Zai
Mar 29th, 2009, 11:19:59 PM
So What
Check this out everybody.
Check out the big ball. Gaze at the gallery of beauty, lit for afar, but subtle compared to the Galaxy’s core. Take in the smell of fuel. The stenches, the reeking smell of fuel, take it in. Feel space, darkness and void laid out between the ships. Some vessels are blue, red, striped and unusual in shape. The owners sometimes match the ships, sometimes. It is always awkward to catch a Wookie cramped up in a little pod. Funny, but still, awkward. Their destinations were as vast as the dustball itself. Many were heading to Coronet, The Jewel of Corellia, but wouldn’t stay too long on Blue Sky Boulevard. Most off-worlders rather fiddle and flirt with danger in the Blue Sector. Such idiots, they didn’t recognize the beauty of downtown. They didn’t know what sort of fun was bustling within those high buildings around the capitol. While the governor and his men (and women) filed papers in their silly tower there was a real business being taken care of a nearby building. It was the 13th floor, Suite 3000. Below was a bunch of other paper pushers, and the same above. The Fourth Tower was like that, but it was cool. Just business as usual, but not on the 13th floor. Unusual was usual for Suite 3000.
Pineapple sweet tinged the air; burning incense. Polished oak lead the way set the path. Walls held beauty, captive in frames, as paintings, accessories, medals, weaponry and all sorts of illustrations. Beyond the door, wide open, was carpet. It was blue. A dark blue and it lead to more brown. The desk was sepia, almost cookie cut, and topped with more white papers than necessary. All the papers were spilling out folders, and they were topped with disc, chips and devices. Somehow though, the mess was organized. Kept in sections on the desk, and pressed to the side to keep the center plain. Tea steamed from a cup there in the middle. A white cup, lined with a black top. It almost blended in with the papers. Music nudged in too. A jazzy tune, smooth, lively, controlled and embellished with drums deflated the silence. More trophies laded the room. Made it come alive, but subtle. Corner pieces, like dejarik tables and stuffed beast. None of it match the owner all that well, really.
Brown hands and black marbles showed themselves. The marbles twirled in the air, no threads in sight. They spun like planets around the sun, cycling about. All of the show was above that brown hand, and the hand barley moved. There was only a bit of circling of the fingers, and slight adjusting of the wrist. Very little effort on the hands part…or the handler’s to be more accurate. The man sat in his seat, comfortable. A high seat, vanilla-like, with his cotton canvas sneakers parked up on the table. Khaki slacks kept thin on his long legs, and trailed up. The belt that tighten it all up was hidden, a shirt and jacket hiding it away. Nothing special at his clothes; not very businesslike, but it was befitting. The face said it all.
Thin, curved, he had something exotic about him. Whether it was those eyes, sharp, small, deep, and dark brown, or the evenly thick lips only a bit under his slim nose. Not much hair was there, just baby features. He was still young in the face. Everything was sharply cut, crisp, and even his hair was lined to a near perfection. He wasn’t anybody’s model, but maybe he could have been. If he came off a bit more pompous, and a tad less nonchalant and lackadaisical then maybe, but that was unlikely. Almost as unlikely that someone would expect this guy with his feet up, looking as lazy as a Zeltron, was a millionaire informant.
Appearances could be deceiving.
Real deceiving.
Deception was a word fond to the man. He had seen it plenty times before. At times, he had even studied under those deceptions. Zann Consortium was one place to find the deceivers. And this young man learned from the best: Tyber Zann. Only a couple years had passed since he was Zann’s trophy boy. Standing beside him, and that scar, at meetings, but never enjoying the spotlight. See, the spotlight was never on him, it was only alongside him. Tyber Zann ruled the syndicate, everyone else was a lackey. Hierarchies existed, of course, but in the end the name read Zann Consortium, not anything else. However, the kid was outside the chain of command. Zann’s personally handled him.
No one knew how the boy got there. He just appeared, 14 years old, and ready. Nobody saw reluctance, if it was there. Matter fact, nobody barely saw him. Only those high on the totem pole came across him. Anyone else that saw him didn’t know who he was. No questions rose though, because they suspected he should be there. They talked to him like of them, until they realize weeks, maybe months, later he wasn’t.
He was a spy.
The people he saw. The things they did. It was interesting, revolting, educating, enlightening, and a whole lot of other –ings. The beauty of it all was that he could still remember. As he sat, he did; he remembered quite well. The rough, violent booms, bolting from blasters only to sound off in a ding, circled his head. A scene was laid. It was a fuzzy one; a real one. Green, lush, dangerous, it was Anzat. He was a Stormtrooper, code-named TK-431. The roles had been played, and this young man was sticking the script. Only problem was that the star wasn’t following a single line. The blaster bolts kept firing.
Red after red shot pass and he followed suit. Zann had set the boy up to investigate, inform, be the mole, and not ask questions. Even though he barely knew the target, he had to shoot. All he knew about the Veknoid was he was old, blind, and had something to do with the Jedi. That was all the Empire needed to know to act. All Zann needed to know was that the Empire was acting. Everyone knew what they wanted to, but it didn’t mean it was the truth. Simply the half-truth.
The blind Veknoid kept walking. Well, more like chugging, and he didn’t even flinch. The blast just went pass him. Were they that bad of shots? Zann had taught the boy well. He could hit a target from a like a mile away, but not this one. It was weird. The others couldn’t either. Stormtroopers were good. Real good – why couldn’t they hit him?
He kept chugging. The Veknoid had a cane to help. Weak. Old. Then, he wasn’t. In a blink there was light blue...Or was it green? Screams followed, roaring over the intercom and throughout. White armor shred into singing burning black, torching red and straight pain while the TK-431 stepped back. The eyes flutter some more, snapping shots like a photograph as the Veknoid chugged pass with the cane.
Chug….
Chug…
Chug…
Zann never found out what happened that day. Everyone died beside him. The spy, the TK-431, was alone there, looking across the marsh. The records said he died too. It was a faux, anyways. Just another easy data hacking and deleting job, especially for the syndicate men, but not for him. He remembered that day. No data deleting would handle that for him. It hit hard.
Chug…
Chug…
Chug…
The marbles kept floating. The legs stayed up, and feet bopped to the beat. No real change in temper, just those papers. They lifted. Slowly, carefully, but surely, they lifted and exactly like the marbles had. There were no strings, no attachments, nothing, only sheer amazement. In the air, the papers trickled into the lazy man’s hands. He read them. Those brown eyes of his crossing the page quick even and smooth until finished. Footsteps could be heard. Someone was coming down the hall. Each step of this shadowy figure like a dull thud, coming ever closer and closer. He didn’t flinch. Not in a single instance did the nonchalance whither off, he was calm. Even the brown eyes of his didn’t’ lift. Yet, he spoke. The young man (or old boy) spoke like he knew all along what was, what wasn’t, and what should be; he was confident.
“So ya made it back, eh?”
Out the shadows, from the hall, onto the carpet, the shadow was revealed. Body of a man, skin of a fresh plant, and face marred with sacred tattoos, the Mirialan stood serious. Business was at hand. This was clear. However, the old boy didn’t twitch. He still remained casual, cool, collective. The eyes still didn’t lift, and he hadn’t yet got a reply when he spoke once more.
There was no point in even wondering who was in control of this affair.
“Got the stuff?”
A wrinkling of the forehead and the eyes rose. The old boy’s head didn’t, but his eyes did. Two brownies were staring, studying, uncovering the Mirialan at the door. Darker skin circled those brown eyes, those maple brown eyes, and in the light they were evident. It made him look almost serious. Almost, because he had those lips of his in a smirk and nothing is serious about that. Silence was the only response, but it was not disrespectful. The silence was more out of certainty.
The marbles fell in his palm. The paper was put down. He leaned to the side. The chair leaned with him. The arm of the chair welcomed his elbow. He hadn’t lost eye contact with the Mirialan. Cool. He was cool. That was the word, and he was it. Silence still permeated the room. It was breathable. Tense, strong, plentiful was that silence, and the two revel in it for a moment.
“So, wheres it at,” asked the old boy, the young man, the lazy one; the man known only as Zai Beauvais-Zann. Clearly, no one said the whole thing. Zai was a lot easier for people, but Mr. Beauvais was nice too.
Check this out everybody.
Check out the big ball. Gaze at the gallery of beauty, lit for afar, but subtle compared to the Galaxy’s core. Take in the smell of fuel. The stenches, the reeking smell of fuel, take it in. Feel space, darkness and void laid out between the ships. Some vessels are blue, red, striped and unusual in shape. The owners sometimes match the ships, sometimes. It is always awkward to catch a Wookie cramped up in a little pod. Funny, but still, awkward. Their destinations were as vast as the dustball itself. Many were heading to Coronet, The Jewel of Corellia, but wouldn’t stay too long on Blue Sky Boulevard. Most off-worlders rather fiddle and flirt with danger in the Blue Sector. Such idiots, they didn’t recognize the beauty of downtown. They didn’t know what sort of fun was bustling within those high buildings around the capitol. While the governor and his men (and women) filed papers in their silly tower there was a real business being taken care of a nearby building. It was the 13th floor, Suite 3000. Below was a bunch of other paper pushers, and the same above. The Fourth Tower was like that, but it was cool. Just business as usual, but not on the 13th floor. Unusual was usual for Suite 3000.
Pineapple sweet tinged the air; burning incense. Polished oak lead the way set the path. Walls held beauty, captive in frames, as paintings, accessories, medals, weaponry and all sorts of illustrations. Beyond the door, wide open, was carpet. It was blue. A dark blue and it lead to more brown. The desk was sepia, almost cookie cut, and topped with more white papers than necessary. All the papers were spilling out folders, and they were topped with disc, chips and devices. Somehow though, the mess was organized. Kept in sections on the desk, and pressed to the side to keep the center plain. Tea steamed from a cup there in the middle. A white cup, lined with a black top. It almost blended in with the papers. Music nudged in too. A jazzy tune, smooth, lively, controlled and embellished with drums deflated the silence. More trophies laded the room. Made it come alive, but subtle. Corner pieces, like dejarik tables and stuffed beast. None of it match the owner all that well, really.
Brown hands and black marbles showed themselves. The marbles twirled in the air, no threads in sight. They spun like planets around the sun, cycling about. All of the show was above that brown hand, and the hand barley moved. There was only a bit of circling of the fingers, and slight adjusting of the wrist. Very little effort on the hands part…or the handler’s to be more accurate. The man sat in his seat, comfortable. A high seat, vanilla-like, with his cotton canvas sneakers parked up on the table. Khaki slacks kept thin on his long legs, and trailed up. The belt that tighten it all up was hidden, a shirt and jacket hiding it away. Nothing special at his clothes; not very businesslike, but it was befitting. The face said it all.
Thin, curved, he had something exotic about him. Whether it was those eyes, sharp, small, deep, and dark brown, or the evenly thick lips only a bit under his slim nose. Not much hair was there, just baby features. He was still young in the face. Everything was sharply cut, crisp, and even his hair was lined to a near perfection. He wasn’t anybody’s model, but maybe he could have been. If he came off a bit more pompous, and a tad less nonchalant and lackadaisical then maybe, but that was unlikely. Almost as unlikely that someone would expect this guy with his feet up, looking as lazy as a Zeltron, was a millionaire informant.
Appearances could be deceiving.
Real deceiving.
Deception was a word fond to the man. He had seen it plenty times before. At times, he had even studied under those deceptions. Zann Consortium was one place to find the deceivers. And this young man learned from the best: Tyber Zann. Only a couple years had passed since he was Zann’s trophy boy. Standing beside him, and that scar, at meetings, but never enjoying the spotlight. See, the spotlight was never on him, it was only alongside him. Tyber Zann ruled the syndicate, everyone else was a lackey. Hierarchies existed, of course, but in the end the name read Zann Consortium, not anything else. However, the kid was outside the chain of command. Zann’s personally handled him.
No one knew how the boy got there. He just appeared, 14 years old, and ready. Nobody saw reluctance, if it was there. Matter fact, nobody barely saw him. Only those high on the totem pole came across him. Anyone else that saw him didn’t know who he was. No questions rose though, because they suspected he should be there. They talked to him like of them, until they realize weeks, maybe months, later he wasn’t.
He was a spy.
The people he saw. The things they did. It was interesting, revolting, educating, enlightening, and a whole lot of other –ings. The beauty of it all was that he could still remember. As he sat, he did; he remembered quite well. The rough, violent booms, bolting from blasters only to sound off in a ding, circled his head. A scene was laid. It was a fuzzy one; a real one. Green, lush, dangerous, it was Anzat. He was a Stormtrooper, code-named TK-431. The roles had been played, and this young man was sticking the script. Only problem was that the star wasn’t following a single line. The blaster bolts kept firing.
Red after red shot pass and he followed suit. Zann had set the boy up to investigate, inform, be the mole, and not ask questions. Even though he barely knew the target, he had to shoot. All he knew about the Veknoid was he was old, blind, and had something to do with the Jedi. That was all the Empire needed to know to act. All Zann needed to know was that the Empire was acting. Everyone knew what they wanted to, but it didn’t mean it was the truth. Simply the half-truth.
The blind Veknoid kept walking. Well, more like chugging, and he didn’t even flinch. The blast just went pass him. Were they that bad of shots? Zann had taught the boy well. He could hit a target from a like a mile away, but not this one. It was weird. The others couldn’t either. Stormtroopers were good. Real good – why couldn’t they hit him?
He kept chugging. The Veknoid had a cane to help. Weak. Old. Then, he wasn’t. In a blink there was light blue...Or was it green? Screams followed, roaring over the intercom and throughout. White armor shred into singing burning black, torching red and straight pain while the TK-431 stepped back. The eyes flutter some more, snapping shots like a photograph as the Veknoid chugged pass with the cane.
Chug….
Chug…
Chug…
Zann never found out what happened that day. Everyone died beside him. The spy, the TK-431, was alone there, looking across the marsh. The records said he died too. It was a faux, anyways. Just another easy data hacking and deleting job, especially for the syndicate men, but not for him. He remembered that day. No data deleting would handle that for him. It hit hard.
Chug…
Chug…
Chug…
The marbles kept floating. The legs stayed up, and feet bopped to the beat. No real change in temper, just those papers. They lifted. Slowly, carefully, but surely, they lifted and exactly like the marbles had. There were no strings, no attachments, nothing, only sheer amazement. In the air, the papers trickled into the lazy man’s hands. He read them. Those brown eyes of his crossing the page quick even and smooth until finished. Footsteps could be heard. Someone was coming down the hall. Each step of this shadowy figure like a dull thud, coming ever closer and closer. He didn’t flinch. Not in a single instance did the nonchalance whither off, he was calm. Even the brown eyes of his didn’t’ lift. Yet, he spoke. The young man (or old boy) spoke like he knew all along what was, what wasn’t, and what should be; he was confident.
“So ya made it back, eh?”
Out the shadows, from the hall, onto the carpet, the shadow was revealed. Body of a man, skin of a fresh plant, and face marred with sacred tattoos, the Mirialan stood serious. Business was at hand. This was clear. However, the old boy didn’t twitch. He still remained casual, cool, collective. The eyes still didn’t lift, and he hadn’t yet got a reply when he spoke once more.
There was no point in even wondering who was in control of this affair.
“Got the stuff?”
A wrinkling of the forehead and the eyes rose. The old boy’s head didn’t, but his eyes did. Two brownies were staring, studying, uncovering the Mirialan at the door. Darker skin circled those brown eyes, those maple brown eyes, and in the light they were evident. It made him look almost serious. Almost, because he had those lips of his in a smirk and nothing is serious about that. Silence was the only response, but it was not disrespectful. The silence was more out of certainty.
The marbles fell in his palm. The paper was put down. He leaned to the side. The chair leaned with him. The arm of the chair welcomed his elbow. He hadn’t lost eye contact with the Mirialan. Cool. He was cool. That was the word, and he was it. Silence still permeated the room. It was breathable. Tense, strong, plentiful was that silence, and the two revel in it for a moment.
“So, wheres it at,” asked the old boy, the young man, the lazy one; the man known only as Zai Beauvais-Zann. Clearly, no one said the whole thing. Zai was a lot easier for people, but Mr. Beauvais was nice too.