Whill Shaman Dažbog
Master Moderator 
Water is the most important element of life. For without Water, you cannot make Coffee.
Posts: 1,451
Affiliation: Ancient Order of the Whills
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Post by Whill Shaman Dažbog on May 21, 2013 8:38:28 GMT -8
On the far edges of the first Skip of the Smugglers Run, a hidden safehouse for the criminally minded folks that normally smuggled, stole, or otherwise didn't abide by the locale laws of the universe, was a single small time cantina by the name of Red Shift. Being a small, nearly run-down yet operable by smuggler and other riffraff standards and not those of the upper classes that looked down on people who would visit the Shift and the Run itself, the cantina was small and rarely visited by anyone other than those who had first been there when it opened nearly a decade ago. The ceiling of the entire two-story cantina was filled with holographic projection emitters that produced a multitude of visual images, from open space to the orbits of several planets that patrons called home or visited often. The bartender, who also happened to be the owner of the fine establishment in the first Skip, was a simple Trandoshan smuggler and small time spice dealer by the name of Drelldel. Having given up his line of work in the smuggling business a while back, Drelldel chose to settle down, start a family (which he successfully did here on the first Skip; he had a beautiful Transdoshan wife and two small reptilian children) and start his own cantina instead of run blockades and bring in illegal objects others sought. Now, he spent his free time teaching his kids how to survive in the real world and run his cantina, as well as sell spice on the side and hire out young Smugglers to bring him expensive wines and other illegal and desirable objects from afar to his cantina.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor 
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565 
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
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Post by Galdaart Fel on May 26, 2013 8:22:08 GMT -8
Galdaart Fel sat at the bar in the Red Shift, by himself, two empty mismatched glasses in front of him, trying to remember a time when he didn't ache. His guts had ached since before Ryloth. Maybe as far back as Ord Mantell. His heart had ached since the day he met Malora. He clenched and unclenched his left hand into a fist (the fingers had been broken and never reset properly years ago on the Imperial Prison scow, and often throbbed in the damp.) Now Wrench was gone. Maybe it was time to go it alone again, dammit. Maybe it was time to pack it in (not that he had anything to show for years of toil, besides a ship and the clothes on his back) and settle somewhere for the rest of his days. Maybe it was time to pick a fight he couldn't win.
Maybe it was time for another drink.
The Zabrak was drunk. It likely wasn't his fault. But these things were so seldom black and white, right and wrong. He backed drunkenly into Fel from behind and to the right. The smuggler shrugged it off at first, but the young man laid hands on him, clapping his shoulder and telling the outlander how he should make room at the bar for this newfound 'friend.' When there was no reply from Fel except to sip his drink, the Zabrak took drunken offense, slipping from Basic to his own tongue, the insinuation plain: what, I'm not good enough to drink with you?
Fel cast a sidelong glance at the swaying, agitated sentient, his bio-system eye a sickly shade of yellow. "Get your hand off my shoulder. Now."
The Zabrak's eyes widened, and the beginnings of a snarl touched his lips. His grip tightened on the offworlder's shoulder, tensing for action. But it never happened.
Fel had been holding the DL-22 since the man first bumped into him -- a reflex honed over many years of being both hunter, and hunted. The blast was short, sharp. Eyes turned. It was possible the man didn't deserve the reaction, but on the 'Run, one could never be sure. One wrong move could get you dead in a hurry.
And Galdaart Fel was not one to be played with.
The bolt had entered through the top of the Zabrak's boot, cleanly penetrating through the sole, and most of the way through the floor beneath. He fell in a crumpled heap, clutching the ruined appendage and uttering a steady stream of insults in his native tongue.
Fel went back to his drink.
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Cassel Lockpick
Member
Everything is just so interesting . . . remarkably at the same time!
Posts: 118
Affiliation: The Adventure
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Post by Cassel Lockpick on May 26, 2013 11:51:00 GMT -8
Cassel sauntered into the Red Shift, Kulu hat, with Fez underneath to keep it up, and spurs on his boots. His hands were far out on each of his sides, and he walked like he had a wedgie. He was going for the classic cowboy look. The spurs jingled and jangled as he walked, and he slowly made his way up to the bar, and struggled for a moment to actually climb up onto a stool. He tilted his Kulu hat and gestured for the bartender. In a very serious voice, Cassel spoke to the bartender.
"I'll have a glass of white milk......Cassel turned at the laughter he heard behind him.....with some cookies."
Cassel smiled, even though the bartender just shook his head in disappointed, and came back a few moments later with the ordered snack and beverage. Cassel spun around a few times in his stool, laughing like a youngling playing tag, or spinning around pointlessly in a chair. Yes that works better. Cassel stopped when he heard the blaster shot, his face not one of surprise, or fear, or anger, or, but rather confusion with a hint of curiosity. He looked over to the man who was responsible, and waved.
"Hullo there! Did he kiss your lady or somethin'?"
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Xeonon Solomon
The First Order
Posts: 2,206
Affiliation: First Order
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Post by Xeonon Solomon on May 26, 2013 18:04:42 GMT -8
Xeonon swaggered on into the Red Shift having heard of the place from a dying old man nearly 3 years earlier. Normally he would not need to associate himself with such rabble but he needed to as of late. The Imperial Knight was wearing something he had not worn in a long time, his Bantha hide leather jacket with the Imperial Insignia stitched onto the back and the cracked knee high boots. This was a mission that had called for some sort of stealth and well armour just was not the way to go.
For the past six months the Deep Core had been repeatedly had its lines and security breached by someone, a smuggler by the reports. They had been going into their worlds and messing with things, and time after time they had managed to elude both the authorities and the ISB. Not wanting to look like fools to the Imperial Public they resorted to desperate measures. Xeonon "motherfucking" Solomon. The Master of the Order had once been trained as an Inquisitor, using those tricks he had tracked the man down to this lovely corner of space. That was 2 weeks ago, and since then he had been entering the bar looking for his quarry.
In addition to the gift he was wearing on his back Xeonon had taken off his golden eye patch and left most of his weapons behind. Instead he walked in with just the enforcer pistol under his jacket and a three foot long power hammer over his shoulder. Walking over to the bar he kept his back to the man, his bionic eyes glittering over the drinks he pointed at a black bottle. Give me some of that would yah?
As his drink was poured by the lizard man he nodded and paid the man with the oldest most worn down chip in his pocket. Taking the drink Xeonon turned around and looked at the two other patrons of the bar. A midget and Fel.
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Post by Erin Darkwell on May 26, 2013 18:16:28 GMT -8
Amusement danced in the assassin's lilac eyes as she watched the altercation play out between Fel and the drunken Zabrak. Something had the Captain in a foul mood, that much was certain. No doubt it was the same thing that had spurred him to leave his crew behind. 'That was foolish,' Erin thought. 'Those that separate from the herd tend to get picked off.' She smiled into her cup before taking a drink of the foamy green lomin ale. The next moment she'd procured a cigarra from her person and stuck it between her lips. A lighter followed, and with the practiced ease of a lifetime smoker she touched a flame to her cigarra until the tip glowed a cherry red. Clouds of white smoke billowed from her mouth and nostrils as she exhaled, eyes half closed in satisfaction.
She was seated in the corner furthest from Fel's table, at a booth the cantina's dim lighting did not illuminate. Her back was to the wall and her view encompassed the entire establishment, including the bar and the entrance. It was the best position to be had; the same place she'd been seated when a flutter of her lashes and a smile had convinced Jace Stealer to point out the crew of the Unfair Advantage to her all those years ago. Funny, that she'd ended up in the same place with the same quarry...only this time there was no one to stand between her and the captain.
Erin slid out of her booth and crossed the cantina, coming up on Fel's right.
"Why hello, Captain." Her face bore no expression, but her pale eyes were alive with humor. "Fancy meeting you here."
There was a DeathHammer blaster pistol on her right hip, and Sylvia hugged her ribs beneath the faded olive jacket she wore, snug in a cross-draw holster, but Erin made no move for her weapons. Fel had to know what this was about. And he looked tired, by Chaos. But he also looked fed up, and angry. She wondered idly what he would do; whether he would resign himself to his fate or give her a fight. If he wanted to, Erin knew he could give her a good one.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on May 28, 2013 15:50:27 GMT -8
Fel had tilted the last of his drink back, letting the fiery liquid burn its way down his throat. He was halfway through a most satisfying wince -- the alcohol sharpening his senses, even as it dulled them -- as the voice bored a hole through his memory. For the briefest of moments all emotion left his face, and the hardened spacer was as sober as a preacher. Then his eyes narrowed, and he set his jaw.
Her.
Setting the glass on the bar-top, Fel let an audible 'aaah' escape his lips, ostensibly proclaiming the 'shine to be good or at the very least, not poison. He left his hand on the table's surface where he knew she could see it, but he neither turned to face the one who spoke to him, nor made any movement except to wave down the bartender to fill his glass.
"Mistakin' me fer someone else. I'm no Captain. Barely a pilot. Ballast, more like. Heh! Yeah, ballast." Addressing the bar-keep: "Keep that good 'shine coming!"
She'd reply. He was certain of it. He didn't remember everything there was to know about the dangerous filly, but he was sure she'd want to spar verbally, or see the whites of his eyes before moving in. That gave him a few seconds. His eyes glanced to the left, out across the Red Shift, toward the exit. The bartender was approaching.
A man had entered. Powerful, but keeping it hidden beneath... that jacket. The man's back was to Fel. That insignia. The outlander's mind raced. The man was six feet away, the girl behind him, maybe two paces distant. One chance. Maybe two.
The smiling barkeep reached out to Fel, the mug of potcheen held between his thumb and index finger...
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Post by Erin Darkwell on May 31, 2013 17:05:37 GMT -8
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. The man had nerves of steel, she had to give him that. She supposed it came with the territory; her instructor had once told her that a smuggler's greatest weapon was the art of the bluff. Puffing on her cigarra, Erin remained where she was for a moment longer, contemplating her next move. Caution would serve her well here, but while she didn't dare trifle with Galdaart, she also couldn't resist the lure of a bit of verbal sparring.
"Keep your hands on the table." Erin murmured absentmindedly, circling around the table to the chair set opposite the smuggler. She seated herself, tugging her DeathHammer free from its holster in the same motion and laying it in her lap.
There was a heavy glass ash tray in the middle of the table. Erin shifted it closer to her with her free hand and tapped her cigarra against the side, her pale eyes never leaving Fel's. For a moment she was silent as she studied the lines of his face, the scar running from either corner of his mouth. The last time she'd actually come near the man he'd hit her so hard she thought she'd never draw another breath. The memory failed to bring a sharp edge of anger with it, but her full lips did bow into a reserved smile.
"I'd like to say you're a hard man to find, but..." She shrugged and took another drag off her cigarra. "Odd, isn't it? Me, catching up with you again here, of all places? The Skip doesn't hold the best of luck for you. I thought you'd have the sense to stay away."
She was rambling, she knew. Her mouth kept running but her eyes were looking past Fel, fixed on the man at the bar. A fuggin' power hammer, really? That was no smuggler, obviously. But what was he, and would he give her trouble? The assassin shifted her attention back to her target. If anyone tried to get between her and the Captain this time, she would take them apart. Simple as that.
"Fel." There was a sharp edge to her voice. "It's over."
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on May 31, 2013 18:36:01 GMT -8
"Fel." There was a sharp edge to her voice. "It's over." "You go ahead, put that on the counter, friend. Lady here says I should keep my hands whee she can see 'em." He still didn't look at Darkwell, but cast his gaze down at the bar-top. "You wouldn't deny a man one final drink, would you?" He slowly reached for the mug, lifted it to his lips, took a long, slow sip. Tilting the mug back to level, he let the potent brew burn its way down his throat. He breathed once, twice. Finally locked eyes with the assassin, one ice-blue eye, weary and wise beyond its years, and one sickly yellow eye, synthetic and whirring as it focused and refocused. Then two things happened simultaneously. The contents of the mug, and hell -- the mug itself were thrown toward Darkwell, and the table was knocked over as Fel reeled back, out of his chair, pulling the DL-22 free of leather.
The question wasn't whether fight, or flight was the right choice -- it was how much of both courses might potentially save his skin. Fel knocked three patrons on their asses on his way to the door, snapping off four quick shots at the table, and the being behind it, as much to keep her head down as to do any real damage (which would've been a nice bonus.) The door to the outside world was only a few running paces away. Only a few seconds, and he'd have a fighting chance... |
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Xeonon Solomon
The First Order
Posts: 2,206
Affiliation: First Order
Traffic Light: Blue
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Post by Xeonon Solomon on Jun 2, 2013 8:20:11 GMT -8
Things had gotten hairy fast, so fast in fact that he did not really have time to react. One moment it was calm and his quarry was talking to some lady, the next guns were drawn and people were running. He had spent to long tracking this man down and there was no way some bounty hunter was going to get in his way of capturing the fugitive Fel. STOP!
He only had two options, well three if you count the force but who cares about that mystical mumbo jumbo. Not wanting to risk shooting someone else in the bar that left Xeonon with only one choice. The hammer. The thing that weighed 10 pounds would be hard to throw for a normal person but he was no mere mortal. Grabbing the power hammer his bionic arm he threw it end over end towards the fleeing man. His aim though was not to hit him, no if he did that it was very possible that the blow would kill him. Instead he aimed for the table that was just in front of him, the hammer hit the table causing much of it to splinter. The parts that did not though were low to the ground and heading very fast towards Galdarts feet.
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Post by Erin Darkwell on Jun 7, 2013 16:16:15 GMT -8
She nodded in polite acknowledgment when the bartender approached, ignoring Fel's comment in favor of another drag off her cigarra. Beneath the table, her fingers tightened around the grip of her blaster pistol. 'He's going to run,' Erin remarked with a hint of disbelief. 'This crazy rodder is going to run.' Pale gaze flickering over to the bounty hunter at the bar, the assassin wondered if he would intervene when the poodoo hit the fan, or if he would wait to see how it played out. No way to tell, and so the only question left was: who would make the first move?
"By all means." She replied.
The smuggler tipped up his cup to finish the last dregs of his booze...and then exploded into motion.
Erin coolly swept her left hand up and to the left, smacking away the hurled cup and what remained of its contents. Simultaneously, she kicked both legs out against the central leg supporting the table, causing her chair to scoot backwards. Her right hand came up gripping the DeathHammer, finger tight on the trigger. Cigarra dangling from the corner of her mouth, Erin squeezed one eye shut and fired three rapid shots at the fleeing smuggler: the first to the right shoulder blade and the second to the center of the back. The third collided with another patron whose wild attempt to seek cover actually carried him into harm's way.
"STOP!"
Erin's gaze flickered over to the man who had shouted, the bounty hunter, and then she sprinted after her target. She sidestepped a drunk who lacked the sense to clear the floor and then slid to a halt as the man's hammer flew through the air, crashing into the table just in front of Fel in an explosion of splinters.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Jun 7, 2013 16:51:54 GMT -8
It all happened so quickly. But not Fel's usual rendition of 'quickly,' where there was a moment after the intense burst of kinetics, when one could catch breath, reload a pistol, and plan the next move. No, this version of 'things happening quickly' involved a downward spiral of events, none of which went Fel's way.
He'd been having a bad feeling ever since stepping foot into the Red Shift. Nobody to lean on. Nobody watching his back. Not even the Tin Can.
He made it maybe six paces. The place blew up pretty quickly, Darkwell was good, there was no question about it. He elbowed his way through the few patrons fool enough to be in the way with very little trouble, most of the lowlifes looking to get the hell out of the way as it was, so they dropped pretty fast, making Fel a big target. He heard the report of Darkwell's blaster twice. The first covered the left side of his neck and shoulder in something warm which didn't belong to him -- an unlucky patron.
The second shot found the meat of his shoulder and spun him like a top, inertia tossing his arm out to the side as he dropped the DL-22. Momentum carried him in his original direction, even as the table (now behind him as he spun) exploded with the impact of the hammer, sending splinters and shrapnel everywhere, some burying itself into his calves, thighs and lower back. The third shot, originally aimed at his back, caught him centre-mass, just above the sternum, and darkness closed over him as he hit the floor, a few feet short of the door of the Red Shift...
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Xeonon Solomon
The First Order
Posts: 2,206
Affiliation: First Order
Traffic Light: Blue
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Post by Xeonon Solomon on Jun 8, 2013 3:35:50 GMT -8
Fel was down. Fear crept into his bones though, he had seen the shot hit him in the chest. All this work, all the planning, tracking was going to be for naught and why? Some love sick hussy. Grabbing his own slugthrower out from under his coat he pointed it Erin. What the hell do you think you are doing! This is Imperial business get out of here. As he said this he kept the weapon pointed at her while walking towards what he assumed was a dead Fel.
Stepping over one of the many patrons who was either down because of fear, drunkenness or was dead he kept his .48 pistol pointed directly at the womans chest. Fel if you can hear me say something dammit! suffice to say if he didnt hear him will things were going to get messy.
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Post by Erin Darkwell on Jun 22, 2013 19:29:05 GMT -8
Erin lowered the smoking barrel of her blaster as she approached Fel, ignoring the chaos that had erupted all around her. The place was emptying out quickly; patrons crowded the exit and fought each other to get out. There wasn't much screaming- the clientele of the Red Shift were rather notoriously jaded fellows. Kneeling beside the downed smuggler, Erin stripped back his battered flight jacket to expose the wound on his chest. It was bad, but nothing a few hours in the bacta tank aboard the Tryst wouldn't fix. By the time she delivered him to Aargau he'd be right as rain. She paused in her ministrations to shoot the armored fellow an annoyed glance.
"Imperial business is my business, idiot." Her pale gaze went to the pistol being aimed at her, then moved up to his eyes. He was obviously agitated for whatever reason. Erin rather thought she'd done the man a favor, but he seemed more concerned over Fel's well being. Realizing this Imperial agent was going to give her trouble, the assassin heaved a sigh and pressed the barrel of her pistol against Fel's temple.
"I was given the express authority of the Imperial Remnant to bring the criminal Galdaart Fel to justice." She said matter of factly. "So take your fuggin' gun off me."
It was a gamble, Erin knew, but she was playing on the apparent concern the agent had over the smuggler's well being. Probably wanted to bring him in alive and earn some prestige for himself. Not that it mattered- this was Erin's contract, and those were her credits waiting for her on Aargau. There was an overturned table a few feet away; if the agent decided to open fire she could launch herself over Fel's body and take cover behind it, but that would only offer protection for a few seconds. She was in a bad position. Her teeth gritted, Erin waited for the man's response.
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Xeonon Solomon
The First Order
Posts: 2,206
Affiliation: First Order
Traffic Light: Blue
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Post by Xeonon Solomon on Jun 27, 2013 18:25:47 GMT -8
When Xeonon heard that she was on Imperial business he just about snapped. He just about shot the ever loving shit out of this person and it wasnt even her fault. No it was some aspiring Imperials fault, Xeonon had been ordered by the leader of CONMPOR, Gabriel Solomon to catch this little shit. This girl had to have been contracted out by some Moff or something, someone who no doubt wanted to get up higher on the Imperial ladder. Xeonon lowered his weapon but his face was still a mask of hatred. Looks like you and I have the same reason for being here. Reaching out with his left hand, the hammer which had been on the floor flew over to his hand with a loud thump. So what are we going to do about this?
The mark was still to say something and there was an uneasy feeling in the pit of Xeonons stomach. The shots that hit him had obviously been bad; what the fuck dude. Why shoot the guy in the back? Especially if they were gun shots that can kill him, hopefully there was some shit that they could do to save the man.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Aug 31, 2013 5:29:24 GMT -8
um... still unconscious here
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Post by Erin Darkwell on Aug 31, 2013 18:54:00 GMT -8
"We aren't going to do anything." Erin said matter-of-factly, and then unzipped the side pocket on her pants. She retrieved a bacta pad and slapped it on the wound to Fel's chest. She didn't have any synthflesh on hand, which wasn't ideal, but the bacta tanks on the 'Tryst' would keep the captain alive. In fact he'd probably be fully recovered by the time they reached Aargau; she could deliver the Remnant's merchandise undamaged.
"He'll live. One blaster bolt to the left pectoralis minor, nothing more than a flesh wound. Hit him at an angle." The assassin's finger traced the border of the bacta pad on Fel's chest as she spoke. Then, with a bit of a heave, she rolled the man on his side to expose his back to the other Imperial agent. "This is the one that'll keep him in the bacta tank. Right deltoid is charred to basically nothing, some minor scoring to the scapula itself but no breakage."
She let the smuggler drop and stood, fixing her pale gaze on Xeonon. Someone must have kriffed up quite badly, sending two agents after the same target without either of them knowing about it. Mostly likely this was the result of ambitious Moffs, vying for some political edge. Irritating and inconvenient, but Erin supposed she should have expected it.
"This is my contract. I'm taking him in."
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Xeonon Solomon
The First Order
Posts: 2,206
Affiliation: First Order
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Post by Xeonon Solomon on Sept 1, 2013 3:47:46 GMT -8
If he had a free hand Xeonon would have face palmed, here we were arguing over the body of their mark over who is going to take him in. A random bounty hunter or a force using badass, for a split second he considered using the force to rip her in half but thought better of it. That was the job of the Sith not an Inquisitorial Knight. Listen we could do this all day, I am bringing him in, no I am. However all I care about is getting this scum back home. If it is a matter of money... It wasnt personal glory he was after, no he simply did not trust this person. Trust them to get Fel there alive, trust them to even show up in the first place considering the state of the hyperspace lanes in the Deep Core.
He could tell by the look on her face as she spoke to him that she was not about to back down. They had already wasted to much time here, time that could be spent doing something productive. Dont fail. With that he tucked his gun back under the Bantha hide coat and turned around, the symbol of the 4th Galactic Empire dominating her view of his back. Strutting out he looked over his shoulder only once the look on his face said it all. If you fuck this up there will be no place in the galaxy where you will be safe.
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Post by Erin Darkwell on Sept 1, 2013 10:18:03 GMT -8
Erin waited until the agent left before she holstered her pistol. It wasn't that she thought he would shoot her in the back- something about his demeanor told her he wouldn't- but taking chances at this juncture would be foolish. Flipping the smuggler onto his side once again, the assassin retrieved another bacta patch and applied this one to the wound on Fel's back.
"I think we both knew things would end this way." Erin said gently, smudging a streak of blood off his forehead with her thumb.
Sighing, the assassin stood and hoisted Fel up over her shoulder in a fireman's carry. The smuggler's lanky frame was so light she actually misjudged how much force would be necessary and nearly unbalanced herself.
Shooting one last look around the empty, devastated cantina, Erin exited with her next paycheck in tow.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 3, 2013 5:04:00 GMT -8
Though the smuggler remains unconscious, the act of rolling Fel on his side causes an involuntary spasm of the left arm, barely more than a twitch, but certainly enough to alert the Bounty Hunter, and the Imperial Agent, that he was still alive, since vitals hadn't been checked. Having been rolled onto his chest to apply the bacta patch on the burn where his shoulder used to be, it was lucky for Darkwell that the Imp had walked out the door before the effects of the bacta patches became evident.
Her attention drawn to a moan from where Fel lay at her feet, Darkwell would observe what appeared to be second degree burns growing outward from the location of the bacta patch, and veins darkening to pitch in the same areas.
Something was not as it should be, but it would take more than a first aid kit to determine what, exactly.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 9, 2013 6:34:54 GMT -8
Darkness washed over Galdaart Fel. Not the peaceful darkness of sleep well-earned through exertion or exhaustion, but the feverish, swirling darkness of unconsciousness. In this place, Fel was powerless to stop the demons from entering his mind. Thoughts he didn't entertain in his waking life, or even in dreams. Here, he was at their mercy.
Pain, failure, loss, regret. These were all themes and images he faced in his unconsciousness. He could deal with regret. No man worth his salt went through life and didn't accumulate some measure of regret. But being forced to examine every choice, every fork in the road in a disjointed, house-of-mirrors haze was nauseating. The pain was likely real. Fel knew enough to know that was his subconscious dealing with the reality of his present situation. And he was used to images, flashes of the fire. The fire. The Fire. THE. FIRE. His skin bubbling, cooking. Muscles roasting, fat rending. And the screaming that always went with it. His own voice, reaching crescendos he didn't know he was capable of. No escape. No reprieve. The crash that ended one life, and started this one.
What hurt worst was the loss, the failures. He had lost so many men the names were blurred and forgotten. He wondered aloud (in his dream-state) how it had changed him as a human being. How he viewed life and death. How he weighed a person's life versus his own, and what made a wingman, a squadron-mate, a crewmember worth more, or less. There was a cold place where his heart should be, and the ice that ran thru his veins spilled out, freezing everyone who got too close to him. This was where the images of Malora, Wade, Dazac, Stealer, Wrench, Crux, and Liya swirled, condemning him, judging him, hating him for what he was.
There were others, too. Bounties. Marks. Men he'd lost and whose names he vaguely remembered, back to the beginning. Beroya, Rend, Thane, Vaselli, Tarwin, Gyyll, Qorbin, Arcturus, Anarth, and twenty more he didn't know. They hated him. They wanted him dead. No, worse, they wanted him to suffer.
Worst of all were the 220 beings from Dantooine who fell to his guns, and the guns of his squadron on his orders. These people didn't even have names to him, nor faces. But they too were present, spitting on him, hating him for stealing their lives, for making poor choices, for living doggedly on, placing one foot in front of the other not because he had to, but because he was too stubborn to lie down and die. They pressed down on him, the weight of hundreds of lost souls, wrapping their hands around his throat.
Galdaart Fel wanted nothing more than to grant their wish.
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