One hundred and seven years frozen in carbonite. Four days aboard a strange ship. Seven hours between arival on the Whalodon and being assigned his own room. One hour in the sonic shower and waiting for his laundry to be done.

If ever there was a record for having done absolutely nothing, Halajiin Rabeak had won it. And if he had won it, it would at least be something he could put on the barren shelves of his stateroom.

For all of his life, the Nehantite Jedi always treasured something. Though that thing often changed, there was always a possession or trinket which he held dear for sentimental reasons. Sitting on his bed, Hal stared off at the empty shelves, trying to imagine his old rows of knick-knacks and gewgaws adorning them now, but in the end he just sighed and slumped his chin onto his paws. He didn't even have a change of clothes hanging in the narrow closet. So much was different, now, and nothing felt right at all.

The Jedi were supposed to live in a glorious glass and durasteel tower on Coruscant, able to react at a moment's notice to help any who needed assistance. Running through space, hounded by enemies and unable to appeal to the masses just felt wrong on every level. He'd joined the Jedi because he was told he could be something great. But he had stayed because he knew it was right, and what he was meant to do.

Sitting there alone in an empty room, however, certainly wasn't helping anyone.

So, so bored. His base natures growled at him.

I know. I didn't expect this, either. His brain concurred.

What should we do? I don't even have a kitchenette in here. Or an en suite refresher. I hate communal refreshers.

Ugh, so do I, but we're just going to have to get used to it. There's a pice of flimsiplast over there on the desk, and a stylus. You could draw something.

Don't feel like it.

You could write to someone.

They're all dead, now.

Oh, yeah. Right. Um... you could... go look out the window?

Done that. There's just, like, nothing to do. Even my lightsaber's busted.

Yeah, that went out rather... spectacularly, I have to say. Good job on the reflexes.

Thanks. I miss the old Order. I miss my friends.

Me too. Hmm, I may have an idea.

Oh?

Yeah, get that flimsi and that stylus after all, we're going to get you some entertainment.

Less than a minute later, a flimsiplast sign hung outside Hal's stateroom, with writing on it in big, block letters. It read:

I'm new here.
-Hal

Leaving his door open, Hal sat himself back down on his bed, waiting and hoping that his bait would work.

It wasn't a terribly genious plan, his base natures thought, but he didn't want to tell his brain that.