone else. The odds of them being able to shake enough credits from him to make it worth their time to actually shell out even more credits to try and put him in his place did not exactly seem like a winning bet. And to be perfectly honest he can't imagine any scenario where they would have the imagination enough -- or be insane enough -- to think there was any chance that he could deal with the pair of them alone.
Of course, given the way that they were practically crawling out of that alley, then leaning so heavily against one another just to make it back to the starport always left the door open to the possibility that some of Nar Shaddaa's other predators might have decided that they might make for easy pickings. That the security droid can confirm that there doesn't seem to be anything like that going on is a mild relief to him.
Nor does Bryett take any sort of offense to the fact that the droid is rather discretely, almost politely, directed towards the cockpit. Somehow he doubts either of her other two droids need either checking up on or protecting so there is only one reasonable explanation for that. It would seem that his hostess is capable of a modicum of caution afterall.
Rather then be offended by it, a brief smile curls over Bryett's lips, the corners of his mouth twitching in a little dance of amusement at the gesture. He doesn't hasten to assure her that she is quite safe, to assure her that he has even less experience at piloting ships then he does at winning fights. If anything the look in the eye is almost relieved. This he is used to. This he understands.
Dpmt get him wrong. The kindness, and concern and sincerity is... refreshing. It has been a good, long while since he encountered anything remotely like that. It's novel and really, pretty sweet when you get right down to it. But it is a little hard to fathom, that much is certain.
His eyes follow 'Zee' for a moment before they flicker back towards her, if anything the ease on his expression only a little more pronounced after that particular exchange. "I'll try to keep that in mind," he replies quietly. "But worrying about you and yours is one of the few things that I can offer, so I'm gonna go right ahead and do that," he says wryly. "Hero or not, you did me a kindness and that is a more rare atribute in this galaxy then you might expect. The least you can do is expect a little in return," he says, flashing a brief smile once more before holding up his hand. "But I'll try to keep it to myself if it disturbs you," he adds, eyes glinting with a hint of warm amusement.
Following her gaze towards the nearby crew quarters, Bryett gives a slow nod. "Mighty kind of you. I'll take you up on the offer. And I promise I won't bug you about your side again until you at least get cleaned up," he assures her, slowly slipping off that bench and regaining his feet once more. He moves slowly -- a little ginerly -- but he does move without listing to the side or groping for the wall or any other surface to support himself. Stooping to grab that duffle in his good hand, he slings the strap over his shoulder and raises that hand to his forehead, knuckling his brow towards her. "I'll go get myself settled while you clean up," he says, disappearing into the Co-pilot's quarters.
Really, he would have been grateful for the bench to spread out on for a couple of hours. Once more it would seem that he's lucked out, and the battered archaeologist opens up that locker at the foot of the bed, dumping his duffle in their for the moment. He doesn't bother to secure it, pausing only for an instant when he notices the worn leather journal within, plucking it out curiously.
Books. He has a serious weakness for books. Computer terminals are well and good, if all you care about is getting knowledge as quickly as possible. But this is be
But this is better. Turning it over in his hand, he cracks the journal open and begins to read as he sits on the edge of that bed.
Two hours pass in that time.
The sound of the ship's pipes delivering water to the captain's refresher were only audible for a fraction of that time, but it's hard to get out of a tight crop top when you have a cracked rib, not to mention the leggings and the boots, and by the time she did all of that and got clean, all Lira wanted to do was lie on the bed for a while and meditate.
Maybe she lost track of time while she was lying there. Maybe she fell asleep.
Maybe she was just giving the man some privacy and some space to do his own meditating and resting after the ordeal. She knew she could be 'mothering' at times, and she'd taken steps to not fret quite so much. Especially over those adults who were not 'her responsibility.'
He's a grown man, after all. All she can do is offer him shelter and options. He has to make his own decisions. That has been a very hard to learn lesson.
But what Lira doesn't realize is that two hours is a long time for an archaeologist to be left alone with one of Luke Skywalkers's old leather bound journals about Lothal -- a journal she's had in her possession for six months and has been trying to piece clues together from. She didn't have any sentient crew aboard her new YT-2000, the Twilight Dancer, so stowing it in the co-pilot's locker didn't seem like a problem at the time. She was using that space to read over it at night and make notes, after all, and it felt safer than leaving it lying around in the galley or the hold.
She didn't even think about it being in there when she told Bryett he could stow his bag there.
Luke Skywalker's Lothal journal, a cherished relic of his exploration, holds a wealth of hand-written notes, maps, and musings that illuminate the planet's mysteries. Filled with the wisdom and insights gained from his travels, the journal speaks of the planet's deep connection to the old Jedi Order. Within its weathered pages lie hints and enigmatic clues, Luke's own leads and suspicions on potential locations of hidden Jedi temples, all underscored by a profound sense of reverence and wonder. The journal's legacy continues, serving as a beacon of knowledge and possibility, echoing the unwavering hope of a Jedi Master who believed in the Force's enduring presence.
The journal is bound in worn leather, and aged by time and weather.
There are bookmarks in several places -- notably at major mentions of 'Old Jedi Temple,' 'Connection to the Force,' and some obscure writing she couldn't decipher. Apparently Luke couldn't, either, because it's not translated, but in the notes around one of the temples are depictions that look like planetary alignments. Also, there's a page missing. It's very, very subtle. In fact, it's been removed so carefully that one might not even notice unless they had some understanding of the dead language from the ancient tribes of Lothal or a _very_ keen eye.
It turns out, Bryett has both... and access to a datapad with an uplink to the HoloNet for research purposes.
Chances are good that certain searches on the HoloNet are flagged, of course, and might raise more eyebrows than he really wants to bring down on himself. Even a layman in this era knows that the Sith have a bounty on Jedi, and they've scrubbed most public teachings about the Jedi and their ways from public consumption. However, the HoloNet is the HoloNet. If one knows how to search (such as being a professional archaeologist), there are always things to find.
So, it's after those two hours that there's finally a knock on the co-pilot's door. Lira is wearing a less form-fitting set of clothes -- at least, a less form-fitting top. The baggy sweatshirt that swallows her frame, its sleeves pushed up around her elbows, has the rainbow script 'Astral' written across it. Below, a pair of shorts barely peek out, leaving most of her legs bare. As are her feet. She might look like a college student, but she doesn't really look like a ship captain in that outfit.
Or a Jedi, if that text was anything to go by.
And let's face it, the clues are starting to stack up.
"Bryett?" she asks through the door, voice tentative. "I don't want to wake you up if you're sleeping.. I just wanted to tell you I'm out in case you need anything."
[PASS ( +20)] Bryett Cordair's Knowledge:anthropology @ (105) diff. [PASS ( +54)] Bryett Cordair's Spot @ (100) diff. [PASS ( +23)] Bryett Cordair's Gather Information @ (100) diff.
The cold of the compress pack has helped reduce both the pain and swelling in his wrist, lessening it to little more then a dull ache, that -- much like that in the back of his head after being slammed into the wall -- is a great deal easier to cope with.
Or just forget about altogehter.
Getting lost in an actual book is rarely a difficult thing for him, though it is certainly a rare indulgance. Though the truth is a good porition of the weight of that duffle he carries everywhere is in fact made up of his journals, actual, physical journals. Sure, it would be easier, more portable and practical to have all of his records carefully indexed and filed away on a proper datapad. And he does keep backups there on his own, admittedly.
But it just wouldn't be quite the same. Sure, there could be any photgraphs that he uploaded, but not his original, handdrawn sketches. Not little swatches of physical discoveries, records, carefully folded up and interspersed amongst his notes. For him, knowledge is more then mere fact, more then words on a page, or droning discussions from some programmed droid or computer terminal. It's... tactile too. It has a feel.
So when he finds that old, leather bound book he smiles. A genuine smile, some of the lines on his face seeming to practically melt away, those thirty or so years he has under his belt seeming to dissolve, to regress, leaving him younger somehow. That eager tudent who first left his homeworld, pursuing his dream of being a historian. Of being an archaeologist. Of uncovering the greatest story in the galaxy -- history itself.
And as he first starts flipping through those carefully preserved if weathered pages, that smile grows at first, amused delight blossoming on his face. He has always been a sucker for a good story and maybe the only thing he likes better then telling one is hearing one. So he eagerly reads on, flipping through the pages.
But after a few minutes that smile begins to dim, begins to fade. His brow furrows once more and he ceases reading, instead turning the book over in his hands, studying the binding, studying the spine. And quickly coming to the conclusion that this isn't some child's story, some flight of fantasy. It isn't even some forgery that he himself might try throwing together to part some less the scrupulous individuals from a few of their ill-gotten credits. This is, as far as he can tell, the real deal.
It is, quite simply, the sort of thing that he has been looking for, that he has dreamed about for pretty much the entirety of his life. Genuine documents in regards to a historical find of unimaginable importance. A difficult one, to be sure, given the current political climate in the galaxy, but no less amazing for all of that.
Maybe he should notice that faint hiss that indicates that the water running to the Captain's refresher is slow to start, and long since stopped as he reads. Maybe he should notice the passage of time. But Bryett Cordair is quite suddenly wrapped up in another world. His world. A world of history, of tiny, little details that hold so much knowledge in them. Of tantilizing hints and enigmatic links that offer the possibility of tying a whole story together.
So as he reads that datapad comes out, that link to the Holonet is established and yes, he does begin to cross referencing some details, begins to make some sense of what he is reading. He takes care, of course, given the subject matter. He's not some naive scholar, those days are long behind him, and he is well accustomed to framing his searches in such a way to try and get at the info he needs without triggering the obvious little traps that are laid out through the 'Net, keeping an eye out for the more obvious searches.
By the time that knock sounds at his door, a much clearer picture has begun to emerge, the little clues, the little details falling into place. He isn't even reading anymore, instead sitting cross-legged on that bed, the book resting open on his lap as he stares right past it, eyes fixed on nothing really. But his mind going a mile a minute.
He gives a start at the knock, at the sound of Lira's increasingly familiar voice, that foreign kindness that he still can't quite get used to so very much apparent. And he hesitates for just a moment, glancing at the locker.
For just amoment he considers if he should just slip that book back under his duffle, pretend that he never saw it. Pretend that he was just sleeping. Keep his nose out of it. It would be the smart thing. This girl, she's not crazy. She's dangerous.
But she's also what he's been looking for all his life. This journal is what he's been looking for all his life.
That furrowed brow firms and he gently -- reverently -- closes that book on his lap, holding it carefully as he slides off the bed and moves to the door of the cabin, triggering the door as it slides open. Lifting his gaze, the world-weary archaeologist meets her gaze, the gaze of a Jedi -- or maybe a padawan if he were to actually make a guess. Somewhere inbetween? Who knows. Who cares. Either way, he holds up the battered journal in his hand.
"You left this in the locker. Sorry, I didn't know what it was when I started to read it," he says quietly. "We should probably talk."
Well... fark. No good deed goes unpunished.
In all of the various little ironies of this situation, the most ironic might be that he's been looking for someone like her his entire life, but she didn't even know what she was until... less than two years ago.
She hasn't even celebrated two birthdays since she was taken to Tempes the first time, the new, secret headquarters of the Jedi Order. Before that, she'd been a perfectly oblivious circus performer with what she _thought_ was a lot of natural talent. It just turned out to be a different kind of 'natural' than she expected.
So here's a man holding one of the journals of Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master, a name that Lira was barely familiar with by comparison to his education, when it rightfully belongs to her. It wasn't as if Lira didn't understand the importance of it, of course, but she didn't understand... it. At all. She'd been given the book by Rey during their last visit to Lothal, tasked with deciphering its clues, but in the last six months she'd made very little progress at that. She knew the HoloNet was being monitored. It wasn't like she could just search up 'Locations of hidden Jedi temples on Lothal' without bring the entire Sith Empire down on herself. So, she was doing it the 'old fashioned' way... and given that she had no formal education, that way was _very_ long and _very_ tedious.
The two problems that exist before her now, however, are two fold. One, this man she knows by first-name-only has read Luke's journal and understood enough about it to apologize for reading it. Two, she has no idea what he does or where his allegiances are. All she 'knows' about him is that some thugs were upset at him enough for stiffing them on a deal that they were willing to gut him in an alley. She had no idea what his profession was, or if it was anything beyond 'swindler.' But she, in typical Lira fashion, had taken him in and given him shelter anyway.
Was Qutha going to be disappointed in her... again?
But didn't Qutha tell them to follow that path... together? Both of you, he'd said.
So, maybe that meant Bryett was supposed to be here -- that the Force had guided Lira to him, and him to the journal. Maybe the Force had put them together for a reason.
And allllllll of that flashes across Lira's eyes in the few seconds that she simply stares up at him in that doorway, blinking, eyes shifting down to the book he holds and then back up again.
We should probably talk.
About what? About how many credits he wants to keep quiet? About how she's going to have to pry that book out of 'his cold, dead hands' or some nonsense? There were all kinds on Nar Shaddaa. There were thieves and scoundrels and Sith officers and spies and informants and Hutt enforces and... well... too many things to list. He could be any of them. He _could_ be about to try to claim a bounty on a Jedi. She had no way to know.
"It's not your fault," she says softly, but the smile she gives him is smaller and more fleeting than before. Sad, in its own way. Disappointed in herself. "Thank you... for being up front about it."
Small, lavender hands rise, palms up, in askance for that journal. Is it a demand? It's hard to say. There's little about Lira that comes off as 'demanding.' But, there's worry in her features. Every second it's out of her control is another chance for it to be destroyed and for her to lose any hope of finding the temples she's been searching for.
"May I... have it back?" There's a pause, then. "I'm happy to talk. You should also know that you're free to leave whenever you like. I'm not asking you to. I just wanted to make that clear."
Really, he can't fault her reaction in the least. Under other circumstances, if their roles were somehow reversed, he's not sure that he could take any of this quite so well. And as much excitement, as much adrenaline might burn inside, barely contained, as much as finding that journal -- reading that journal -- has reawakened something in him that he thought he had walked away from a long time ago, he is no longer glassy-eyed. He's no longer dazed. He might not have all the answers to the various questions that her intervention in his life had started to raise up for him, but he is pretty sure that he has some of the key ones. And it makes a big difference.
So he's not surprised to see that flicker of uncertainty flash across her expression, not surprised to see that little bit of wariness in those gentle eyes. How could he possibly blame her for any of that. And when she extends that hand, towards him, a silent entreaty to return her property?
He does hesitate. Just for a moment. Not because he intends to try and make off with it. Not because he intends to threaten her, or try to use it to leverage her into getting something he wants. But because for the first time in his life, he is holding a true artifact of real, genuine historical vale. Maybe not as ancient as he might have imagined, but in its own way it is a treasure map. It might not have some 'X' sketched out in blood red, making it obvious just where the treasure can be found. It might present a mental sketch, but deciphering that, that's what he does. And does pretty well.
It is the kind of treasure that he has been seeking all his life. Not gold or gems. Not credits. Not even power or prestige. But knowledge. Knowledge about things that matter. Knowledge that should be shared, should be unlocked. And finally he is in a position to do that. So when it is takes him a few extra seconds to give it back, it's because it is hard to give that up. After all these years. To finally have something like this in his hand. And to just... give it away.
But that's what he does. His eyes lock on hers, those world-weary, dark orbs reading all of that in her expression, reflecting his own reluctance, glinting with that newly awakened passion. And then he offers up a faint smile, tinged only slightly with a certain sadness and holds that battered leather journal out to her. "Of course you can. It's yours," he says quietly, simply.
As he surrenders that little -- or not so little -- piece of history, he lets out a long, slow breath. "Look, you did me a kindness. I meant what I said. I owe you. I don't think you know just how... rare it is to find someone, anyone who looks at the world quite like you. At people as something to help, not take advantage of. It's a rare thing Lira," he says quietly. "I have no intention of telling anyone about who you are. What you are. I will walk down the ramp of your ship and you will never hear from me again, I promise," he assures her.
But then his eyes brighten a little, some of that spark, that enthusiasm, that reawakened *life* creeps back into those brown orbs and the grin that slides over his face is instant and instinctive. The battering that he took mere hours ago, forgotten. That world-weariness, vanished, like it was never there at all. "But I can help you Lira. I really can," Bryett insists quietly. "Regardless of what you saw back in that alleyway, this," he says, pointing at that hournal that is now safely back in her hands, "this is what I do. This is what I have studied all my life. I could barely believe what I was reading when I cracked that open. I thought it was just a story at first. But it's not, I can tell," he says, words threatening to start tumbling over one another in a rush before he catches himself. Before he forces himself to slow down.
"I'm a historian. An archaeologist. Finding, digging up the past, that's what I've trained to do all my life. The clues are all there Lira. I can help you find the temple that journal talks about. I know I can," he says, running a hand back through that unruly hair, eyes still bright.
The stand-off is tense for those few seconds.
It's not like she missed the way his expression had changed, or the 'my precious' look that came over his eyes in that instant when she asked for it back, but she stood her ground and waited none the less. In much the same way she had comported herself in the alley, she wouldn't 'attack' first. She would wait until he made his decision -- to hand it to her, to try to bolt with it, to actually attack while she was 'vulnerable'...
But then he holds it out and sets it in her hands. Even as Lira's fingers curl around it, she breathes out a sigh of relief and pulls it closer to herself, wrapping her arms around it to press it in to her chest. She holds it like it was her own journal, and in many (many) ways, it's even more important than her own journal. The secrets within, if they fell into the hands of the Sith would be even worse than them not being discovered at all. At least if they remained untouched ruins, they could be discovered by the Jedi of the future. If the Sith found them first...
Of course you can. It's yours.
"Thank you."
She stands there, though, listening to what comes next. The... praise? Not just praise. The acceptance. He was asserting his stance on the matter. The Sith had turned much of the galaxy against the Jedi, had blamed much of what was wrong with the galaxy on them. So many believed it. So many were not just loyal to the Sith, but actively feared the few Jedi who remained for what they were.
But in this day and age, almost no on had ever met a Jedi. They may be back to just one again, but the few hundred that remain, spread across the entire galaxy and kept in hiding? They're little more than myth -- fairytales or spooky stories, depending on your point of view.
She almost looks like she wanted to respond, a small smile once more curling on the corners of her lips, but then he tells her he's leaving. I will walk down the ramp of your ship and you will never hear from me again, I promise.
And in that moment, disappointment flashes across her features. She doesn't cry or throw herself at his feet and beg him to stay, but it flashes across her features obviously enough before she can school them again. The silent, 'Oh. Right. Of course you are.'
She has to be better about those thoughts. So, she pushes them away and draws in a breath, that pretty young face shifting to a neutral mask. If their meeting was meant to be fleeting, than it was meant to be. Being disappointed in his reaction when she had hoped for something better was a path to anger and jealousy -- the Dark Side of the Force.
"If that's your choice," she offers quietly.
But even if it might have occurred to her to ask him to stay, to cling to that fleeting connection for just a little longer, it seems as though she doesn't have to. The whole conversation is a bit of a rollercoaster. From tension to praise and acceptance to disappointment, and now to... excitement?
It's almost palpable the way he radiates it, and for a girl that grew up living for excitement, it's infectious. The disappointment that was there just a moment ago slides smoothly through confusion to lifted eyebrows and a lopsided, wry grin.
"So, to be clear, you're not planning to leave and never talk to me again?"
Amusement twinkles in her eyes at the rush of his words, but it's not relief that changes her posture... it's that excitement that bleed over into her new understanding of the situation.
"Wait..."
Her weight is already shifting, rocking to the balls of her lavender feet. Her lekku, resting against her back, are twisting once together.
"_You_ can make sense of this? Are you... serious?"
Likely the one man who could on Nar Shaddaa who just so happened to be in trouble in an alley when she was walking past, an alley who her Master just so happened to be walking by, who gave them instructions for how to get back to the ship safely, so that she could forget that she kept this very journal in same place that she told him to keep his belongings, so that he coul
so that he could find it, read it, and offer to help her...
How much more would it take to convince anyone that the Force was at work everywhere in the galaxy, that the currents of its will were there to follow, even if you didn't understand why at the time?
And just for a moment, a few fleeting seconds, Bryett gets to see the girl that existed two years ago -- bright blue eyes filled with passion and enthusiasm, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet and bouncing lightly in anticipation (at least until the cracked rib makes her wince again... she still hadn't gotten that cold compress for herself). But even through that cringe, the girl that loved the idea of adventure as much as he does almost... _almost_... lunges forward to hug him in excitement.
She doesn't. Instead, she gets control of herself, clearing her throat gently.
"I don't know what I saw back in the alley. But this? This is... really good news," she admits, and though she's not bouncing, there is still a big, broad smile across her lips. "If you can help me figure this out, I..." Her mouth moves a little. What can she offer? Nothing, really, more than the experience itself. "...I would be _so_ grateful."
Of course, there's still always the chance that this is a long con.
"We should talk more. Are you... up for talking? I could order take-out. There's a delivery guy I trust and a noodle stand that doesn't serve mystery meat..."
Mystery meat is almost definitely sewer rat. And if it isn't, it's probably worse.
Either way, Lira's already turning to walk down the corridor towards the lounge, carrying the book with her and only glancing over her shoulder to make sure Bryett's following.
It is a little bit of a thrill ride there for a moment.
That is part of what comes from getting a little over-excited. When words start tumbling out quicker then one's brain can formulate them, make a certain sense out of them. But really, he can't help it.
Under the circumstances, he thinks that is understandable. Even from a young age he has been fascinated with stories. The structure, the characters, but more the meaning behind them. That in turn fueled his love of history. Which in turn fueled his pursuit of education, of scholarship. Once upon a time that was at the very heart of what drove him.
Venturing away from his backwater of a homeworld, taking to the stars, the sector capital in pursuit of a higher education, at more advanced learning, more specific training. Finding others like himself, with that drive, that passion for history, for archaeology. Finding a mentor to nruture that, to bring out that passion.
Really, it was what he lived for.
And then he graduated. Thebn he turned all that theoretical knowledge into practical application, still working beside those friends, still working under his mentor. And watching, day by day at the kinds of compromises that the practical pursuit of hostory required with the galaxy in it's present state. That so many people were just... disinterested in the lessons of the past, at least unless it could benefit them in some way. If it could profit them in some way.
Watching the people he admired most in the galaxy sell out, make compromises and abandon principles for the sake of credits. Turning his back on them, going it alone... and ending up in the exact same position.
Having to make compromises, to do jobs for people with no real interest in discovery, only profit. Sharing information that could potentially change the world, or at least change understanding about the past... and watching it be covered up, pushed aside or dismissed because it wasn't convenient to the 'narrative' that his employers were looking to build.
Turning more and more to the more shady sorts that exist on the fringes of galactic society, not so much because they were any different. In many ways they were worse in their own ways. Greedier. More ignorant. But that made them easier to deceive. Easier to steal from and to con. To pass off forgeries or bits of nothing as important and valuable finds. To collect his credits and move on. Always moving, looking for the next score. And trying to stay one step ahead of an ever growing line of people who would have good cause not to be too happy with him.
People like the ones that would finally track him down, hunt him down to a grimey little alley on an even grimier world like Nar Shaddaa only a few hours ago.
So yes, in his rush to get everything out, maybe it sound like he's threatening to walk away. To turn his back on her, on what he has read, what he has seen, what he is pretty sure he now understands. At least in part. Even if the most vague sort of outlines. It's still coming together.
Distracted as he might be, he still picks up on that disappointment, even as she schools her expression, even as she banishes any hint of it from her words and Bryett is swift to raise a hand, giving his head a firm shake in denial. "Believe me, walking away is the very last thing I want to do. But if *you* want me to, that's what I'll do. Like I said, I'm not looking to bring down any trouble on you, not if I can possibly help it," he offers up hastily, trying to clarify those words.
And trying to slow down, just a little bit. To keep all those words from tumbling out atop one another again and causing any other confusion. "Look, I don't want to go anywhere," he begins before catching himself, pausing for just a moment and giving his head a little shake. "Well, no, that's not quite true. I want to go to Lothal. And I would really rather do that with you," he clarifies.
The fact that he can actually make something out of the journal seems to fuel a certain amount of excitement in her too, maybe a little less obvious then the light shining in his own eyes at the thought, but he might catch just a glimmer there and he lets out a long, slow breath then, a reliefve smile sliding over his features. "Yeah, I can. I mean, it's not entirely clear and I had to do a little digging around the Holonet to try and clarify a few things," he says before quickly holding up a hand to forestall any argument or obvious point of concern. "Don't worry, I know how to look into things like this discretely. It tends to be specific words, or phrases that can draw attention down on your searches and some long as you avoid them, you can actually dig up quite a bit," he offers up.
The important thing is that she's not dismissing the whole thing out of hand. Not telling him to grab his bag and get off her ship. And a little of that excitement starts to build once more. "That sounds like a great idea," he says with obvious enthusiasm, that grin flashing across his features once more as he turns back to that bunk just long enough to grab his datapad and one of his journals that are laying spread out there, the notes that he has already started to put together scrawled out.
With those in hand, he trots to catch up at her, one of his brows lifting a little as he catches that obvious wince and while that baggy top might not show off nearly as much as her previous outfit, it isn't hard to guess that she hasn't actually done anything about her injury. "And maybe you'll let me see what I can do with those bruises before you can barely move in the morning," he says gently.
He's not nagging! He's just... concerned.
