9.113 The Wee, Small Hours of the Morning

[Halajiin Rabeak]

(This thread takes place on the night/morning immediately before "Rage Against the Dying of the Light.")

Night aboard a starship is little more than an idea perpetuated only so that those aboard may retain some form of sanity. The lights don't dim in the proposed evening, nor do they rise when comes the imagined morning. There is no time, no sense of purpose or place among the stars, stars ever-twinkling in their mocking expanse. But man must have his order; he must have his time and his sense of place, so out of the void he pulls his schedule and hangs it up as if the universe should know it and obey.

But would not the universe be a happier place if things could simply happen? If they could just unfurl as they might, with no schedule, no calendar, clocks or speed by which it must happen, wouldn't that be the best way? They could happen, then man could discover it in the proper cycle of day or night on whatever world they chose to transpire upon.

These were things Halajiin Rabeak had never wondered. He had known morning, day, evening and night most all his life, and his days were spent weaving in and out of every aspect, never worrying about their fragile nature. There would always be another day, the sun would rise and he would move ahead into it, bridging from one to the next with the ease of inhaling or exhaling, done even without his own notice. For twenty-three years, he knew that time was linear, and that his life would move along it in a single, unbroken path, until at last he found his end. Even then, his faith in Garfife, the Creator of All Things, gave him peace, as he knew he had been faithful and would be granted paradise when at last he died. He would grow old, perhaps settled down with a wife, and raised children, or perhaps having remained a bachelor and instead devoted his life to the training of others in the Order. Life was unpredictable, but its seamless path toward finality was certain.

Lying on his bed, Hal stared up at his ceiling and he wondered how he could have been so incredibly wrong.

Instead of the multicolored glow of city lights, speeder lights and colorful signs out his window back at the Jedi Order, Hal’s small, windowless stateroom aboard the Whaladon bathed in the cold, joyless celadon glow of his bedside alarm clock’s screen. The low rumble of the transport’s engines and the tinny whine of the life support system replaced the sounds of life which he had grown so accustomed to falling asleep to, and even his bed seemed thin and industrial compared to the mattress he had been sleeping on since he first came to the Order at the age of fifteen. Simpler days, he now knew, even though they had seemed so complex at the time.

At the time. The Nehantite allowed himself a chuckle in the darkness, a paw scratching his bare chest as he lay atop his sheets in just his undershorts. That time had been not so long ago that he didn’t still have some of its dust still left in his fur, but to those around him they had happened long before any of them were even born. Hal’s seamless path through life had stumbled upon a door, and a simple step through it for him had taken one hundred and seven years for the rest of the universe.

His clock read 3:47 AM, and he couldn’t help but wonder how many times people had looked at that same time on their clocks while he had been frozen in carbonite. He wondered how his family had dealt with never knowing what happened to him, how his friends might have searched in vain, and how, in time, he had been forgotten about entirely. He’d imagined he would make his mark on the galaxy, do something so amazing that all would remember him, and that Nehantites everywhere would be proud of one of their rare sons who went on to be a great man. Now, at 3:48, his brief smile faded, the chuckle replaced by a sigh. He hadn’t changed the galaxy; he hadn’t even been there when it needed him most. Like a slipper accidentally kicked under the bed, Halajiin had been forgotten, and by the time he was found, his other half had long ago been thrown away.

That was how he felt. Half of a whole which no longer existed. Oh, sure, there were new left slippers he was told would match him just fine, but it wasn’t the same. No one really knew them, nor could they, not yet, and maybe not even in time. This new Order, this way of life among the stars, on the run and living in fear – this was not the Jedi Order he knew, and though he could swallow it, he wasn’t sure how long he could continue to stomach it before becoming ill if he couldn’t adapt to it before then.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

When his clock read 3:49, Hal rewarded it with another sigh. Large toes flexed out of want of something to do, while he let his right eye close. Color disappeared from his world, replaced by the sharper, brighter image of his room in black and white from his left eye which had yet to heal from the effects of carbonite freezing.

Some said his race saw only in black and white, back in their earliest of days, and he wondered temporarily if this was how it felt. No, that was a lie. Garfife had created his world, and all things in it, fully-formed, that much he knew for certain and could not be swayed from. Still, to imagine that his improved low-light vision was a form of superpower, even if monochromatic, was enough to lift his spirit – if only slightly.

3:50. There would be no rest for him, that night. He had slept for a hundred and seven years, now was time for action, but there was no action to be had. The halls of the Whaladon were quiet, most all of her occupants fast asleep, lost in their dreams while Hal remained awake. There had been dreams on his previous nights, images of places and faces he once knew, a step back into his own life, but the morning always came and brought him back to this world.

Morning, the very thought of it aboard a starship made him shake his head, his longer headfur sweeping down into his left eye. Brushing it back, he glanced over at the clock. Still 3:50.

I’m bored. His lower functions voiced their feelings on the matter. Why won’t you turn off so that we can get some sleep?

I can’t help it. His higher functions replied. Remember those times I kinda shut down back at the beginning when we got here? Well, this is sorta making up for that.

But why do you have to think about it? I miss the old Order, too, and you’re making us feel terrible because you keep bringing it back up.

It’s not like I’m meaning to, you know. It’s just kinda… happening.

I’ll remember you said that next time you yell at next time something else just kinda… happens.

Dude, totally not the same. I’m thinking. That’s not near as dirty as –

Oh, get off it, you think things that are way dirtier than some of the stuff I ever get up to.

Well, uh… why don’t you go amuse yourself while I think, then?

Not in the mood for that. Besides, I need you for that, too, you know. Images, and all…

Guess we’re both screwed then, huh?

Maybe we should get up. Might take our mind off things.

3:51. The decision hadn’t taken long to make, but it was with a great melancholy that Hal swung his legs out of bed and rested his footpaws upon the cool, durasteel floor. Once more, memories of his old apartment came back, and he let his toes rub against the smooth surface, imagining it was the low-pile carpet of his old room. Across from him should have been a window, reaching floor-to-ceiling, but instead it was just a bulkhead wall with a dresser bolted to it, and a small desk beside that. On past sleepless nights, he would root through his drawers to find old flimsiplast photos of friends and family, or stand before his window and just watch life go by, outside.

Now his drawers held only borrowed clothing, none of it quite fitting, but close enough for comfort. He had been told that he would be properly outfitted, soon, but he knew it was not high on the Alliance’s list of priorities. His desk at least had some flimsiplast, now, and a stylus, but despite his attempts at drawing things, he couldn’t feel the groove like he used to, so they sat unwanted, much like himself.

Hal’s tailtip flicked idly as he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders slumped. Images of days long gone flowed back through his mind’s eye, and he regretted so many days and nights spent just doing nothing, feeling at the time as if he needed to be alone, instead of being with friends or with his family. Time had always seemed to be infinite, threatened only to be cut short by danger. The thought of having moved beyond his own time still bothered him, and he closed his eyes to pray once more that there might be a way he could go back.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

His stateroom was still there when he opened them once more. Hanging his head, Hal couldn't imagine that things would ever be as good again as they were, before. In the grand scope of the galaxy, he was the bad guy, now, on the run from the Imperial forces, the new symbol of law and order. His race was disgraced by the act of only a few, and worst of all, he didn't have anyone he could actually call a friend.

"Lights," his voice came as a whisper. Eyes squinting as the lamp overhead flicked on, Hal sat up to survey his room once more. Cold, grey metals with only the barest touches of paint here and there to soften the harsh, industrial feel, it was nothing like any of his rooms in the past.

Halajiin was not used to luxury or excess, as he had grown up in a poor, working-class family. Hand-me-downs were the rule of his life, clothing often repaired after his older brothers had grown out of them. Even his expectations had been handed down from his brothers, both of whom moved out to take on-the-job apprenticeships as starship engineers when they reached seventeen years old. Hal was to follow in their footsteps, and he knew it pained his parents when instead he was discovered by a Jedi, and invited to go and join the order. To his parents, being a Jedi meant a life of drifting and no steady employment. It meant risk and danger, and no reward great enough to support a wife and family. Hal pleaded with them that he wanted to go, but it had been forbidden.

At least until his mid-term aptitude scores came back from technical high school. Though he had tried, he had scored so poorly that any apprenticeship would be a long-shot, and it was only because of that news that his parents had let him go.

Looking around his room, once more, Hal realized that perhaps this was not so different than his first visit to the Order. There he had been separated from his friends and family and thrust into a new life, but at least he had the comfort of holo-calls, and an annual trip back home to spend their holiest holiday with his family. Now there was nothing, nothing but a pit of regret and despair growing in his heart no matter how much he tried to stop it.

No, this was different, he decided. This was so much different than his first visit to the Order. Back then, despite having left everything behind, there was love, compassion and hope to be found among his new masters and those around him. Here, there was nothing but facades of austerity, military order and the stench of self-preservation. This was not the Jedi way, Hal shook his head. This couldn't be allowed to continue. He had to take a stand.

And stand he did, then stretch and crick his back before yawning and rubbing his face. Nearly four in the morning, was it late or was it early? Hal decided he didn't care, time without a sun was all artificial, anyway, and he needed to take a leak

[Halajiin Rabeak]

It took only five steps from his bedside to his refresher, and once he was done there, he paused to wash his paws like a good boy.

A good boy. Now there was a laugh. Hal looked up from the sink to see himself in the mirror. How many things had he done that would have made his mother angry? How many nights had he spent in the bed of another, then got up without even knowing their name? The hotwired speeders, the stims with Garfife-knows-what in them, the wild parties, and drinking until he couldn't stand, then drinking more while sitting down. Then there were the lies, the missed family obligations and the lack of communication with loved ones back home. And now... now it was too late for all that. He'd missed his opportunity to make up for all the times he'd misbehaved, or gone against what he had been raised to be like. A good boy? No, Hal could see now that he hadn't been one of those at all.

But I tried. I really did.

We both did, but we didn't quite pull it off, now did we.

Shut up. You could have told me to stop. And it was always you who forgot Mom's birthday, or... everyone's really.

And what about you? You hardly ever actually called when I told you to. Then there's all the drinking when I kept telling you to stop.

Hey, that's not fair! Don't blame me for this! You let it happen!

I let it happen? You stupid, ignorant piece of dren! I can only suggest things, it's you who actually does them! If this is anyone's fault, it's yours!

Shut up! I hate you!

I hate you, too!

Tearing himself away from the mirror, Hal turned and threw himself face-first upon his bed. A Jedi was supposed to control his emotions, to keep himself in balance, but in that moment, Halajiin Rabeak broke down, sobbing out all his shame, regrets and sorrows into his pillow. Hos body shook with each ragged, mournful breath as the realization came on that he could never make up his sins to those he knew, and he could never truly know forgiveness. It was all far, far too late for that.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

When the tears had ended, numbness set in. Wiping his face on his pillow, Hal lay there a while longer, then sat back up. There was little use wasting time in grieving over the past and what had been lost. Now there was only the present, and what he could to to shape his own future.

Rising from the bed, Hal wiped his cheek once more, then combed his fingers through his headfur. He could be a new man, here, he could be anything he wanted, but what he wanted more than anything was to remain uncompromised. He was a Nehantite, he was a Jedi, but above all, he was Hal, and no one could ever change that.

Crossing back to the mirror in the nook near his room's 'fresher closet, Hal turned on the vanity lights there and stared squinting into them until at last his pink eyes adjusted. There he stood, unchanged from over a century while the universe around him flipped on its head. His headfur swept to the left in its lazy, surfer part looked every bit as carefree as it ever had as a boy, and he couldn't resist the playful, cavalier smile which worked up his muzzle as he stared into his own face. The galaxy could fall to pieces, but it couldn't change Hal. Hal was here, Hal was eternal.

And damn, Hal looked good.

Eyes drifting farther down over himself, the yellow-furred mongoose's smile grew wider. He wasn't heavily muscled and bulky, but nor was he a skinny stick, instead he seemed well-proportioned and toned, though slightly on the lighter side. Glossy fur played well over what musclulautre was visible, and among Nehantites he knew he was considered to be quite a catch - especially where the bulge in his undershorts was concerned. Before he knew it, his tail was already swaying in a sort of "come on" display, and the mongoose laughed at the thought of being aroused by the sight of himself.

Mmmf, can't blame it, though. If I had a clone, I'd do me.

Do you, or get done by you?

Wouldn't be fair to try one without the other. After all... damn I'm looking good...

Thumbs slipped into his waistband and soon he looked at himself naked before the mirror, his undershorts kicked away. Thoguhts best not repeated ran through his mind, and he even gave himself a knowing wink as he looked back over his own shoulder in the mirror at his backside. But as soon as the physical attraction came on, he felt a wave of reality wash over himself and it passed, leaving him staring at himself once more, but without the dizzyingly lustful thoughts of mating.

He could see himself now as a man, as just one creation among many, and even in the space of his cramped stateroom, he felt small and meaningless.

No! No, I will not accept that! I am more than just a man! I am blessed and I am good and right!

And still damn good looking.

And still damn good looking! But more than that, I'm a good-looking, blessed man who has a purpose in life, and I'll be damned if I can't carry it out!

But, how are we going to do that? We've got no money, no ship of our own, and not even a lightsaber, anymore.

Then we pick the most important one of those three and we go for it.

We get laid?

Well, yes, of course, but that wasn't one of the three.

It should have been. In fact...

Get your paw away from that! Now isn't the time!

But... but...

No! I'll dream you up some good imagery later, okay?

Mmf, you better.

Anyways, we go for the most important of those four at the moment. We need to get a lightsaber. Nobody's going to take us seriously as a Jedi until we can look like one.

Agreed, but how?

That... I don't know, yet.

As the two halves of his consciousness fought over the right thing to do, Hal pulled his undershorts back on, then some trousers and a shirt before heading out into the hallway. He wasn't sure where he was going, but it was clear that remaining in his stateroom wasn't going to get him anywhere.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

According to the crew schedule, there was a curfew aboard the Whaladon, and the moment Hal stepped out of his stateroom, he was in violation of it. But then again, time was but an illusion in space, a man-made construct brought about only to retain sanity in the forever-night. As the Whaladon boasted a primarily Jedi crew, and Jedi were notorious goody-goodies, it seemed that everyone was following curfew, so Hal's unshod footfalls were the only sounds which broke the silence of the hallways.

He needed to walk, to clear his mind and distance himself from the troubled state he'd been in in his stateroom. There, with the cramped walls tight around him he felt confined and imprisoned, but here in the halls, at least, he knew he could go forward or back at his leisure, and that thought brought him small enough comfort as to keep on.

More rooms, more hallways, Hal paid little attention to where he was going, only thinking that it would be nice to stare out at the stars and pretend as if he were back on Nehantish, staring up at the night sky. But there were no stars to look at, here, only the walls of the Challenger's ventral docking bay. So afraid had the Jedi become that they resorted to hiding within the very walls of a military craft. This wasn't the Order he knew, and this would have never happened, back in his day.

His day. It had been so much better, back then. He knew that he was in the right, and he was respected by his peers, and even some of the masters as well. Sure, he got into trouble, but it was trouble brought around by the right reasons, so he had never been harshly reprimanded. These Jedi, however, seemed terrified of taking any action against their oppressors. If only he could make them see how much they could be capable of if they would just buck up and do something about it.

Pausing before a window, Hal stared out at the lit interior of the Challenger. Surely such a ship would be better suited to the Jedi than the cramped, outdated transport he found himself on. There there would be room to train, quarters suitable to a knight, decent food and all the other things he missed about Coruscant. Well, not all the things, but enough to make him feel at least a little more normal.

Normal. The word ran though his head over and over. Not since he was fifteen had his life been normal. He was supposed to be a mechanic, an engineer or a plumber like the other males of his family. He was supposed to be married by twenty and start having kids immediately after that. he was supposed to provide for his family and be a good father and maybe join the bowling league. That was normal, and in the back of his mind he wondered if he could just leave all this behind, and go back to Nehahtish and be normal again. His tail flicked, and chemicals inside him flared as he thought of mating and raising children, but as he stared at the Challenger's walls, those same chemicals died down, and his tail fell still once more. There were no Nehantites, here. There was no bowling league. This was about as far from normal as he could get.


Despite his feelings and his immediate loathing of his situation, Hal found it desperately hard to tear himself away from the window. To turn away from it meant that he must face the confines of this small pocket of insanity once more, but once he started moving, he simply resigned himself to following his feet.

In a few hours, others would start waking and a whole new day would come. Everyone would be just as oblivious as to how in the wrong they were about this whole situation, as well as how cowardly they were being, and they would continue to look upon Hal as the weird, furry outsider who wasn't relevant, anymore.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

But for now, Hal was the outsider, and maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. After all, wasn't it true in all those sports holofilms he'd seen that a losing team couldn't get their act together until the rebellious outsider came in and shook things up? He'd always fancied himself as the star player on his team, but now... now maybe he was that outsider, and it was his job to get this stagnant, boring, complacent mess of Jedi to wake up and make a championship run.

Briefly, Hal imagined what a Jedi championship trophy would look like sitting on the desk in his stateroom, then reality oozed back into his mind like a spreading stain. The Jedi didn't have trophies; they weren't supposed to crave material goods or lust after desires of the body, either.

So maybe Hal wasn't a model Jedi. Actually, he knew he wasn't, as he'd been reprimanded time and time again, back in the old Order for his actions, but he couldn't seem to change. To blindly follow the rules and not think about what more you could seemed to be a waste to him, and it meant stagnation. The Force was a living entity, and he knew it wanted him to do more with his life. He'd taken his training and applied it to new skills and new abilities that many of the other Jedi had frowned upon, and some called a perversion of the will of the Force, but Hal felt no malice or evil when using them. The Dark Side was not a specific set of powers, as they were always taught in classes, it was an intention, and if your heart intended no evil, and strived only for good and the betterment of those you protected, then no matter what skills you used, or the color of your lightsaber blade, you were still a Jedi.

Of course, that wasn't to say he'd always used his powers for good. Kicking a small chunk of plastic lying in his path, Hal stuffed his paws into his pockets and continued on his directionless walk.

For some Jedi, power became the great corruptor. For others, it was drugs or alcohol used in an attempt to relieve the great deal of pressue they were put under. For Hal, it had been his own personal desires. He told himself he couldn't help it; he told himself that he knew that Nehantites were still more animal than man, and thus more heavily prone to desires of the flesh, but those had just been lies to convince himself that he wasn't in full control when he did wrong. More than once, a night with the wrong partner had compromised, or nearly compromised a mission or training, and he could recall so clearly the words of the Council as they railed on him for letting his body decide his actions more than the will of the Force.

No, Hal hadn't been a model Jedi, and had it not been for his overwhelming desire to do the right thing in the end, he knew he would have been kicked out and sent back to Nehantish long ago. But he hadn't been sent back to Nehantish, he'd gotten himself caught, somehow, then frozen and wound up here, in a madhouse of meek, spineless do-nothings.

Well, maybe not all do-nothings, Hal had to admit, as he hadn't met all of them, yet, but those he had met seemed committed to not getting involved where the fight actually mattered. None of them could seem to understand the importance and the righteousness of retaliation against an oppressor. He'd also gotten in trouble for letting his animal nature dictate the course of his actions when it came to picking his fights, but this time, oh, this time he needed no such instincts to know it was right. A Jedi should desire peace and understanding, but in times of such oppression and darkness, force could not be an option left off the table. An old tennent he'd had read had said that there comes a time when a Jedi must force peace, when there are no other options.

But how could he force anything without a weapon, or transport? Kicking that hunk of plastic once more, he followed it as it ricocheted off a wall and around a corner.

[Abarai Loki]

3:45

The still night was broken by a harsh electric buzz. Loki stirred, lifting heavy eyes to spot the offending chrono perched at his bedside. It was swatted into silence. In the renewed calm, leaden limbs curled inwards until he was folded fetal, indulging the deep penetrating warmth of the bed sheets. Sleep was welcoming and kind. Eyes snapped open.

3:46

Rigid tension melted from his muscles in a sigh. He hadn't slept in. Bolstered with relief, Loki cast off the cumbersome sheets and twisted himself out of bed. The cool air was quick to work its way under his skin and the floor felt like a sheet of ice against bare feet. In nothing but a pair of thermal pants and a vest, it was a struggle not to shudder, space was a far stretch from the simmering savannas of Maridun. He yawned, his arms flexed, back arched. Weary eyes wandered back to the mad crumple of still-warm sheets.

No. Measured strides closed the distance between him and the refresher, where he splashed water over his face in frantic handfuls. Fingers worked savagely at the skin, massaging his eyes from their insatiable torpor until the cold started to hurt. Now he was awake. He grunted in annoyance. What was once a straight-forward part of everyday was increasingly becoming a chore. It didn't make sense: he was well-rested, he had a nutritious diet, he kept himself busy during the day, and was relaxed in the night, and above all, he had a routine. It was his rock, sturdy and solid, and it kept him afloat in turbulant times. Nothing had changed. So, why was his routine failing him? Perhaps, he considered, he was failing it.

Not today. He marched back into his room, fuelled by fiery frustration, and pulled on his tunic and trousers from the previous day, and once his boots were tied, the warm-up exercises commenced. Ten minutes of stretching and simple aerobic exercise was enough to ease his mind. On principle, he found a warm-up session preferable to traditional meditation, and besides, he had his morning run ahead of him. Then it was time for a shower, a generous breakfast, followed by the first of the day's lessons. Routine. It made order out of chaos. Routine. Start every day at 3:45. A quick wash. Clothes folded on the chair. Boots under the bed. Five minutes. Always the same warm-up session. Ten minutes, precisely. Then everyday, at 4:00, the morning run began.

4:01

Ten minutes later, Loki finished the fifth lap of his personalised Whaladon circuit, and ascended from the engineering deck. It was a time like no other. It was his favourite time, when it was just him, his pulse, and the sound of a sleeping ship. His hair was a tangle of unruly pillow-pressed tufts and it didn't matter. He was carefree and at his best, working up a sweat. These fleeting hours of peace were the reward for fastidious planning and a dedicated routine. Everyday was the same and that was perfectly fine, until-

The chunk of debris tumbled into view. Loki's eyes narrowed with fierce suspicion. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was his running time. And then, just as the errant piece of plastic rolled to a stop, he was struck with the incomprehensible urge to return fire and send the little projectile back home with a snappy kick. It pinged off the wall as he rounded the corner into the next corridor, and there was Halajiin Rabeak. This was unacceptable. It was unheard of- It was his running time. No. He wouldn't be deterred, not even by the impossible Jedi mongoose. He just kept running.

"Halajiin Rabeak," he said, as he passed, "Despite appearances, the Whaladon is not a junk ship."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

No sooner had the chunk of plastic vanished around the corner than it came bouncing right back at him. That was... odd.

What in the Wide, Wide world of Sp-

Loki's sudden appearance cut his brain off mid-word, as it all began to make sense. But before he could make a snappy comeback about trash, proper receptacles, and maybe the lack of a maid service somehow related to Loki's mom, he caught sight of the boy's hair.

Typically perfect to the point of being borderline fabulous, it was a cockeyed mess of bed-head, and Hal couldn't help but pull a smirk.

"What the hell happened to you,?" he asked with a chuckle. As Loki didn't stop, Hal sighed pulled his paws from his pockets and turned to jog alongside the young knight. After all, there wasn't much better to do.

[Abarai Loki]

The approach of soft padding footpaws meant only one thing. Inwardly, Loki considered the implications of his own body language, and how it might've suggested anything other than the very obvious fact that he was not seeking company. It was as if the unwanted presence injected itself into his muscles and conjealed, making him suddenly stiff like an agitated cat. Beside him, the air temperature seemed to drop a few degrees when the Nehantite caught up. His jaw clenched as he considered the best way to deal with such a nuisance. Diplomacy first.

"I'm running. I always run in the morning," he answered, somewhat perplexed by the question, and instantly wished he could snatch that last telling nugget of information back from the ether, "Halajiin Rabeak, what are you doing?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Of the great many things Hal missed about his old life, it was his wardrobe of clothes that actually fit correctly and weren't borrowed that he wished he could have back, right now, but more than that, his sneakers.

They were the height of athletic footwear fashion, with shock-absorbing soles that transferred energy from toe to heel, and allowed him to run faster, jump higher and look super-fine. They also weren't on his bare footpaws at the moment, so Hal second-guessed the thought of jogging alongside Loki for much longer. When the alternative revealed itself to be wandering around alone in silence once more, the Nehantite adjusted his strides to an easier, loping gait to keep up with Loki's shorter legs.

"I asked what happened to you, not what you happened to be doing," he replied, a smirk on his face. "And I was referring to your hair. It looks like you went to a cheap Wookiiee hair salon and got kicked out halfway though your appointment." He laughed, then became more serious as he added, "By the way, don't ever go to a Wookiiee hair salon. Especially if you grow a nice coat of fur like mine."

It took only a few more steps before Hal could just sense the silent rage boiling off of the knight at the lack of response to his question. "Couldn't sleep. Haven't been on a run in a while, so, figured why not? Do this every morning, you said?"

[Abarai Loki]

The underhanded barb about his hair caught Loki off guard, his mouth was open on the cusp of an objection, to light up the furry vagabond with a volley of incendiary reprimands. Vanity was poisonous, especially for a Jedi, and were it not for the sudden flush of pink in his face, he'd have said as much. Offense diminished, however, at the mention of a Wookiee hair salon, it was replaced with fledgling curiosity as the young Jedi tried to imagine such a place. There was a beat of silence between them, in which only the drumming of their feet sounded in the otherwise barren corridor, it was almost tolerable.

Then Halajiin asked the question. Loki winced, haunted by the knowledge that he'd set himself up for a downfall. A prickly heat coarsed the length of his limbs in alarm, pleading for him to find a way out of the corner into which he'd reversed: compromising the secrecy of his daily runs to Halajiin risked the possibility of future runs burdened by his... unique presence. His last quantum of solace gone. He wrestled with every selfish fibre of his being, but knew, in the end, it was inevitable:

"Yes, every morning," he confessed, "I run for two hours, then I have a shower, eat breakfast, then lessons begin. It's my routine."

It felt important to emphasise that point. A thought occured to him:

"Perhaps, Halajiin Rabeak, if you had your own routine instead of loitering in hallways, you'd be able to sleep."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"And maybe if I was actually allowed to do something, around here, I could have a routine" Hal shot back, completely lacking the mental fortitude and filter that Loki possessed.

As his unshod footpaws padded alongside the clop of Loki's boots Hal did pause to think about whether or not it might be a good idea to at least have a physical exercise routine.

I do miss going to the gym back at the old Order.

You miss looking at all the female Jedi in the gym.

Like I said, I miss going to the gym. What about that did you not get?

I believe the kid here is talking about personal discipline. You and I both know we're not too good at that. Maybe you should offer to join him on his runs. I'm sure he'd like the company. Look at how dead this place is: he must be bored to tears!

But... it's so early!

Then go take a nap, afterward.

...it's still early...

In the end, Hal submitted to the voice of higher reasoning, though he wasn't quite sure if it was because he was too unfocused that he didn't want to put up a fight.

"Well, mind if I join you for a while? Give us a chance to get to know each other better, maybe?" he asked.

Oh, how he missed his sneakers. Running barefoot was going to make his paws ache later, he just knew it.

[Abarai Loki]

He didn't reply at first. Buried in deep contemplation, Loki considered the request, hammering out thoughts to the steady one-two beat of his boots. The Wheel was a strange place full of strange, strange characters, and every day was a struggle, to wade through the nonsense and make sense of it. Discipline was undervalued, and in its absence, resltess demons came out to play. The daily battle for order came at a high price, it left him mentally exhausted, and he was in need of a counterweight to the madness. So, he ran, in pursuit of the mental equilibrium that came with solitude. Perhaps, after over a century of unbroken peace, Halajiin would understand. But, if there was one thing Loki had learned during his time with the Jedi, it was that people were bizarre, emotional, unpredictable creatures that demanded a special brand of etiquette: politeness. It was different to respect, politeness was a pair of social slippers people wore which allowed them to tread delicately around each other's fragile egos. Politeness was a false ugly practice that offended his proud sensibilities, but as experience had taught him, it was favourable to the inevitable foot-stomping teeth-grinding alternative. In this case, at least.

"Very well," he answered at last, "Although, I must warn you, I am not given to small talk."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"No worries, pal, I probably do enough talking for the both of us," Hal chuckled in reply.

To be honest, he wasn't quite sure why he was attempting to build a friendship with Loki. Of all those he had met, so far, this knight was by far the least social, and the farthest away from his own scope of interests. They'd gotten off on the wrong foot in their first meeting, and even when Hal had switched feet, Loki didn't seem to like him any better.

You're a glutton for punishment, you know that?

No I'm not. You know I like the easy way.

But you always go getting yourself into trouble. Might be best to just back off on this one and go find an easier target.

Where would the fun in that be?

Immediately Hal found the reason he wished to befriend Loki: it was a challenge, and Hal loved a good challenge. His footpaws making a muffled thud with each step, the Nehantite began to grin as he felt his heart rate rise, the cool, recycled air rushing through his fur. He knew the first step would be to find some common ground.

"You know, unlike you, I didn't grow up in the Order. I came when I'd just turned fifteen. Wasn't easy to adapt, and the other kids made fun of me a lot because I was so different, and I didn't know anything about the Force, when they'd grown up with it," he rambled on. "But you grew up having a master, you said. That must've been nice. I had to work my tail off just to keep up, when I was in training."

[Abarai Loki]

"So, you were taken and made a Jedi. That comes as no surprise."

The revelation shed some light on the mystery that was Halajiin Rabeak. He was, by no means, an orthodox Jedi, and lately, Loki was beginning to wonder if such a thing even existed. He thought it did, prior to his rendezvous with the Wheel, and he thought he was it. His convictions were bolstered when he met Loklorian s'Ilancy, and then shattered when the black truth about her true nature emerged. Now, doubt clouded everything, but if a model Jedi existed, it was most definately not Halajiin Rabeak. Hal, with his scimitar grin and goofy flop of headfur, armed with outlandish tales and outrageous jokes, and dressed in rags from the reject bin. A man who had been taught how to wear a Jedi robe but failed to grasp what it meant.

They rounded one corner, then after whipping past the personal quarters of Corell Capastan and Serena Laran, turned another, proceeding down a corridor that ran the length of the ship. Pale lights strobed overhead, one hundred and twenty of them in total, Loki had counted. He reconsidered his narrow-minded appraisal of Halajiin's story, adding:

"Still, to be chosen to join the Jedi Order aged fifteen, you must've shown considerable promise."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal faltered for a short time before he found his voice - an unusual moment of silence from the talkative Nehantite.

"Yeah... well... that and the Sultan kind of made a big deal about there not being any Nehantites represented in the Jedi Order," he admitted at last.

Unlike most of his achievements which had come about through hard work, keen insight or sheer dumb luck, Hal's appointment to the Order was not something he could be proud of. He knew the Jedi had been pressured into taking him, and that there was another boy ten years his junior that would have made a better Jedi. However, Hal had been chosen because he was from the kingdom of Nehantish, and the other boy hailed from the kingdom of Munjesh, whose rajah held only minimal power over anything off-world compared to the sultan of Nehantish.

Too old. That was the first thing Hal was told when he arrived at the order, followed by: disobedient, irrational, unobservant and slow. To be fair, he was all those things, compared to the other boys and girls, and he found himself in classes with those half his age, because of his low skill and aptitude level.

His grin faded under the lights as Hal ran alongside Loki, his pace becoming mechanical as he recalled those days. "They wanted to send me back," he admitted. "The Council, that is. They said I was a waste of time."

[Abarai Loki]

Loki was apalled. The very idea that a wealthy puppet-master had bartered for a place amongst the Jedi Order was a perversion of everything he held dear. Padawanship was an honour, not a commodity. It took no small degree of gall to make such a brash statement, and yet when Loki glanced at his companion, his smile was gone. In fact, there was not a note of cockiness in his voice. This was a confession then.

"And were they right?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Of all the nerve. Hal had just admitted the biggest thing he'd wanted to keep secret, here, and Loki had the the gall to make it into a joke? wrinkles formed on the bridge of the Nehantite's muzzle as his brow creased and his ears laid back. A little voice inside himself told him to let it go, but the big voice in him told him to do it.

And do it he did. As his right leg came down, he brought it in at an angle, then launched himself sideways, body-checking Loki into the wall with his shoulder.

"Fuck no!" Hal shot back, continuing his run.

The little voice told him to do what was polite and peaceful, but it was the big voice that had gotten him through those years of hell when he first came to the order.

[Abarai Loki]

The durasteel wall was unforgiving, his shoulder sandwiched against his body with a crunch, Loki staggered, the last gasp of air squeezed from his chest. He dropped to one knee to arrest his momentum and realised there wasn't much room left for dignity when one was red-faced and wheezing. This was why he didn't socialise. He looked up. Halajiin was getting away. That half-witted fuzzy-eared-

No. He took a much-needed breath and allowed the blaze of tension in his arms to subside. Fists unfurled, he stood and took a moment to consider where it all went wrong. They were getting to know each other, apparently. Halajiin shared a story about his past, including a rather shameful confession, which led the youngster to believe they were approaching a moment of tender revelation. Loki's question had been merely a prompt to discover whether or not Halajiin harbored doubts about himself as a Jedi. Well, evidently not. In that sense, then, his line of questioning was a success. They were learning about each other. Perhaps retribution would have to wait.

Legs fired rapidly, closing the distance between him and the Nehantite, who, it turned out, had unwittingly strayed from a tried and trusty route. Instead of venturing down into engineering, they were about to embark on a second lap of the same deck, and he could feel his routine spiralling into chaos. Once they had regrouped, he remained silent for a minute, wary of a potential second attack. When nothing happened, he cleared his throat and said:

"I am glad you are confident in yourself, Halajiin Rabeak. It is an essential part of being a Jedi."