Theed Spaceport

*Sin watched the woman, her words not really a surprise to her. But hearing Raven speak was more impactful for her. She sighs deeply, the day she felt starting to take its toll on her. Again, it was non stop, from breakfast, to coming to Theed, dealing with smugglers, Poppi, saving Jashin, twice, to now. Her gaze drifted out the viewport, she had a very long day and it wasn't even over yet. She almost didn't want to even get up. She felt Raven's hands encompass her's, she looked at Raven again.*

Thanks Raven..

*She starts to stand up, turning the small comlink she had in her lap over again and again. She really hoped that Raven was right. She put the comlink in one of the pouches on her utility belt, then She looked out the viewport again, she really hoped she did the right thing, not insisting that she go with Jashin again. She had this bad feeling in the pit of her stomach though. She nodded at Raven quietly as she stood up, she would walk out of the ship, and seal it when Raven was off of it.*

Silas and Isabelle pass on the landing ramp, the Preacher remaining silent, yet noting the bemused look on the woman's face, and with a nod of recognition they pass and to the best of his knowledge, Silas is honestly not sure they'll ever see each other again. 

There she is. Suddenly, the Preacher is certain he has found Neassa far too easily. Should he really be showing his hand this way? And with of all people, the warrior woman? How will she respond? Will his level of naivety be distasteful to her? Still -- the words come easily enough, and her answer, producing a sigh of relief, seems not only genuine, but... eager? That is a most welcome development.

Now the issue becomes explaining the trouble, and the help he seeks. Saying a small prayer, the wanderer hopes the words and language don't fail him.

The Captain has given me this. Producing Adrien's personal DC-15S blaster, laying it flat on his palm, handle respectfully toward Neassa. My own sidearm is what I am familiar with, and I would say with it, I could thread a needle at 50 yards. However... I have never had much success with these weapons. They move and react strangely, and I don't understand their energy delivery. a pause, while the Outlander regards the strange weapon His next words are spoken as he turns the gun over in his palm. Captain Draykon has tasked me with the protection of this vessel going forward -- a position I have accepted. his mind strays back to the doom-sayer and her prophesy, which he shakes off to remain in the present. Looking up, his eyes lock with her visor, approximating where here eyes would be. He cannot hide the hope in his voice. The meaning is plain. I am also tasked with seeking you out, to relay that he would like to speak with you, as well. I dare say the news is, if not what you may hope for, certainly what I have hoped for. 

Clearing his throat, Silas returns his gaze and his focus to the weapon between them. In any case. I am woefully inaccurate with these. And I... need training. The last words are mumbled, obvious shame lacing his speech. If you had time... I... 

Preacher took it all in, listening, comprehending -- but not overly confident. Grasping the pistol as it was meant to be held, he hefted the weight, still uneasy about its lack of mass, as compared to his slugthrower. Casting a glance about the now-empty (save the detritus of the departed refugees) hold, Silas spies a likely target -- two cargo crates stacked atop each other, which, with the addition of some cloth and an exposed bulkhead on the exterior wall, had been turned into a hammock by some enterprising former slaves. Pointing to the top-most crate, Silas inclines his head at a red freight label. There. The top crate. Symbol on the flat side. He raises the gun fluidly and fires, one seamless motion. His form is correct. The intention clear. And it is not a bad shot. maybe nine inches high and wide. Still on the crate, but considering the range of less than ten meters, nowhere near the intended 'bullseye.' and it would be obvious to Neassa that in the field, over an extended range the deviance from target would be far greater.

Sighing, he clears and locks the pistol, safetying the action. See? It is the same every time. There is so little report from the weapon upon discharging. No transfer of weight or energy. No 'kick.' With the slug-thrower I can anticipate, compensate for conditions... even coax. Exert even the tiniest fraction of my will over the physical properties of the projectile. But this he holds the blaster as if regarding a spoiled piece of fruit seems dead. Doesn't move right. What am I doing incorrectly, warrior?

The Preacher listened to all that Neassa had to say. He considered the notion that he was expecting too much from himself, and was not happy to admit, it may have been true. Years of experience notwithstanding, it was a new weapon, foreign to his hand. It would come. She was right about the next point, too. It may not have been the right blaster. But his current financial situation made it the defacto best choice, as it was currently the only choice. Still -- given a range of options, he'd prefer something heavier. Time slows when she touches his hand, her fingers atop his. Even though they are gloved, he can feel the warmth of her touch, and though he wouldn't care to admit it, his pulse quickens, and he is forced to concentrate to still the blood thrumming in his ears.

It goes on for what seems like fifty, sixty seconds -- but is more likely less than ten. If asked, Silas would never be able to know for certain -- though in days to come, it would be easy to acknowledge that it would be quite fine if the former were true. And then she steps away, nodding, inclining her head at the target once more, the inference plain.

He quiets his mind, slows the beating of his own heart, and lines up the shot, taking in all the points that the Warrior has made. The second shot is better. Not perfect, but markedly improved. A 'kill' for certain. Silas nods, safeties the weapon, and stuffs it in his belt.

hrm.

...and then he was awake, jolted back to consciousness as if from a nightmare. His heart-rate was elevated, and there were a few dots of crimson on the common area's table. Wiping a finger across the underside of his nose, it came away bloody. running. it--she's running. nearly spent. danger. she's in danger. we all are. here. now. Who? Who was in pain, and bringing danger here? His heart pounded, as hers did. He stood, and a sharp pain flashed across his guts. nearly doubled him over. he coughed, and a thin line of bile escaped his lips. wiping it with the back of his hand, he staggered to the landing ramp, leaning for support against the exposed strut. images flashed through his mind, but all were disjointed, unfamiliar. Collecting himself as best he could, he moved down the ramp, glancing around, taking in Erly and Trent, finishing up their conversation, and the deck crew, fueling and prepping the Midnight Shadow for lift-off. He scoured deep in his subconscious, but saw no reason to ready himself for battle. This was not that kind of danger. Not yet.

...and then she appeared. Her. Isabelle. She was changed. She looked very little like the woman he had spoken with not an hour before. But in addition to thee sleek, purposeful clothing and equipment she now adorned herself with, she was also changed in almost every other conceivable way. This was the focus of his image, there was no doubt. She was injured, and on the verge of collapse. He started to move, his limbs obeying duty, not reason -- as he knew very well she brought more trouble than they cared to have. His legs carried him swiftly across the tarmac, closing the distance between them in only a few seconds. And as she collapsed, he took hold of her. Passerby and those not looking for trouble would scarce have noticed the woman in distress. Reversing his direction in a single, fluid motion, Silas carry / dragged her, his arm about her waist and her arm slung over his shoulder. In her semi-conscious state, it appeared as though he was helping a drunk friend back to the ship. Her legs moved, but sluggishly, and heavily. She finally lost all semblance of control a few paces from the bottom of the ramp, and went completely limp in his grasp.

As he made the bottom of the ramp, his eye caught Erly's, and the look of urgency was unmistakable. Time to go. Now. As they swept into the common area, he moved straight for the med-bay, hoping that the Doctor would be able to stabilize her...

...so they could be rid of her. There was a pit in his stomach, filled with trepidation over the trouble she represented. He'd hold his tongue for now, as her survival was most important. But at some point, there would need to be truth between Isabelle the Chameleon and their Captain...

Among the many things that Plu, her adopted father and mentor, taught Neassa was that life does not stop just because one happens to be sick, tired, injured, depressed, or maybe simply not in the mood to have anything else thrown at them; and that survival very often demands paying full attention to everything going on around one. Mindfulness of her surroundings is second nature to Neassa, a habit so ingrained that not even her exhaustion and the nagging pain in her legs prevents her from using the scanning capabilities of her buy'ce to attend to what is happening in and around the Midnight Shadow while Draykon speaks to her.

Draykon's sales pitch could use some work, and Neassa isn't sure what exactly her role on the crew will be once it has been delivered, but Draykon's cocky, surprisingly insightful presumption that Neassa will be accepting the offer irregardless of the lousy pay and vague job description is entirely accurate; the ties binding her to Weston, Isabelle, and Silas guaranteeing Neassa's acceptance of the job.

You're right, Neassa agrees dryly with Draykon, tacitly accepting the job he has offered, whatever that position might be. You should, Neassa adds just as dryly as she uncrosses her arms and reaches for the EE-3 carbine hanging from a sling at her side, probably get the ship ready to lift off, something's up. Having watched the movements the lifeforms in and around the Midnight Shadow on her buy'ce's HUD, Neassa can't imagine that what she assumes is one crew member carrying another aboard the ship means anything other than trouble. Grunting as she pushes away from the wall and starts making her way aft to the boarding ramp, Neassa lifts her carbine into a high ready position and tells Draykon, I'll go check it out.

Watching Silas helping Isabelle, who appears to have sustained new injuries during her absence, towards the medbay, Neassa moves to the top of the boarding ramp to cover the other crew members yet to board the ship, asking Weston as she scans the area outside of the Midnight Shadow for any sign of the party or parties responsible for Isabelle's condition, Any idea what Izzy's gotten us into now?

Just as expected Neassa accepted his job offer, there was something about that one that he liked but he couldn't quite put his finger on it yet. She seemed to him to be more than just a soldier or mercenary or bounty hunter which he considered to be the typical Mandalorian molds. The way that Weston looked at her was telling, she was important to him and yet he saw her as some sort of authority. Piecing together her past would be a challenge, the two of them were tight lipped about their involvement together and she was a woman of few words as far as Adrien could tell. He acknowledged her recommendation to get the ship ready with a nod and then waved a silent dismissal as she said she would check out whatever was going on.

When she was gone he turned to the flight controls to begin the liftoff procedures, he had barely begun when he noticed the tremors in his usually steady hands. He stared at his hands for a moment before quickly pulling them back to his chest to stop the shaking as he stepped away from the console. With closed eyes he took a couple of deep breaths and then looked down at his hands again to see then still shaking but significantly less so. He removed his gloves and shoved them into his jacket, then unwrapped his hand to check the wound from earlier when he broke the bottle. It was healing but his hands were still covered in blood, his own and Connie's, the sight made him hurt all over and he doubled over barely able to contain himself.

Again he took some deep breaths to calm himself down, but the pain in each breath was audible. He did quickly composed himself as best as he could when he heard more footsteps approaching the cockpit. He avoided direct eye contact with Trent in hopes that the pilot wouldn't pick up on his grief and he would have time to fully collect himself once again. "It's fine, just get us offworld." After his quick, and slightly agitated toned response Adrien started toward the door.