|
Homecoming
| |
| Davon_Vanden | Date: Monday, 15 April 13, 11:58 PM | Message # 1 |
 Private
Group: Users
Messages: 10
Status: Offline
| Of all the planets in all the galaxy for a limping smuggler's vessel to make port in, Naboo was the one planet the SSV Aphelion's first mate would never have suspected. For one thing, it was clean; rather than some seedy port or backwoods shed masquerading as a hangar, the Captain had landed the old girl in a legitimate port. The majestic falls of Theed were visible from the cockpit, a resplendent view that simultaneously induced feelings of intense nausea and insatiable inspiration. The sight was magnificent, to an off-worlder, and as they had first set down on the planet's surface, even the even-keeled Captain Rawls had been taken aback. The younger co-pilot, the Aphelion's only other tenant beside the good Captain, had managed to deceptively mask the pit in his stomach with a feigned look of incredulous, innocent wonder.
A veil of stars quietly settled over the city, the darkness held back by the faint orange glow of lamps emblazoned on the horizon. It was gorgeous, the sort of scene that demanded to be put to canvas by a skilled brush, or written about in creative poetry that would echo for generations. But the spaceport of Theed was dead quiet that night, and the only witness to the vista was a wiry-framed spacer leaning back in his faded leather chair.
He was a young thing, no older than twenty-five, though his hazel eyes carried a lot more age than they should have. They regarded the far-off city with a quiet, smoldering intensity that was rarely cast upon sights such as this. To him, there was no joy to be found in the beauties of this world, or at least any appreciation refused to appear evident in the way he carried himself. The boy slouched, his simple white shirt and cargo pants bunched and wrinkled; a faded, worn dark blazer thrown onto the nearby communications console. He was a portrait of unspoken depression: chestnut hair strewn about and haggard, a thick stubble dotting his chin and cheeks, heavy bags under his weary eyes. Resting lazily in his right hand, draped across his knee, was a lit cigarette, smoke trails wistfully dancing in the low light provided by the ship's secondary systems.
The young man in question was Davon Vanden, a child of Naboo, the prodigal son of the aristocracy. He was home, for the first time in five years, and the discontent ran off him in waves. He sighed and took a determined, angry drag of the cigarette, a curtain of exhaustion starting to close around him as he rubbed at his eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he checked his wrist chronometer.
15:33.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath before he grabbed for the mug of cold caf from his console and gulped it down, lips smacking at the bitter taste. His attention tore away from the unpleasant sight of his homeworld—back to the console—and he primed a few keys and began to study a series of repeating coordinates. Memorization of hyperspace routes, just about the only thing that succeeded in getting his damned brain to shut off, these days. With the Aphelion in dry dock for several days, and a substantial lack of desire to leave the ship (much less the spaceport), his options for entertainment were proving few and fleeting at best.
Davon Lawrence Vanden
"For what avail the plough or sail, or land or life, if freedom fail?" ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
Message edited by Davon_Vanden - Tuesday, 16 April 13, 10:41 PM |
| |
|
|
| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Sunday, 21 April 13, 2:56 PM | Message # 2 |
 Private
Group: Users
Messages: 5
Status: Offline
| "What," Rawls said. A question, technically, but minus the inflection or the interest. Not that he wasn't interested in whatever might be troubling Davon—and not that he didn't appreciate the beauty of this place, though he'd never admit it—but Rawls was preoccupied with the landing sequence. As his hands moved deliberately (sluggishly, even; it had been a long flight) from one control panel to the next, the sound of the Aphelion's engines faded away, and a whoosh of fresh air accompanied the loud, metal sound of the ship's ramp lowering to the ground. The crashing of Theed's waterfalls could be heard in the recesses of the Aphelion. Rawls had turned down the volume on the ship's comm, but a standard "Welcome to Naboo" message could be faintly heard; little did Rawls know, as he unstrapped himself from the pilot's chair, stretched mightily, and commenced searching for his boots, the misgivings that Davon had about this place.
Now and then, Rawls had asked his young co-pilot and navigator where he was from, but Davon had never wanted to discuss it. He respected that; half the men he knew in this line of work were on the run from something or other in their past. Rawls had been flying with Davon now for, oh, going on six months, and there was a lot he still hadn't told him about his own past, either. He didn't need to know, for instance, that shortly before they worked together, Rawls had run afoul of Black Sun, and that anytime they operated outside of Hutt Space—now, for instance—an assassin could show up and ruin his day. Davon's too, presumably. Okay, so Davon did need to know, and Rawls would tell him. Eventually.
"No Gungans," Rawls grunted, pulling one of his boots on as he did so. "We need to find a cargo here on Naboo needs moving, but no Gungans. Never again. I don't like Gungans, Dav. I don't want to do business with a Gungan, I don't even want to see a Gungan. I'm not racist," he explained, unconvincingly, "It's just—you'll see." On the way to Naboo, Rawls had daydreamed about being hired to smuggle some rare, stolen art, but knew it was more likely the Aphelion would end up moving smelly, Gungan laborers from one Force-forsaken Naboo village to another. He sighed. "Haven't been here before, have you?" he asked, belatedly.
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion
Message edited by Aaron_Rawls - Sunday, 21 April 13, 3:02 PM |
| |
|
|
| Davon_Vanden | Date: Sunday, 21 April 13, 7:24 PM | Message # 3 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 10
Status: Offline
| He almost admitted to knowing exactly the reason for the Captain's distaste of Gungans. Almost. He liked Rawls, moreso than most, and the Aphelion was the first true home he had found in a long, long while. Despite that notion—that perhaps he had finally found a place to hang his metaphorical hat—there was still a bridge of trust that needed building. Six months was a long enough span of time to get to know the Captain better; have a few drinks, play some sabaac, escape some pretty hairy situations. Though he would never outwardly admit it, whenever Davon regarded the Captain for longer than a passing glance, there was an expression of almost-childlike wonderment. It was a fleeting thing, quickly masked by an awkward chuckle or a toothy smile; but the boy had all but given hope of finding any sort of camaraderie out in the depths of space. Turns out, life was chock-full of surprises.
When the Captain inquired, the co-pilot tore his eyes away from the navigation console and spun about in his chair, boots propping up on a nearby terminal. One of the boots nearly slipped, and had it done so they might've suddenly undergone a blind hyperspace jump through the hangar. His lips pursed as he thought on the right response. "Passed through the system once or twice." He settled on feigned ignorance. "Stopped by the station up in orbit for a refuel, talk about stuffy locals.."
A moment later and he was out of his own chair, running a hand through his mussed hair before he snatched the faded blazer off of the seat, slipping it on in one quick motion. "S'pretty at night," he conceded, hazel eyes once again turning to the waterfall off in the distance. "Bit too clean f'ya ask me," he chuckled, adding as an aside. "-Could change if we're pickin' up a Gungan, though."
Davon Lawrence Vanden
"For what avail the plough or sail, or land or life, if freedom fail?" ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
|
| |
|
|
| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Sunday, 21 April 13, 10:07 PM | Message # 4 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 5
Status: Offline
| Although Rawls would never guess at Davon's upper class Naboo education, he knew the boy was smarter than he let on. Rawls was smart too, but not in an educated way. He had the sort of perspective about life that a person had who'd seen too many of his friends come and go. Now and then, he thought about friends who were long gone, especially during the Aphelion's long, lonesome trips from one unsavory world to another. Rawls imagined it would become rather depressing if Davon weren't around, but at the same time he knew that the boy didn't belong in the danger that Rawls put him in on a regular basis. He was protective of Davon, assuming pre-emptive responsibility for any harm that might come to him.
He also knew his co-pilot well, or else he wouldn't have trusted Davon as his co-pilot in the first place. Not many people had sat in that chair. Rawls knew Davon well enough, at least, to know that something was bothering him. Perhaps he hadn't noticed it before because he'd been preoccupied with the ship's finances since they weren't paid for the job on Nar Kreeta, but he certainly noticed it now. He looked at Davon askance for a moment, then looked away, checking the charge on his blaster pistol and holstering the weapon at his hip. "Don't expect we'll find work tonight," he said to Davon, "but I need some solid ground under my boots right about now. Don't know about you, but I conjure I'll walk around for a spell, maybe find a good place to drink and make a spectacle of myself in front of the fine, upstanding people of this world."
"You in?"
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion
|
| |
|
|
| Davon_Vanden | Date: Thursday, 25 April 13, 7:41 PM | Message # 5 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 10
Status: Offline
| "Upstanding, that's a laugh," he muttered under his breath, straightening one of his lapels and patting at his pockets. He let out an annoyed groan, his eyes scanning the cockpit until they located his half-crumpled pack of cigarettes. Old Corellians was the brand name; a delightfully-harsh and oaken flavor of cigarette that had, despite the name, fallen out of favor in Corellian space. Nowadays, these puppies could only be found circulating the smoke shops of the Outer Rim, and due to their unpleasant taste were quite cheap in Hutt space. Davon had been sure to stock up on a healthy supply the last time they were on Nar Shaddaa.
The co-pilot let out a quiet, resigned sigh as the question was asked. His eyes trailed up to the Captain's own, and there was a clear glimmer of 'can we please just get off this world' present there. But despite his misgivings the boy nodded, delicately placing a cigarette in his lips and fishing around his jacket pocket for a light.
He followed behind at a leisure pace, waiting until they disembarked to light the cancer stick in his mouth, and he was immediately beset by a hovering security droid.
"NO SMOKING INDOORS." The droid belted out in a jarring, metallic tone. In response, Vanden cursed under his breath and spit the cigarette onto the pristine steel floor, being sure to grind the tobacco into the metal nice and angrily. Just in case, he turned his attention back to the Captain, offering an apologetic shrug. "Guess it'll have to wait."
Davon Lawrence Vanden
"For what avail the plough or sail, or land or life, if freedom fail?" ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
|
| |
|
|
| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Tuesday, 30 April 13, 10:36 PM | Message # 6 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 5
Status: Offline
| Instinctively, his gun hand tensed, his arm ready to reach for the blaster at his hip as the droid admonished Davon in a sharp tone. A false alarm, but he paused a moment longer, considering blasting the security droid into nothingness. Where he came from, the law had more important things concern itself with than whether someone was smoking or not. Not only didn't the law care about such things on the sort of planet that Rawls was accustomed to, they shouldn't either. Rawls didn't smoke himself; there were a lot of people out there who would be happy to see Aaron Rawls dead, and he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of doing himself in with a "death stick" addiction.
Point was, Rawls didn't particularly like Davon's habit either, but he was a grown man and a man had to make his own choices. (Never mind that in their line of work, there were all manner of things more likely to kill you than a pack of cigarettes a day).
He abandoned his fantasy of seeing the security droid blown into tiny shards of politically-correct debris and walked on without comment, trying not to dislike this planet any more than he already did. Some people—like him and Davon—worked hard for a somewhat less-than-honest living. Other people preferred to dress up in synthsilk finery and talk about each other all day, or whatever it was Nabooans—Nabooians?—actually did. Rawls didn't judge. But he was pretty sure the only place he was going to find other people who wanted to cut loose after a hard day was in a bar, and he'd traveled enough to know that the best bars (the bonafide holes in the wall) could be found nearest the spaceport, if indeed such a place existed anywhere in Theed.
Maybe someplace that Davon would know about from his youth here?
Rawls did a job one time in Keren, a port city on the other side of Naboo. Keren was a hard place, rough around the edges. It was Rawls's kind of town. But he'd learned there not to pick a fight with a Gungan, because they usually had friends, and lots of them. Rawls figured he could take maybe 3 or 4 of them in a fight, but more than that was pushing it. He got out of town, and it was a good thing he did, too—he'd since heard tell that he was a wanted man in Keren. The point being that Rawls didn't know his way around Theed, but it was their only bet. "Cobblestone," he muttered, looking down at the street. "I swear..."
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion
|
| |
|
|
| Davon_Vanden | Date: Wednesday, 08 May 13, 8:31 PM | Message # 7 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 10
Status: Offline
| The air was considerably cleaner than he remembered, almost too clean in fact. Everything about the Theed he remembered felt wrong, as though the memories he'd so reluctantly clung to had been falsified. Whether that realization was the unintended result of a life spent frequenting cigarra dens and the less-than-savory back-alley cantinas and brothels, or simply that he hadn't been home in a number of years, remained to be seen. All Davon knew was, as he took that first step onto the accursed cobblestone that plagued his Captain's every thought, he wasn't ready for the wave of intermingled guilt and nostalgia that hit him full-on in the chest.
"What, you don't like cobblestone?" He asked with a wry smile, fishing another stale cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it. Davon allowed himself a long, languid drag of the tobacco, smoke filtering out through his nostrils as he tightened his coat around him. It was Winter on Naboo, or the closest equivalent the temperate planet could achieve, and a cold wind whipped through the bustling plaza. "Would've thought you'd appreciate the aesthetic," the boy added, another drag following before he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and made for a nearby stall.
The port district of Theed was always something of a spectacle, a sort of organized chaos that only a true native could negotiate free of bumps and bruises. The effortless way through which the young man seemed to weave through the crowd might have served as a point to remember, to the trained eye. He reached his destination with little effort, grabbing for the credit chit he always kept in his left pocket, buying himself a fresh pack of smokes and waiting for the Captain to catch up.
Davon Lawrence Vanden
"For what avail the plough or sail, or land or life, if freedom fail?" ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
|
| |
|
|
| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Friday, 24 May 13, 11:58 PM | Message # 8 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 5
Status: Offline
| (( Post coming. It's just gotten too late for me tonight. ))
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion
Message edited by Aaron_Rawls - Friday, 24 May 13, 11:59 PM |
| |
|
|
| Jak_Merston | Date: Saturday, 25 May 13, 8:02 AM | Message # 9 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 4
Status: Offline
| ((I hope anyone don't mind if I jump in. With the rest of the crew of Aphelion gone, I thought you might want some fresh blood. Besides, even if you don't, at the very least, the interaction with Jak should be interesting.))
The freelance had been on Naboo for some time now. Jak was inside one of the bars near the spaceport, taking some pleasure in drinking a bottle of Tarisian ale. Then there was a bag of tobacco and paper rolls resting on the table in front of him. Yes, he rolls his own cigarettes. Yes, he was a cheapskate. But he didn't care. The man was in a dark time of life.
Jak didn't want to touch down a Republic member world because of what his former boss did to him. He hated the Republic for letting a corrupt officer to work within the system, that they couldn't do anything to help him prevent his own family from being taken out of this galaxy. But a planet that was not a part of the Republic was far and rare.
The freelancer did not feel like waste all the credits away just to find a world that holds no ties to his former allegiance. As a result of leaving the SBI and killing his former boss, his face had quite a few scars. That made him look older than he really is. For the moment, he would just stay in a dark corner. Drinking, and rolling a cigarette to smoke the night away.
~Jak Merston
A ordinary gunslinger
|
| |
|
|
| Aaron_Rawls | Date: Saturday, 01 June 13, 10:00 PM | Message # 10 |
|
Private
Group: Users
Messages: 5
Status: Offline
| "It's quaint," Rawls grumbled. "It's... too damn quaint." Were he a man of words, Rawls might have said that the cobblestone was a symbol of the inauthenticity of high society, discomfiting for a man whose enemies were usually the ones who were inauthentic, not his friends. The concealment of one's motives behind a ingratiating facade of false manners—or, for the tourist's benefit, cobblestone ornamentation—served a purpose in posh social occasions, but a different purpose entirely in a smuggler's life. In Rawls's experience, it usually meant that the bastard was planning to murder you, steal your cargo, or murder you and steal your cargo. That, at least, he understood. He knew the rules of that game, and how to win (or, at any rate, how not to lose). It was here, in high society, where he was making blind jumps.
Hence the pub—the one place in this city Rawls could count on to find people not unlike himself; incurable cynics with the honesty of thieves. People, in short, who didn't pretend to be something they weren't (unless they pretended to be 'legitimate businessmen,' of course).
Rawls trusted Davon to find just such a place, unaware of the irony dogging Davon's every step on that freighted cobblestone. Rawls hadn't the trained eye, or rather, the eye trained on Davon to notice how deftly the boy navigated the crowd—except, perhaps, to note it sardonically in contrast to how blunderously he navigated the Aphelion—if only because Davon was the one person Rawls didn't need to watch in the crowd. Any one of this colorful multitude of beings could be a danger to him. And Davon, by association. He didn't worry about it unduly, certainly not on his own account (there was, after all, a stoicism about such things that was requisite to being a smuggler), but still, a gunhand's habits died as hard as he did.
"You seem to know where you're going. That's good," he remarked, nodding to Davon when he re-joined him, "At least one of us should."
Aaron Rawls
Captain of the Aphelion
|
| |
|
|
|
