Post by Makiro on Jun 6, 2009 19:26:18 GMT -5
As the room swam slowly into being around Sil, he grunted contentedly and scratched his cheek. Oddly, the opposite cheek seemed to be wedged against some cold, unyielding surface, and as Sil slowly sat up right in his chair... his chair?
Oh frell! Cried Sil, exasperated. He had fallen asleep whilst writing his report again. Looking down at the well-used datapad on his desk, he reread the few hastily scribbled paragraphs he had managed to write.
The Jedi:
Chivalrous Defenders of the Peace,
or Arrogant Wielders of Power?
For many years the Jedi have linked themselves firmly to the fate of the Galactic Republic, always willing to step into the breach when War looms and always willing to intervene in our problems and conflicts when it does not. However, can we really trust them?
Despite their own claims that the Jedi are a peace-loving, noble Order, is it not true that, barely four centuries ago, two of the most widely-respected, "self-sacrificing" Jedi of the Order brought war and death to half the Galaxy? How can any organisation whose members turn so easily from noble protectors to hate-filled destroyers claim to be a peaceful one, with the Republic's best interests at heart? How can we continue to trust them, cloistered away in their Temples and Acadamies, to protect us, when at any moment they could turn against each and every one of the Republic's good citizens?
Sil grimaced as he realised his work was drastically in need of some attention. He sighed deeply and scratched his ear pensively. It's a start I suppose. He thought to himself, attempting to blink the sleep out of his begoggled eyes. And besides, I still have... He glanced at the holoclock on the wall behind his desk.
Oh frell! He cried for the second time in two minutes. It was 0930: half an hour after he was supposed to arrive at work. The editor was never going to forgive him this time.
Grabbing his coat, he swept his small collection of datapads into a bag and hurried over to the door. With a grim look of determination, he stepped out into the hallway beyond and locked the door behind him. So what if he hadn't finished his report? He would simply ask the editor for an extension, and finish it tonight. It wasn't as if he'd done this often. Was it?
An hour later, and if the crowded, malfunctioning maglev train was anything to go by, Sil was not in for a good day. Looking down at the sticky blue stain on the front of his already scruffy tunic, he scowled as he remembered the snotty Rodian child who had put it there. By the Baran Do Sages, what was the Galaxy coming to when mothers could no longer control their stupid, drink-toting brats on the commuter's maglev? He had been sitting in this noisy, stifling carriage for the best part of thirty minutes now, trying to endure a journey which normally lasted five, and the grinning idiot of a youngling was still howling about the place like a Dark-Sided Mynock!
Shoving the straw of his too-sweet stimcaf - by now cold, he noted testily - up underneath his antiox mask, Sil tried desperately to block out the chaos around him and to focus on the stream of excuses and downright lies he would need to concoct to please his boss - who had a temper like an enraged Acklay at the best of times. It was no use though. Everyone in this durned train seemed determined to make his day worse that it already was. As if that were possible...
Turning sharply to the being next to him - who seemed to have developed quite a nasty cough during the last twenty-five minutes of the journey-, Sil opened his mouth to demand that the foolish thing find some cough medicine or leave the train at the earliest convenient moment. Something about the sight that met him, however, stopped him in his tracks. Fortunately for Sil, his dark metal antiox mask concealed the bottom half of his face, or else the silent 'o' that his mouth found itself resembling may have proved more than a little embarassing.
The stranger sat next to Sil, arrayed as he - she? it? - was in a sinister fold of black material, was grinning at Sil with a cavernous maw of pointed fangs. Never had Sil seen a sight that sent such shivers of fear up his spine. Never had Sil wanted so much to be in the office, facing the wrath of an enraged editor.
Erm.. c-can... can I help you, Si... Ma... Friend?
You pressume much to addressss me by ssuch termss, Kel Dor. Said the thing, cocking its hear eerily to one side, as though listening for something. Neverthelesss, you can indeed render me ssome assssisssstansse.
Sil nodded weakly, and thought longingly of the scolding he would be receiving from the editor when he finall arrived at work.
You are a reporter, no?
Again, Sil nodded.
Good. Take thiss datapad, and read it. After that, you musst desstroy it. Do you undersstand, Kel Dor?
Sil took the proffered datapad, and nodded for a third time, feeling a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his chest. With that, the sinister being turned its head from Sil and resumed coughing as if the exchange had never taken place. Sil glanced down at the datapad, before stuffing it into his bag along with the others. All of a sudden, he was glad of the hustle and bustle of the carriage.
Sil grunted as he shut the door of the editor's office behind him. That had been a kriffing disaster... Not only had the editor demanded he cease work on his Jedi report and hand it - and all of his hard-gained notes - over to Rey Thayon (there was a Hutt-kissing Kath Hound, if ever there was one), he had also been politely informed, that should he not find new material within a week, he would be kissing his job goodbye. Frell.
Rubbing around the sides of his metallic eyepieces, Sil tried desperately to think of anything he would be able to write a report on. Anything!
Frell! That was it! The datapad he had been given by the stranger earlier, that was sure to contain at least some valuable information. Enough to keep his job at least. Now if only he could remember where he'd put it...
Realistion dawned. It had been in his bag. The contents of which he had just grudgingly handed over to Rey Thayon. Sithspit...
Standing patiently outside the door to the editor's office, Sil waited silently until it opened once more, releasing a smug-looking Thayon, carrying a large pile of glowing datapads.
Morning, Thayon! Trilled Sil.
The pale-skinned Human surveyed him suspiciously.
I'm terribly sorry to be a bother, Rey, only I seem to have given you something entirely unrelated to the report by mistake. Would you mind if I took it back?
Thayon laughed, mockingly, throwing back his head so that his greasy hair flew out behind him like the tentacles of some putrescent mollusc. Forgive me for laughing, alien, only I find it hard to believe... well, I find it hard to believe you. So if you'll excuse me.
Turning his hooked nose into the air, the disgusting Human took a few steps forward, only to come crashing down to his knees as Sil stuck out a booted foot. Datapads flew everywhere.
Oh! Silly me! I'm so sorry, Rey! Let me help you!
Thayon glared up at Sil.
Not on your life, alien! He spat, hastily gathering up his things. Getting quickly to his feet, he brushed off his purple suit and hurried out of the room, muttering to himself with the air of a deranged Dianoga.
Sil waited for a few moments, before grinning (inwardly of course) and stooping down to a large pot plant, behind which he had succeeded in kicking the desired datapad as Thayon had fell.
Sil, m'boy, you are a genius.
Gathering up his things, Sil pocketed the datapad and strolled out of the office, humming to himself as he went.
Standing outside the large, abandoned warehouse in the pale light of the dying sun, this suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea. Glancing down at the datapad clutched in his shaking hand, Sil reread the mysterious message scribbled thereupon.
Inside Warehouse 7A5961, Industrial District, 2100.
Sil checked the large figures stamped next to the colossal entrance the the decaying structure and shivered. It was getting cold. Quickly ensuring he had all the necessary materials - datapads, holorecorders, commlink - Sil checked his wristchrono once more: 2047. Sil hugged himself tightly and stepped into the maw of the beast.
The interior of the warehouse was largely empty. A number of scattered crates lay about the stained floor, as well as one or two abandoned cranes and heavy loaders. Sil was even sure he could see an old-fashioned speeder rusting in a far, dark corner. Chill winds rushed through the entire structure, causing the aging durasteel to moan and creak. Sil shivered.
Looking around for a suitable place to conceal himself, Sil spotted a small collection of plasteel cylinders which were gathered together in a way that created the perfect hiding place. Hurrying over to them, Sil crouched down in the shadows and began to wait.
Oh frell! Cried Sil, exasperated. He had fallen asleep whilst writing his report again. Looking down at the well-used datapad on his desk, he reread the few hastily scribbled paragraphs he had managed to write.
The Jedi:
Chivalrous Defenders of the Peace,
or Arrogant Wielders of Power?
For many years the Jedi have linked themselves firmly to the fate of the Galactic Republic, always willing to step into the breach when War looms and always willing to intervene in our problems and conflicts when it does not. However, can we really trust them?
Despite their own claims that the Jedi are a peace-loving, noble Order, is it not true that, barely four centuries ago, two of the most widely-respected, "self-sacrificing" Jedi of the Order brought war and death to half the Galaxy? How can any organisation whose members turn so easily from noble protectors to hate-filled destroyers claim to be a peaceful one, with the Republic's best interests at heart? How can we continue to trust them, cloistered away in their Temples and Acadamies, to protect us, when at any moment they could turn against each and every one of the Republic's good citizens?
Sil grimaced as he realised his work was drastically in need of some attention. He sighed deeply and scratched his ear pensively. It's a start I suppose. He thought to himself, attempting to blink the sleep out of his begoggled eyes. And besides, I still have... He glanced at the holoclock on the wall behind his desk.
Oh frell! He cried for the second time in two minutes. It was 0930: half an hour after he was supposed to arrive at work. The editor was never going to forgive him this time.
Grabbing his coat, he swept his small collection of datapads into a bag and hurried over to the door. With a grim look of determination, he stepped out into the hallway beyond and locked the door behind him. So what if he hadn't finished his report? He would simply ask the editor for an extension, and finish it tonight. It wasn't as if he'd done this often. Was it?
*******
An hour later, and if the crowded, malfunctioning maglev train was anything to go by, Sil was not in for a good day. Looking down at the sticky blue stain on the front of his already scruffy tunic, he scowled as he remembered the snotty Rodian child who had put it there. By the Baran Do Sages, what was the Galaxy coming to when mothers could no longer control their stupid, drink-toting brats on the commuter's maglev? He had been sitting in this noisy, stifling carriage for the best part of thirty minutes now, trying to endure a journey which normally lasted five, and the grinning idiot of a youngling was still howling about the place like a Dark-Sided Mynock!
Shoving the straw of his too-sweet stimcaf - by now cold, he noted testily - up underneath his antiox mask, Sil tried desperately to block out the chaos around him and to focus on the stream of excuses and downright lies he would need to concoct to please his boss - who had a temper like an enraged Acklay at the best of times. It was no use though. Everyone in this durned train seemed determined to make his day worse that it already was. As if that were possible...
Turning sharply to the being next to him - who seemed to have developed quite a nasty cough during the last twenty-five minutes of the journey-, Sil opened his mouth to demand that the foolish thing find some cough medicine or leave the train at the earliest convenient moment. Something about the sight that met him, however, stopped him in his tracks. Fortunately for Sil, his dark metal antiox mask concealed the bottom half of his face, or else the silent 'o' that his mouth found itself resembling may have proved more than a little embarassing.
The stranger sat next to Sil, arrayed as he - she? it? - was in a sinister fold of black material, was grinning at Sil with a cavernous maw of pointed fangs. Never had Sil seen a sight that sent such shivers of fear up his spine. Never had Sil wanted so much to be in the office, facing the wrath of an enraged editor.
Erm.. c-can... can I help you, Si... Ma... Friend?
You pressume much to addressss me by ssuch termss, Kel Dor. Said the thing, cocking its hear eerily to one side, as though listening for something. Neverthelesss, you can indeed render me ssome assssisssstansse.
Sil nodded weakly, and thought longingly of the scolding he would be receiving from the editor when he finall arrived at work.
You are a reporter, no?
Again, Sil nodded.
Good. Take thiss datapad, and read it. After that, you musst desstroy it. Do you undersstand, Kel Dor?
Sil took the proffered datapad, and nodded for a third time, feeling a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his chest. With that, the sinister being turned its head from Sil and resumed coughing as if the exchange had never taken place. Sil glanced down at the datapad, before stuffing it into his bag along with the others. All of a sudden, he was glad of the hustle and bustle of the carriage.
*******
Sil grunted as he shut the door of the editor's office behind him. That had been a kriffing disaster... Not only had the editor demanded he cease work on his Jedi report and hand it - and all of his hard-gained notes - over to Rey Thayon (there was a Hutt-kissing Kath Hound, if ever there was one), he had also been politely informed, that should he not find new material within a week, he would be kissing his job goodbye. Frell.
Rubbing around the sides of his metallic eyepieces, Sil tried desperately to think of anything he would be able to write a report on. Anything!
Frell! That was it! The datapad he had been given by the stranger earlier, that was sure to contain at least some valuable information. Enough to keep his job at least. Now if only he could remember where he'd put it...
Realistion dawned. It had been in his bag. The contents of which he had just grudgingly handed over to Rey Thayon. Sithspit...
Standing patiently outside the door to the editor's office, Sil waited silently until it opened once more, releasing a smug-looking Thayon, carrying a large pile of glowing datapads.
Morning, Thayon! Trilled Sil.
The pale-skinned Human surveyed him suspiciously.
I'm terribly sorry to be a bother, Rey, only I seem to have given you something entirely unrelated to the report by mistake. Would you mind if I took it back?
Thayon laughed, mockingly, throwing back his head so that his greasy hair flew out behind him like the tentacles of some putrescent mollusc. Forgive me for laughing, alien, only I find it hard to believe... well, I find it hard to believe you. So if you'll excuse me.
Turning his hooked nose into the air, the disgusting Human took a few steps forward, only to come crashing down to his knees as Sil stuck out a booted foot. Datapads flew everywhere.
Oh! Silly me! I'm so sorry, Rey! Let me help you!
Thayon glared up at Sil.
Not on your life, alien! He spat, hastily gathering up his things. Getting quickly to his feet, he brushed off his purple suit and hurried out of the room, muttering to himself with the air of a deranged Dianoga.
Sil waited for a few moments, before grinning (inwardly of course) and stooping down to a large pot plant, behind which he had succeeded in kicking the desired datapad as Thayon had fell.
Sil, m'boy, you are a genius.
Gathering up his things, Sil pocketed the datapad and strolled out of the office, humming to himself as he went.
*******
Standing outside the large, abandoned warehouse in the pale light of the dying sun, this suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea. Glancing down at the datapad clutched in his shaking hand, Sil reread the mysterious message scribbled thereupon.
Inside Warehouse 7A5961, Industrial District, 2100.
Sil checked the large figures stamped next to the colossal entrance the the decaying structure and shivered. It was getting cold. Quickly ensuring he had all the necessary materials - datapads, holorecorders, commlink - Sil checked his wristchrono once more: 2047. Sil hugged himself tightly and stepped into the maw of the beast.
The interior of the warehouse was largely empty. A number of scattered crates lay about the stained floor, as well as one or two abandoned cranes and heavy loaders. Sil was even sure he could see an old-fashioned speeder rusting in a far, dark corner. Chill winds rushed through the entire structure, causing the aging durasteel to moan and creak. Sil shivered.
Looking around for a suitable place to conceal himself, Sil spotted a small collection of plasteel cylinders which were gathered together in a way that created the perfect hiding place. Hurrying over to them, Sil crouched down in the shadows and began to wait.