The Rebel Faction

[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Foamwander City
Evacuation Base Camp
Day 2[/font][font=Franklin Gothic Medium]

[font=Georgia]There was usually an unspoken rule that went along with questions and answers on a military base: that rule being, when someone asked you a question, and had the power of life and death over you, you were best served by answering the question asked. It occurred to the major, and quite quickly, that in the case of these two NCOs, that rule should have been taught openly instead of left assumed. Naturally, that implied that it was a fault of the system, and not the men. That was ironically not unexpected; it was almost impossible to rely on anything with a bureaucracy's influence to run smoothly to any decent extent for any significant stretch of time. The very nature of a bureaucracy prohibited such a thing. Perhaps the one thing that the system had to its credit was that it was still, by and large, a military entity, and resultant from that, it could pull off certain feats of initiative and efficiency that convinced people that it wasn't completely defective.

Still, the two soldiers needed to learn the lesson at some point, and it was better they learn it now than later, when the potential for catastrophic ramifications might actually exist. "Out on a field assignment," he mused, repeating what little response he'd been given. As an answer to his inquiry, it was insufficient; it told him what was presently occupying her time, but it didn't give him any indication or idea as to where she was conducting said operation. "Gentlemen, I fail to see what you're trying to get at. Surely, with who you got your information from, you would have been told where her assignment took her?"

There was a very cold scowl on Lance's face as he regarded the two troops before him, as if he were torn between beating their chests in until their lungs had no room in which to expand, or just putting blaster bolts between their eyes and having done with it. The problem with those options was the obvious problem with any of the options he could consider: not even Section 8 clearance, obsolete as it was, could be used to get him out of a court-martial for a crime of that nature. "As such," he continued, the vexation in his voice not at all hidden, "instead of offering me any sort of useful information regarding her whereabouts, you instead try to suggest I dine on the slop usually served in an army mess hall." Shaking his head and sighing, the major turned away from the group. "Allow me to make this absolutely crystal-clear: barring a major catastrophe, such as the Black Dragon Empire coming to lay siege to the planet, or the Empire dropping droves of troops on the city, I wish to remain alone and undisturbed until such time as Madame Solo returns. If anyone bothers me for any reason other than those specified, alert the coroner."

With that, the major walked away... The two soldiers would probably just shrug it off and be grateful that they hadn't suffered anything more than mere psychological effects due to the encounter, if anything.

[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Foamwander City
Evacuation Base Camp Outskirts[/font][font=Franklin Gothic Medium]
Thirty minutes later

[font=Georgia]The base camp was almost skeletal in nature. There was a storage tent with medical supplies and the like; a command tent, which he'd left the vicinity of not too long ago; a series of barracks tents for the non-commissioned staff; and a mess hall that served Grade-A slop. There was almost nothing in the way of any form of ammenities beyond the barest of bare essentials, but there was also nothing of that sort that was required; after all, it was a refugee site, not a fully-functional military installation.

At least, however, there were ways to relieve stress, even if they had to be improvised on the spot. One such way was fortunately not too far from the edge of the base, near a rocky outcropping that had been a relatively-miniscule result of the many BDE attacks on the planet. Such debris littered the world in vast multitudes of places, but the fact that this one was close enough, and of sufficient size, meant that the major could relieve a lot of stress without having to try and find anywhere else to go. That, at least, was a small blessing in his favor.

The sidearm felt awkward in his hand: a stock Merr-Sonn M44. Each and every time he fired off a shot, it would end up going high...or low...or wide. About two in every ten hit the mark dead-on; most of the shots ended up missing by an inch or two, just barely glossing over the point in the pile that they were aimed at.

After expending three charge packs in such a way, Lance lowered his weapon arm, heaving forth a low sigh that matched in tone with the whine that came forth from the gears in that arm. The entire place just had a strange feel...as though it were calling to him in a way that he couldn't yet understand. As he stood there, six soldiers ran past him, heading around the perimeter of the evacuation camp, perhaps part of a squadron out for an exercise break. The sight reminded him of his own ex-squadmates; out of all of them, he was aware of only one that had survived the massacre that the Bilbringi raid had turned out to be.

The thoughts of death brought other faces to mind: his mother; his wife; the daughter he'd almost had. An arctic chill began to manifest itself in his blood, the frigid rage spreading like a tempest as it circulated throughout his body, almost as if it could stop his heart with how icy it felt. The gears in his right arm protested once more as he again raised the gun, this time aiming for a point on an untarnished rock amidst the pile. The memories, and the pain associated with them, flowed through his mind like a wild waterfall.

BANG!

The memory of his mother, lying on her bed in the hospital, the life slipping from her in one final spasm of intolerable agony.

BANG!

The day of his wife's funeral, with the thunder and lightning that so eloquently matched his feelings.

BANG!

The dying words of a close friend, echoing in his mind.

BANG!

The soft, gentle hopes and prayers his mother had so fervently held to...even as her son's decisions ultimately led to her death.

BANG!

Lowering the awkwardly-sized pistol--the stock model was, despite being perfectly normal for factory specifications, somewhat smaller than his weapon hand--Lance looked at the rock he had been shooting. If the feeling of the base camp was strange, the placement of the shots was even stranger, as far as everything was concerned. It was almost as though his anger had pulled the trigger, instead of the mechanical hand; every last one of the five shots was dead-on accurate.
[/font][/font][/font][/font]

[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Foamwander City[/font]
[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Evacuation Base Camp[/font]
[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Earlier that day...[/font]

[font=Georgia]The sound of gravel crunching underfoot did nothing to diminish the sounds of the two soldiers speaking, sharing their utter disdain for the commando that had just walked away from them.[/font]

[font=Georgia]"Alert the coroner? Who the Hell does he think he is?"[/font]

[font=Georgia]"Ah, fuck him. He wants to see the Jedi? Fine, let her deal with him."[/font]

[font=Georgia]The two soldiers probably didn't think that they would have been heard...if they did, they might have considered not being so obvious in their disdain. And yet, the major did nothing to make their words cause them retributive harm. Instead, he just walked on, acting outwardly as though he'd never heard them. His thoughts, though, revealed more than any words or actions ever would. Let her deal with me...if she can.[/font]

[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Evacuation Base Camp Outskirts[/font]
[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Present-time[/font]

[font=Georgia]Whatever was going on, the major was certainly not enjoying it. It wasn't something he could rationalize or explain, and that made it troublesome. All he could understand of it, so far, was that it involved something in his thoughts linking itself to an emotional feeling, and the emotions drawing out a response in the physical world.[/font]

[font=Georgia]Trying to calm himself down, he took a few more shots at the collection of rocks piled up in front of him. Three more carefully-aimed shots...

...became three more scant misses.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked, the voice coming out as a very low whisper.

"You will know, in time..."

Lance jumped, almost imperceptibly. The voice sounded awfully familiar...but there wasn't anyone nearby; given the rumors that had most likely spread about him, he doubted anyone who got near him would want to talk to him. That information, however, made the presence of the voice all the more difficult to comprehend.

[/font][font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Evacuation Base Camp Outskirts[/font]
[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Fifteen minutes later[/font]

[font=Georgia]The voice had remained completely silent after that, to the point that Lance found it harder and harder to believe, as the minutes went by, that it had ever been around at all. Still, the major--ex-major, he kept having to remind himself, despite his outward actions to the contrary--took no chances in ensuring that he didn't hear it again. To that end, he felt that a minor change of scenery was in order.

Social interaction was definitely out of the question. He could have spoken with anyone at all in the entire camp, but probably would have felt more at home speaking with the refugees that were likely to be evacuated. With the rumors spreading around from the troops, the odds of one of them letting the word get to the civilians seemed astronomical. No, he couldn't go and speak with anyone.

Since that kind of a scenery-change wasn't bound to happen, Lance went for the next best thing: a simple clearing amidst the ruins. Conveniently, nobody was around to disturb him; it would give him a greater chance to clear his head, and get that earlier voice out of his thoughts. At length, his focus did clear, enough that he was able to shift his attention away from any of his worries about what word might spread concerning him.

"Why do you avoid it?"

The very same voice, again causing him to jump slightly. It was also still eerily familiar, as if he'd heard it before. "Who the Hell are you?" he asked, the whisper carrying the slightest overtones of concern.

"Someone who can help you...if you'll listen."

Almost instantly, the identity behind the voice became crystal-clear; and, in a strong case of irony, every last shred of clarity brought with it greater confusion: the voice was his own. Lest he be considered as certifiably insane and locked down in whatever passed for a brig at the camp, Lance made sure not to give voice to his surprise. This cannot be happening...

"It is."

This brought about another look of concern on the commando's face. Why?

"Because you need the help. Why not?"

For every second that passed in the rest of the dismal mental conversation, Lance was beginning to wish more and more that Leia would just magically appear, as if that would be able to stop the madness he was currently experiencing, or at least explain it.
[/font]

[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Foamwander City[/font]
[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Evacuation Base Camp Outskirts[/font][font=Georgia]

The strange conversation was good for one thing: Lance's blood pressure was rising quicker than before. After the 'unique' demonstration he'd provided earlier, it was quite easy to understand how that was a bad thing. He was pretty sure that the flight attendant would stay far away from him, for one thing. Still, now that it was rising like this, he had to find some way to let it all out...

...even if that meant getting near other people, which couldn't go off all that well, no matter how hard he tried. There was just something about how he had approached people after the losses he'd endured...it made him like a shadow. Nobody wanted him around, and those that had to deal with him learned that even his skills were far too often outweighed by his extremely cold demeanor.

Well, they'd just have to deal with it for the moment. A quick snack was in order, at least; something that could keep him from reacting to people on both high blood pressure and a less-than-full stomach. That would have been very bad...

The mess tent wasn't terribly far from where he was standing, as he learned from a very abbreviated conversation with a nearby trooper, and he made quick work in showing up at the tent, trying his hardest as he walked over to look as though everything was perfectly alright, and that nothing was trying to turn his mind into a metaphysical pretzel. Stepping into the tent, he looked around briefly for the nearest staff-person; finding someone who seemed to fit the type he was looking for, the ex-major walked up as calmly as he could. "Tea, if you have it," he said flatly. "If not, just something to take the edge off."

The 'edge', as he referred to it, was in his stare; despite his best efforts to appear calm, his eyes were still drilling a cold, spiteful look that screamed with the desire to kill someone...

...anyone, for that matter.
[/font]

[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Foamwander City[/font]
[font=Franklin Gothic Medium]Evacuation Base Camp -- Mess Hall Tent
[/font]
[font=Georgia]There were very few things that weren't to ever be mentioned near Lance. His mother, and the pain that was constantly conjured by her very mention, was one such thing. The commando could deal with someone being insolent and disrespectful...but the line had been crossed, and it had been drawn beforehand in blood.

Her blood, he thought to himself, almost mournfully. The image of her lying there, dying right in front of him, came back once more. He could see everything of that fateful day: the spartan medical room; the intravenus packet hooked to her as the doctors tried to put blood into her system; the equipment hooked up to her to keep her from dying. None of it helped...none at all.

A powerful rage, almost completely blinding in severity, took hold of his thoughts and actions. Without hesitating, he reached out to grab her, as though he would somehow choke some sense into her, and let her go with a dangerous lesson learned. Where he failed was in underestimating how fast she could move, and it wound up costing him a great deal in personal injury.

Jaeriel was just very lucky that Lance hadn't gone completely incensed with rage after what she'd said earlier; as such, he was able to hear her words after he fell down, and was able to control himself just a little...barely. Diagnostic, he thought to himself, the command relaying through the small implant in his brain. The system it was hooked up to read through both his mechanical arm and his false eye, allowing him to get a visual overlay of the arm's damage on his viewscreen. While it processed, he never took his organic eye off of the woman; there was something about her that he couldn't explain...but that he didn't object to, despite how bleeding dangerous she seemed to be. Bleeding, he thought, being the key word. His left eye received a quite sudden swabbing from his left hand, to get the blood out of it from the small gash on his forehead.

The diagnostic eventually finished processing; desipte some direct damage, most of the limb's suffering was superficial, and wouldn't hinder performance. The grip had been released solely due to a reflex action caused by the impact, loosening some of his digits temporarily. He'd make sure to use his left hand for the drink he planned on getting, just to be on the safe side; spilling tea was no laughing matter...especially if one was sitting down, after having a steel-toed boot slam into his personal area...twice.

"Earl Grey," he said, his voice somehow just the slightest bit calmer. His eyes still carried the look of a killer--well, the one that was real, anyway; the cybernetic one almost always looked that way, for some odd reason--but he didn't sound anywhere near as angry or stressed as he had been when he walked in. Indeed, the voice carried more of a tone of pain than rage. "I'd ask for some sugar," he continued, struggling a little to stand perfectly straight, "but I think I already have the lumps." As he walked over to get the cup and make his way for some water for steeping the tea, he brushed some of the dust off his badge-less uniform. Almost intentionally, as if in response to one of her earlier comments, he made sure that his right hand passed by his Bloodstripe.

Shortly afterwards, he was done setting up the drink. Not surprisingly, a little of the water had spilled outside the cup, so he procured a small towel with which to get rid of the mess. A pair of troopers arrived at the tent entrance just then; seeing the major and the young woman--and knowing of the stories that were easily circulating like wildfire about both of them--they backed off just as fast and started walking away, shaking their heads. The other faces in the tent at last turned back to their own respective business.

With all that out of the way, Lance turned his attention to Jaeriel once more, this time looking as though one eye conveyed some sense of sanity. "I'd like to speak with you, if you're so inclined." His voice didn't betray any form of emotion, positive or negative; in fact, beyond the presence of pain from the recent kicks, it was perfectly steady and calm.
[/font]

"Talk?" Jaeriel replied. She chuckled. "You wanna talk? About what? How hard I kick? Or how many fewer children you'll have now?"

Her drink, a hard Corellian brandy, vanished in one gulp, and she poured herself another. "Look, I don't know who you are, or what exactly you're doing here, but you should know I'm not in the habit of making small talk with people who decide to try to choke me before they've really even met me." A second drink, gone, and she poured a third. "Now, if you want to talk, how about we talk about something important, like how much I kriffing hate the Empire?"

It was true - to Jaeriel, there was nothing worse than the oppression of the Empire. Were the truth told, though, as a psychologist would have told it, her feelings ran deeper than that. The Empire, to her, represented the cheuvanistic, oppressive, sex-driven male that she had done her best to leave in her childhood. The memories, repressed now, were still there - what they had done to her, what they had done to her mother, what she had later done to them. Those memories now threatened to break free of the walls she had built to surround them, but she was an old hand at keeping them down. So she subconsciously battled them even as she continued to speak.

"Of course, the Black Dragon Empire isn't much better. Neither is the Galactic Coalition; I saw their true colors at Bilbringi. The Onyxian Commonwealth got exactly what it deserved. It's just too bad their punishment had to come from the hands of the Empire."

Despite her words, subconsciously her mind equated the war with a gang war on Telos, something she had grown accustomed to in her youth. If one gang threatened her family, her father would often hire a rival gang to clean up, even though he hated the concept of gangs. Jaeriel, now, she hated the concept of large, powerful governments oppressing their citizens and extorting from them large sums of cash or services, or whatever it was they did to oppress, but when one oppressive government destroyed another...well, it was the same as the gangs.

"Still," she continued, "they were destroyed, and that's the important thing. And it may hurt the Empire more than they know." While the drinks were strong, they had not yet affected her secrecy, and she would say no more on that subject. Her plans were her own.

"And what about you?" she asked. "You don't seem like a lover of the Empire. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say you've had military training. GC, maybe?"