WS Post: Falin's Thinking
The thrum of the ship's engines caught Falin's ear, and the slight pressure making it's way through his spine confirmed his suspicions: they'd lifted off. It's about time, he thought, though it really would have been nice if someone had said so. He was rather disappointed that he couldn't take his own freighter, not only because he'd grown rather attached to her, but because he really didn't trust Imperial technology.
Maybe it was from his days with the Royal Hapan Navy, this distrust of anything Imperial, or it could be because of all of the Imperial fallacies he'd uncovered in his recent days as a reporter. He couldn't really place it, and it really wasn't important, since he had no alternative. He drew his legs up so that his knees were near his chest and wrapped his arms about them, letting his head sink back and lean against the wall.
Falin stared absently at the ceiling, wondering why he'd left his cushy abode for this mission. His life was comfortable, no doubt about it, but it lacked...excitement, most of the time. That, he knew, was why he came on these missions. Falin had plenty of money, more ships than most, and cities on several worlds, but none of it interested him.
More importantly, none of it kept him sharp. He needed to maintain a razor's edge to keep himself at the top of his game. Someday soon there'd no doubt be attempts on his life from some person or another, and he wanted to be sure he was ready for them.
Falin smiled, that same innocent smile that had once belonged to a back-rim boy whose parents had migrated to Coruscant to escape a Civil War, and mused that perhaps the only reason he continued acquiring assets was to help him on these missions. He'd done tons of them, no doubts there, and afterwards he'd always taken his experiences and wanted to build upon them a firm foundation of equipment to prevent the bad ones from repeating themselves.
The durasteel brought by all this experience was no doubt a great help to him in surviving mission after mission. He wore it like armor, like a mythical Antarian Ranger of the pre-Hyperspace era, the kind only whispered about on the Empire's least civilized worlds, where hope and heroes were in desperate need. Falin smiled. Him, a Ranger. That was almost laughable. Their lifestyles were violent, and, more often than not, short. He was a doctor, someone to whom people like the Rangers went when their missions didn't quite work out as planned.
The smile faded from Falin's face. He knew there'd likely be alot of healing to do in the coming hours, perhaps days. After all, it seemed that with the tension in the hangar that if something didn't hurt any of them, they'd almost certainly end up hurting themselves...or each other.
He shook from his mind these thoughts of betrayal, closed his eyes, and sat, giving his mind time to rest. Falin concentrated on the sound of the engines, and let it lull him to sleep.
Maybe it was from his days with the Royal Hapan Navy, this distrust of anything Imperial, or it could be because of all of the Imperial fallacies he'd uncovered in his recent days as a reporter. He couldn't really place it, and it really wasn't important, since he had no alternative. He drew his legs up so that his knees were near his chest and wrapped his arms about them, letting his head sink back and lean against the wall.
Falin stared absently at the ceiling, wondering why he'd left his cushy abode for this mission. His life was comfortable, no doubt about it, but it lacked...excitement, most of the time. That, he knew, was why he came on these missions. Falin had plenty of money, more ships than most, and cities on several worlds, but none of it interested him.
More importantly, none of it kept him sharp. He needed to maintain a razor's edge to keep himself at the top of his game. Someday soon there'd no doubt be attempts on his life from some person or another, and he wanted to be sure he was ready for them.
Falin smiled, that same innocent smile that had once belonged to a back-rim boy whose parents had migrated to Coruscant to escape a Civil War, and mused that perhaps the only reason he continued acquiring assets was to help him on these missions. He'd done tons of them, no doubts there, and afterwards he'd always taken his experiences and wanted to build upon them a firm foundation of equipment to prevent the bad ones from repeating themselves.
The durasteel brought by all this experience was no doubt a great help to him in surviving mission after mission. He wore it like armor, like a mythical Antarian Ranger of the pre-Hyperspace era, the kind only whispered about on the Empire's least civilized worlds, where hope and heroes were in desperate need. Falin smiled. Him, a Ranger. That was almost laughable. Their lifestyles were violent, and, more often than not, short. He was a doctor, someone to whom people like the Rangers went when their missions didn't quite work out as planned.
The smile faded from Falin's face. He knew there'd likely be alot of healing to do in the coming hours, perhaps days. After all, it seemed that with the tension in the hangar that if something didn't hurt any of them, they'd almost certainly end up hurting themselves...or each other.
He shook from his mind these thoughts of betrayal, closed his eyes, and sat, giving his mind time to rest. Falin concentrated on the sound of the engines, and let it lull him to sleep.
posted by Dorn at 8:28 AM
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