New Friends; New Beginnings

Amos grunted, waving a hand blearily in front of his eyes. One of his dreadlocks leapt in the air as a finger struck a glancing blow; the rest remained firmly draped across his face. It wasn't the hair that he was trying to bat away with his vague gestures: it was the high-pitched whistle that was drilling its way through his head. It took a few minutes to suss out that the sound was attacking his ears and not his eyes, and that it was totally intangeable, so flailing wouldn't really do that much good. With a reluctant, sleepy grunt, he hurled his shoulders upwards, the momentum swinging him into a sitting position, his head cracking audibly against the upper bunk.

A string of curses later, and Amos had wrapped a hand around his dreadlocks, and tied them back with a short length of cord. Vision restored, his eyes swept the bunkroom for the source of the annoying noise. His eyes settled on Trip, the Utility Droid that Jaden had left aboard the Astral Queen to help maintain the ship. Still too early to form actual words, he conjured a low growl from the back of his throat. The droid cocked its head to the side and, seeming to get the message, the shrill whistle ceased.

Head granted some brief mery from the painful noise, Amos allowed himself a few seconds to savour the silence, closing his eyes to better appreciate it. Apparently believing that Amos had fallen asleep again, Trip began making that infernal racket again. Amos unleashed another growl, rounding on the droid with a glare. Trip rolled backwards, squatting down on his forelegs, head tipped up so his single eye could still focus on Amos. The human let out a sigh; something about the droid reminded him of the idiot canine they'd had as a pet in his youth.

Shifting his tone towards something a little less threatening, Amos finally managed to wrap his mouth around some real words. "What is it?"

Cautiously, the droid rolled back forwards again, slowly adusting his pose until he was once again perched on his hind wheels, forelimbs tucked in underneath. His head twitched from side to side briefly; if he'd been fitted with a tail, it would probably be wagging. "We are approaching the completion of our hyperspace jump, master," the droid informed him, in his small, synthetic voice. It had taken Amos a little while to adjust to the fact that the Utility Droid could speak; it was one of the customisations in his design, although it came at the expense of any kind of astrogation abilities. The best he could do on that front was relay the information that Amos could have walked to the cockpit and read himself.

With a sigh, Amos clambered to his feet. "Thanks, Trip," he muttered, unhooking his gun belt from a handy protrusion on the bulkhead beside him, carefully fastening it into position. "Lets go land this thing."

- - -

Amos was amazed by his lack of crashing. Granted, he'd had pleanty of practice doing such things over the seven years that he'd toured around the galaxy with Jaden Luka aboard the Astral Queen, usually when Jaden wasn't in a fit state to fly. But all of those times, he'd had Jaden sitting beside him, talking him through the process if necessary: even a half-conscious or hung-over coach was better than no coach at all. Amos had considered trying to get Trip programmed with a few generic encouraging phrases, but decided he was more likely to become annoyed, let go of the controls - causing them to plunge into a fiery and explosive impact with the ground - and tear the droid's vocabulator out than actually land safely.

The 'Queen safely stowed in one of Sel Zonn Station's docking bays, Amos was busy pacing his way along the main thoroughfare, checking off the shops as he passed. The Alliance had been kind enough to stock his ship with enough food, fuel and other supplies to get him as far as Brentaal - here - but that had been all they were willing to part with. He'd need to replace all of those, pick up some Medical supplies, maybe a few spares for the 'Queen's twitchy systems; he glanced almost whistfully at the Droid repair shop as he passed, wondering if they could do anything to fix the rolling annoyance that was trundling along beside him.

A few paces further, and Amos made a decision. Before him stood Gundark's Cantina: the local bar. "Supplies can wait," he muttered, the comment intended for the droid that should have been next to him; unfortunately Trip hadn't noticed Amos come to a halt, and was already a few dozen meters further along the thoroughfare. Sighing, Amos blasted out a shrill whistle of his own: revenge against the droid for his rude awakening. Trip came to a halt, rotating slowly on the spot before spotting his current master, and beginning his strange squat-shimmy advance back to Amos' heel.

That pet-like familiarity tugged at Amos again, and he growled inwardly at himself. "C'mon, Trip," he muttered, a little more gruffly than he'd intended. "Lets go get a drink."

A choice made often has consequences. The choice he made, he knew of what would come. Such was the lot of those who turned their back on the proud Empire of lies. The consequences were many, but the rewards would be greater, the cost sometimes too great but that was the lot of the Jedi in this day and age. For what was good and right, for freedom, for those who could not yet fight for the ability to choose – for those who could not speak out. For those who no longer could. For those who sacrificed, for those who would, and for those who the treacherous road would still continue. For peace, as temporary as it would always be in its blinking little instances, scattered across the landscape of time and war, this was what he was. Justice, and more besides. The first of the consequences had already reared their heads. He was a marked man, the hunters came for him. Until such a time that his kind were not a despised minority (if such a time were ever to come again), the hunters would come and they would be turned away, in one fashion or another. There were further choices to be made. Choices, always choices. He would not be going back. The powers that be in this galaxy would not so easily forgive his slight against them. It mattered not: The healer had no intention of ever going back in the capacity he held before. It was far better to be awake and in the truth, once again.

Brentaal – Aside from the business of the past two decades, Ilias Nytrau had not truly stepped foot on the planet since the old time, when he was still straddling the horse of student AND teacher, warrior and healer. The time had come again that he took up those mantles, but he was not to step foot planet-side this time. No, a brief stop over on the Sel Zonn Station, transfer of his belongings (of the important ones, there were few) to another transport, and the abandonment of his ship to the new owner was all that he was here for.... then it was wherever his musings or perhaps the Force might lead him. The arrangements had already been made prior to his little jaunt on Velusia. The pickup was set for this place, in two days time. By then, he would hopefully be long gone. The Oa’s memory banks were already transferred to a small collection of datapads and wiped, the ship stripped of his personal touches and reset to basic specifications. It was a clean slate for the new occupant, who had paid a sizeable sum for the top of the line research vessel to the specified out-of-the-way account with no known connection to its owner. The Jedi had known this time would be coming for him. He had kept his tracks swept away. All that was before him now was the remainder of the day and the discovery of a willing transport with the right leanings.

Gundark’s Cantina was the local watering hole. He recalled it well. A memory from his last visit here as a younger Knight crept up in his mind, bringing a bemused smile to his face, which was otherwise weary and worn from the events of the past weeks and months. Reconnecting to the Force on a more consistent and regular basis did something to ease the residual strain of the life left behind. In public places such as these, he kept a cap on it, the barest of threads still hooking him to the great pool. You never knew who was watching. Eyes, watchful eyes were everywhere, and as Nytrau entered the bar, he pulled the dark cap off his head, scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed in relief – appearing as if he had been looking forward to what a cantina always had to offer. In he went, slapping the all-around, short-brimmed cap back on his head and tugging at the lapels of his jacket, straightening it of the folds that applied themselves to it from the pilot seat he had been sitting in only an hour before, prior to idly wandering the shops, blending in with the common-folk. He approached the bar (which wasn't too terribly busy midday) and dropped himself onto a stool. The barkeep eyed him critically - as he likely did with every nonregular customer - then grunted the typical question:

"What, then?"

The former doctor drummed his fingers on the bartop, appearing as if he hadn't quite decided yet, furling his facial features a little in thought. Then the drumming paused, the furling dropped and Ilias looked at the man (assuming that it was in fact 'Gundark' Saff himself) and shrugged.

"I am not too picky. Just an ale. Nothing too strong, though. "

Blending into crowds was not among the talents that Amos posessed. In fact, there were a great many things missing from that particular list, and those specific skills seemed to be variations on the theme of blow up (object). The dreadlocks didn't help; neither did the several extra inches of height he had over most other humanoids that he encountered. He did his best, dressing in the kind of loose, casual clothing that would look most at home hanging off a moisture farmer on Tatooine, but the net result made him look like a farm labourer's murderous elder sibling.

Fortunately, in places such as this it was your attitude that got you noticed - or not, as the case may be - rather than your looks. Hunched over the bar at a slight angle, one arm propping him up while the other steadily resupplied his mouth with more beer, Amos radiated don't look at me vibes. Occasionally someone did; from beneath the curtain of ropelike locks came a glare that quickly converted them into don't look at me, or I'll break off your arm vibes.

Amos had just retrieved his second full glass of ale from the bar, and was holding it steady to avoid spilling any of the precious fluid when the man sat next to him stood up and staggered. Reflex snatched the beer out of the way, but the sudden moment caused it to spill over the edges, splashing over Amos' hands and drizzling down onto the head of Trip who, for some unknown reason, had squashed himself right up next to Amos' stool. The droid didn't seem to notice the slick of moisture atop his flat head, although the snap motions of Amos' wrist as he tried to shake free as much of the liquid as possible managed to attract his attention. The pancake head tipped up, sending the beer cascading onto the droid's back. Amos sighed, and swapped his beer back to his sodden hand, downing an enthusiastic mouthful before any more could be wasted.

With the man beside him gone, Amos had the opportunity to study the next patron along; a middle-aged man with a rather interesting choice of headwear. Something about him seemed a little off for this kind of establishment; too neat; too polite, perhaps. He seemed like the sort of person that would normally fly around the galaxy in moderate comfort, but who had been forced to endure an unexpected layover on this frellhole of a station.

There was something more about him however; something that Amos couldn't quite place. It wasn't familiarity: at least, not visual. He was certain he'd never seen the man before. But still, something tugged at what felt like a memory. Raising the beer back to his lips, Amos lowered his head, and watched through the veil of his dreads.

The barkeep had pushed for a definite decision, stating rather matter-of-factly in a slight irked tone that he ‘isn’t in the business of making up people’s minds for them’. Ilias cupped his chin with one hand and put up the very believable façade of being indecisive for a full two minutes before deciding to go with a Corellian Spiced Ale, crossing his arms on the bar counter once the decision had been made. Not much variety there. The last time he had remotely indulged in an alcoholic beverage, it was the same order, different bar, almost on the other side of the galaxy. It wasn’t a regular thing, but he had always liked that particular drink. Another minute or two later and the pint was with him, in hand, tipped for enjoyment to his waiting mouth. The liquid slithered over his tongue and down his throat, where he swallowed and sighed with satisfaction.

“Just the way it should be.” He settled back a little on the stool, keeping one hand firmly wrapped around the handle of the pint glass, a relaxed smile appearing on his face. Just minding his own business, tending to the droid alongside him with divided attention. The droid however, seemed almost oblivious to the substance sloshed on his flat head.

Hmm? Oh. That was interesting. Not overly so, but he knew well enough that there would always be someone or another watching. He didn’t think he would peg it on being someone so… gruff looking, but everyone has eyes and anyone with half a brain could be an informant, or worse. Or perhaps… Ilias’ brow knit as something vague hooked on in his mind. It seemed almost to have a passing familiarity, it was so weak. With caution, he opened his senses more and was rewarded with some semblance of an answer. He lifted his head a little from its set-back place, sitting up a little, glancing out the corner of his eye as if curious. No doubt, the dreadlocked individual next to him was watching him, while trying to appear as if he was minding his own business. The Jedi slowly turned his head, a genuinely friendly smile set on his lips. He swiveled the single-pole stool and propped an elbow up on the bar counter, looking at the man with an intent to converse.

Interesting indeed. Something about him looked familiar, but not wholly. There were facets. Resemblances. His smile widened; he spoke up, adjusting the fedora on his head a titch. “Passing through, or are you from around here?"

Amos was somewhat taken aback at having been spoken to so directly. Granted, his skills at covert surveillance weren't such that he expected not to be noticed, but he figured the guy was more likely to feel a little uncomfortable, and finish his drink quickly so he could leave. Not only was it less fun when the victims of his observation didn't get creeped out and run away; in this instance, the shift in attention was making him uncomfortable. The smile that adorned the other man's features didn't help either. It was one of those Hey, how are you? smiles that you threw at people you recognised and hadn't seen in a while. Amos scrutinised the man's face as best he could; the recognition - or whatever it was - still niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't pull out an appropriate name. He couldn't even think of a time, a place, or any other kind of common thread that might lead him in the right direction.

Whoever this guy is, his subconscious whispered, ominously, He definately seems to recognise you.

"Uh..." Amos' mind struggled to connect enough words together to form a sentence. He decided to start off by hacking the question apart and reusing some of those, hoping that something a little more intelligent would follow in its wake. "Passing through," he replied. Good so far. "Refuelling. Resupplying. That sort of thing."

Way to go, Amos, a sarcastic voice in his head hissed; one that sounded annoyingly like Jaden Luka. Cool and casual as always. He definately won't suspect you of being - Apparenly, even the voice in his head was fumbling to find words. - suspicious.

There wasn't really much point attempting to maintain the ruse anymore, so Amos dropped the pretense and relaxed into his usual honest bluntness, fuelled by another deep swig of beer. "You don't exactly seem local either," he accused, accenting his point with a brief twitch of his eyebrows.

His smiled dimmed, and he turned his head slowly back to the ale his hand sat wrapped around, lifting it to take a large gulp, licking his lips, then lowering the glass and turning his head again to respond to the strangely, vaguely familiar person seated near him.

"I am..." He paused, clicking his tongue. "...I am not, you are correct. I am looking to merely pass through as well."

Expediently, I hope. He thought to himself, knowing the new owner for his ship would be along to pick it up in only a couple days' time, maybe sooner. He idly rubbed a finger back and forth on the side of the glass. Another facet of his well-built and maintained façade. So far, so good... his simple disguise had been enough thus far to avoid recognition. He didn't know if the man he spoke to watched the holonet, but there was sure to be others around here that did.

"Stations are not really my place of preference." He added on, shortly thereafter. "This is just my 'in-between' ah, between transports."

There was something off about the guy; something he couldn't place. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed far too - he searched for an adjective that might aptly describe his antithesis: calm, cultured, sophisticated, intelligent? - something to seem entirely at home in this kind of seedy, grimy establishment. Granted, there were pleanty of credits running through the station these days, and they certainly seemed to spend it, but there was something inherantly cheap and tacky about all space-way services, with their seemingly generic interiors and over-priced cuisine. The more wealthy people tended to head for the planet's surface and the more glamourous accomodations - the fact that the guy was here suggested that he was either lacking in credits (or perhaps too stingy to spend them), in a hurry, or some combination of the two.

At the thought of food, Amos glanced towards the menu, and instantly recoiled. a few occasional items were available without beans, although those exceptions seemed to exclusively come with some kind of egg thing. Having consumed the stewed, sickly-orange beans and the strange rubbery scramble of eggs before, he decided he was better off waiting to raid the food stores back at the ship instead.

He turned his attention back to the patron who had apparently become his accidental drinking companion. Between transports, the fellow had said. Deciding that there was little point in ignoring his curiosity - and precious little else to do other than pester the guy with questions - he took a casual swig from his glass.

"In between transports?" he echoed. "What ship are you waiting on? I can have my droid -" He rapped his knuckles atop Trip's flat head. "- check the arrival logs to see if they'll be ready to board any time soon."

A sheepish smile and furrowing of embarrassment flicked up on his face, then faded a moment later. He took a long sip of the brew in his hand, then set it on the bartop, folding his hands in his lap. The thirty-ish looking man tilted his head down a little, the short brim of his cap laying a shadow over his eyes. How did he answer that? Surely by now he'd be well-skilled in the art of evasion and lies of omission. A twinge of guilt tripped in his head over what parts of his once noble self he had to sacrifice to attain the ends he had which were, while not dishonourable, were cowardly in their way. Still, he convinced himself over and over enough times that what he was doing all these years did have a noble purpose itself... even if on the wrong side of the wall.

"That..." The former Imperial doctor began, "...will not be necessary. I dislike public transports."

He paused, looking as if he were mulling something over in his head. Rather, public transports are too... public right now.

Ilias turned his head to his present acquaintance, an expressionless look upon his face. He blinked. The questions seemed innocent enough and... a cursory feel gave him nothing suspicious. He hummed to himself, then spoke again, trying to glean what he could from the boy (as he was at least twenty years his senior. Secrets of secrets...) while he remained lacking in suspicion. "I am a very... private man."

Amos could have laughed. No wonder this guy looked so out of place - here he was, sitting around in a space station cantina, apparently without much of a plan, or a clue. That he was on the station implied that he was headed somewhere fairly specific - presumably he'd hopped off some other 'private' transport, but hadn't lent any consideration to how he was going to progress along the next leg of his trip.

He'd encountered human cargo before, and it came in various forms. You had your wide-eyed wanderers who ambled around the place, looking to get where they were going without much care for how it happened, and generally looking lost and absent-minded the whole time. Sometimes you got the over-excited oddballs mixed in with that - people who just wanted to fly somewhere in space for the hell of it, and who were practically busing out of their pants at the thought of it all. Jaden and Amos had picked up a couple of strays like that, back in the day - they paid okay, and were good enough company according to Jaden, though Amos found them a little too chatty for his tastes.

Sometimes, you got your recluse cargo; the kind that booked via holonet, loaded fast, and spent the entire time in their cabin, if you had one. They were usually business people who were too stingy to fork out for executive travel, or wannabes too poor to actually afford it. Once or twice you got exceptions - he and Jade had ferried a honeymoon couple once. The guy had made all the arrangements in advance, with all the credits he could scrabble together; in lieu of a private cabin, they'd set the happy couple with a makeshift bunk in one of the cargo holds with their essential supplies, and had left 'em to it. That type was usually the least hastle, and the least in your hair.

The other kind were the oddballs, like this guy here. They were a little undecided over which of the two they wanted to be. Usually first time flyers, or guys trying to sneak offworld for a little something-something without their wives noticing; maybe the occasional petty crook who wanted to high-tail it before the local authorities caught up with it. They fumbled and bumbled, trying to play the game like the professionals from category two, but plagued by inexperience, and the distractions of category one. Amos hated those people, but Jaden always had this whole pitty thing going on; they wasted far too much time - and often credits too, since they were rarely able to scratch together the full fare - and were irritating.

And yet, despite his loathing for the stereotype he had cast this guy into, he still found himself spewing out the most stupid of words, for a reason he couldn't quite grasp. "If you're looking for -" He searched for the appropriate euphamism, settling on the one his bar buddy had used. "- uh, private transport, I might be able to help you out. I've gt a ship in dock - she ain't pretty, but she'll get you where you're going."

He hesitated for a moment, realising he was pitching for a sale without actually realising what kind of service he was agreeing to provide. "Where is it you're trying to get to, anyhow?"

"Away." He answered plainly.

And that was the truth. For all the searching of the Force and seeking of clues as to where he should go, there had been nothing provided. It was a point of frustration. Or perhaps he wasn't at the place and time yet where those answers could be imparted to him. Where to go, where to go? He thought for several moments, scratching at his chin and making an attempt at finishing off the pint. Maybe if there were others... That was it. If there was a trail to pick up, the best place for it to be sniffed out would be there. Of all places, in an innocuous lower-level café, he'd seen her. Of all people, a solid link to his past.

The Jedi eyed his acquaintance another few moments, keeping to himself what he then and finally saw. He smiled. Yes, this was the right transport. Thank the Force for a sign.

"Bespin." Ilias amended, finally, a certain amount of conviction in his voice. It would no doubt be dangerous, being one of the last places he had been seen. The stragglers, the last of those sniffing his trail before moving on would likely have left by now. A couple days hence, his buyer would retrieve the Oa. He would be long gone by then.

"Yes, Bespin." He repeated. "I can pay your fares. I assure you that is of little issue."

Bespin, huh?

Bespin was, in the vaguest of navigational senses, closer to Naboo than here was. Not exactly on the way, but not exactly in the opposite direction, either. Wile he doubted that he was being followed, he did have a certain reluctance to making things easy for anyone who might try it. Cloud City on Bespin was an easy place to get lost; sure, there were Imperials around, but the same was true of just about everywhere in the galaxy. A transport flying to Bespin was far less likely to attract suspicion; while there, he could probably manage to get hold of the necessary papers and excuses to land on Naboo without too much scrutiny.

"What a coincidence," Amos said, hiding his own smile behind the rim of his beer glass. "I was planning to head in that direction himself."

His smile threatened to waver, but fortunately his mouth was too busy facilitating the passage of fluids for it to show. By this point in the passenger acquisition process, he'd usually wandered off to find a bar, strip club, or other distraction so that he didn't really have to pay attention. While being sat at a bar now certainly made him feel less uncomfortable, the simple fact was that he didn't really know what was meant to happen at this stage of proceedings.

He settled for draining his glass, and setting it down on the table. "Docking Level 3, Bay 14," he said simply. "My droid and I need to finish gathering supplies, and make arrangements for our departure; we'll depart as soon as we're both aboard."

Ilias nodded, draining his glass as well, tucking away the important pieces of information in an easily accessible area of his mind. Fidgeting with his cap, he offered a hand to the man to shake after setting his own glass down on the bar as well. His thoughts passed to his long-ago redheaded acquaintance, knowing that she very well might not be on Cloudy City at his arrival. A small smile formed on his face, attributed to the further thought of just how many more of their kind there was that she might be aware of.

The way of the Force is indeed mysterious.

"Docking Level 3, Bay 14." He repeated. "Thank you. How long do you think it will take before you are ready? Just an estimation. I can bide my time until then."

If he was right, his life was about to head in the direction of interesting in a way it hadn't in some time. The weight of what the future might behold pressed on his shoulders more now than it had in over twenty-five years. It was a welcome pressure.

Amos offered a shrug. In truth there were a selection of variables worth considering, but he'd never had the sort of mind that was able to process them. He considered addressing the droid: have him crunch the numbers. He dismissed that idea instantly though; talking to Trip only encouraged him to reply, and he planned on minimising his interactions with old pancake head as much as possible. Might just make the trip bearable.

"Call it an hour," he said, plucking a number from the air at random. It sounded reasonable anyway, provided that the Rodians from the landing bay didn't ambush him into a lengthy conversation again; that was an experience he wasn't eager to repeat, although he was relieved to know that Riiva and Suukon were back together and living on their Moisture Farm again, despite the nefarious intervention of their rival farmer Manzell. Amos had no idea who Suukon, Manzell or Riiva were, but given the enthusiasm and relief in the Rodian's voices, it sounded like a real crisis was over.

Yeah, an hour. That would work. He shifted awkwardly in his chair, wondering how one was supposed to end these sorts of conversations. When Jaden did most of the talking, he'd simply grunted and walked off, looking as threatening as possible when he did. Unfortunately, that sort of exit didn't seem appropriate here, and in truth he seldom listened to anything that Jaden said, to him or otherwise. He ran a mental checklist, ensuring that he'd acquired all the necessary details, and asked all the relevant question. his brow tugged into a frown; there was one thing he hadn't discovered yet.

"Do you, uh -" he muttered, not really sure how to delicately phrase his question to mask his ignorance, just in case it had been answered already and he'd just not noticed. Unfortunately, the blunt form was the only one his mind conjured up. "You got a name?"

A name.

Names were usually an easy thing. Usually, except in those odd cases where ones name wasn't exactly a thing of safety. On the other hand, if this fellow hasn't recognized his face by now, there was a safe bet that any name he gave wouldn't ring many bells at all.

"I have a name... only if you have one as well." The stare was an edge towards hard, scrutinizing and defining. A smile crept into the crevices of his facade to break the momentary scrutiny and the man offered a shake, a hand warm with the innate talent of healing energies the Force imbued him with from birth, underlaid by a rough, fierce variable. His concern was not because of man who was to be his transport... but of other patrons. The bar was quiet enough at this hour, but one could never be too careful.

"My name..." He said, edging off his stool, "...is Ilias."

There was always a risk. Always a risk in many a thing, nearly everything, a small measure of abandon in every choice. Just because it looks safe, doesn't mean it is and vice-versa. It felt like some small ownership of freedom had been transferred back to him, with the speaking of that name to someone other than his own silence. It had been over two decades and the time came once again to be that which he had always been.

Something about the shift in the man's manner aroused Amos' suspicions; he half expected some false name, to hide his true identity lest Amos reveal it to his pursuers. Frankly, the spacer didn't care. All he wanted was something to refer to his passenger as, rather than just "Passenger".

Even so, he was a little stunned when he caught a flicker of something genuine in the man's eyes. It was as if he was revealing a secret; not so much reluctant to reveal the name, as unused to saying it aloud. A first name, maybe, when the man usually went by his middle? A real name, when used to going by an alias? He couldn't be sure. No last name of course, but still - 'Ilias' was better than nothing.

Amos offered him a flicker of a smile. "Pleased to meet you, Ilias," he said, as warmly as his gravelled tones could manage. "I'm Amos Iakona."