Obligations and Necessities

[Meeristali Peradun]

Eight weeks. That was a record. One he held for years.<o></o>
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It was also his hard limit. The eighth week was on the horizon, but it was also the end of sixteen weeks. It meant mandatory leave, as opposed to dropping down for a run when the cargo bays that the Jedi worked in were silent with nary a scuffle of feet on the deck. Not that he relished the fact, but the beast did, because it meant a hunt. However, he was perfectly fine staying aboard the Valiant where he was most useful. Purpose was important to him. Being out in space with the small group of the squadron made him less tense. Most couldn’t tell the difference, in any case. It kept people at arms length, much the way he preferred them. Being here was preferable, as opposed to being around those who were even vaguely intimately familiar with him. Personal was personal and it should be kept that way. As long as it was just his personal. Others were fair game, if he was given due cause to act on.<o></o>
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This late at night, he was often either out on a patrol, out on a mission (of which, those had been rare to come by) or in his bunk, reading or doing some form of work beneficial to the squadron in ways most of his squadron mates simply would not understand. He could not help that they were insufficient in intelligence. That is, comparatively, to himself… most people were. This night, however, he did final preparations for his foray to a planet of his liking that would be suited to the hunt of a Felacatian. The criteria being that it be dense with vegetation or the touch of nature, that sentient settlements be incredibly sparse or nonexistent and local inhabitants not be adverse to his presence. Being, that is, that his hosts were not overly territorial. Otherwise, he went under the guise of camping, down and dirty and in-touch with nature. This time, Meeristali had chosen Cularin. By far, this was his favoured destination, but for the sake of variety, he did not venture there every time. <o></o>
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It was when he was fastening the buckles and tying off his rucksack that his comm.. pager gave off a soft chime of notification, causing him to hastily fish it from one of several pockets in his flight suit, which was hanging tidily away and off his person. When he finally got ahold of it, he grumbled at the pointlessness of sending the notification to the device when it could just be sent to the larger comm.. screen situated right in his bunkroom. Wonders just never ceased, full sarcasm entirely intended. It never mattered that they couldn’t know where he was every minute of the day. He would rather have a message waiting for him on the comm.. console than have to deal with that annoying, infernal little device and its insufferable, irritation-provoking chime.<o></o>
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Sitting down at the comm.. console, Meeristali summoned up the waitlist of squadron communications and found in cue, just the one call that awaited him. The label line contained time and date information, but the only part that was of any importance was the caller. It told him what he could reasonably expect from the caller and what he could expect to be able to get away with in a conversation. What he wasn’t expecting was that this particular caller was calling him. Peculiar.<o></o>
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John Glayde – That was all the information he took from the infoline as he raised a finger and tapped it to bring the call in.<o></o>
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“Good evening, John.” Initially, he offered a tempered smile, but it faded quickly to a soft frown and his voice came out in the deep basso rumble that was practiced at covering or hiding completely the growliness of his usual tone. “As delighted as I should be to hear from a... friend, communications to this convoy should remain limited. Bear it in mind.”<o></o>
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He settled back in the chair, the toothy smile cropping up again. He smiled rarely, for very few people. It was a strained effort, as after four weeks of no change, he got grumpy. Eight weeks, he hardly spoke so as not to bite heads off… metaphorically. However, he had enough control to remain civil during a call to someone who tended not to irritate him as often.<o></o>
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“That being said..." He continued, smile disappearing under the wave of his well-known soft frown. "...how may I be of assistance?”

[John Glayde]

John's face on the video screen shifted to offer an appologetic smile. "I had to call in quite a few favours to get permission to contact you direc-" he admitted, words momentarily twisted and distorted by a flash of interference that corrupted the subspace signal. When his voice resumed, his words were grave. "-nately, when the subject of the message relates to Alliance Special Operations, extra options are available."

There was clear reluctance to say anymore on the Major's face, but as the Rogue had already stated, communications should be limited, in terms of time as well as occurrance. "I'll spare you the complexities and keep it brief: it's Mara. There are... problems."

[Meeristali Peradun]

“Problems.” His voice rumbled over the word.<o></o>
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It would appear that John, at some point, had finally grasped the full meaning of the word. It chipped away some of the worry he carried with him. Not a fretting mother’s worry, but the disdainful concern one had over someone else’s stupidity. He let the word and its connotations roll about in his mind, the likely possibilities giving the thoughts an air of distaste that showed in his deepening frown. He had steepled his digits against one another and was flexing them with a measure of impatience for what such thoughts would mean. He brought his eyes to bear on the screen again, one corner of his mouth twitching to betray the frown at the sight of John’s expression that told he really got just what the Felacatian had meant that time, some time ago, when he had given that warning. He knew better now than to brush things off when it concerned Mara. And secretly, there were other reasons why looking at John Glayde… that didn’t apply here. <o></o>
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“Your timing is convenient, Glayde. Fortunately for you, it would only be inconvenient if I gave a frell about leave.”<o></o>
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His voice was tense and he had to draw in a deep breath. He wasn’t angry. Not about that. About the other thing. Her. Anyone who knew Meeristali Peradun well enough knew he was disposed to workaholism. Anyone who attempted to convince him to be otherwise were, at the least, ignored. He let out the breath in a slow stream.<o></o>
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“I will delay my original plans to come and ‘lend a hand’.” A bare smile bared teeth, in the slightest. “I depart in the morning. Expect my arrival in the next forty-eight hours. I look forward to your company again, John Glayde.”<o>
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He cut the communication off. Goodbyes were not his thing.



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<o>Rebel Base - Location Undisclosed - Two Days Later (1100 hrs)

After gaining landing permissions, finding that they had been expecting his arrival, Meeristali brought himself in for landing. The X-Wing came in, swiftly lowering onto its struts on the spaceport tarmac. As soon as it was settled and the engines were mostly powered down, the cockpit hatch slowly craned open, revealing the hard helmet, which encompassed the majority of the head, including with the visor. Hands of tanned skin reached up to loose the chin clasp and pull the helmet off the head of its owner. It fit snugly enough and the pilot was glad to be free of it, as it made even his scalp sweat and it was determined as the oddest of feelings by the pilot.

He climbed out of the cockpit, stopped to tie his helmet to his rucksack and swing the pack over his shoulder, then checked over his shoulder and jumped, scoring a perfect landing on both feet, knees bent, one hand stretched out to the ground, just in case. He didn't often make that jump with the extra weight of the rucksack. When he stood, he looked up to where the R2 unit sat in its place on the snubfighter.

"Syoki, close the hatch and go into standby mode. I will be back..." He glanced back at the spaceport crews, then turned again, craning his head upwards to the droid. "...when I get back. I don't know how long it will take."

A few bleeps and bloops and the unit did as it was told and went to sleep. The Felacatian pilot, the only one in the entire Alliance, turned heel and began walking across the tarmac, crews passing to and fro, behind, beside and in front of him. He had been informed when given his confirmation to land, that Glayde would meet him at the spaceport and they would go from there. After some minutes of scanning his eyes around, they alighted on the subject of his search and Meeristali Peradun did not waste time in making his way to the man in question, waving to him as he approached.
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[John Glayde]

Glayde didn't bother with such an overt non-verbal greating, merely tilting his head slightly in silent acknowledgement. It wasn't like the pilot had needed to draw attention to himself with the gesture; the flight suits that X-Wing pilots in particular wore weren't exactly subtle, and while Glayde certainly appreciated the merits of an outfit that was easily spotted against the blackness of space should a pilot need to eject, he would probably have preferred it if said outfit wasn't a shade of orange that made him personally feel nauseous.

He waited patiently, watching as the pilot strode casually over; the special ops training hardwired into his brain had his eyes sweeping the rest of the starport, just in case. He half-expected to find Tur'enne down here; it was two days into her 'downtime', and he was genuinely surprised that she hadn't gone stir-crazy at being stuck on the ship. She wasn't though, he discovered, with a slight tinge of unexplained disappointment. No one he recognised was down here actually; just swarms of technicians, mostly Verpine. He wasn't an expert on their culture by any means, but if the elevation in the ambiant humming and chittering was anything to go by, they seemed pretty damn excited about the prospect of having an X-Wing to tinker with.

Finally close enough to address directly, Glayde flashed Peradun a brief smile. "Thanks for coming," he said, a note of genuine gratitude in his words. "I know you Rogues have been pretty busy lately; the fact that I don't know what with just goes to show how important it is. I really appreciate you taking the time to head out here."

[Meeristali Peradun]

It didn’t take long for John Glayde to show his thankfulness, without being awkward about it. Hearing the thanks made Meeristali feel awkward enough, but that was far less worse a result, had the other man been lacking in these manners.
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“It is nothing. Obligations must be honoured, John Glayde. When word is given, it must be kept…” A look of distaste ghosted over his features, passing quickly, leaving hard-won neutrality in its wake. “…no matter how much I wish to be done with the thing it pertains to.”
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Perhaps, he felt, that might have been saying too much. Peradun’s own feelings on the arrangement had no pull over whether he honoured it or not. Honour was honour and it was worse to have none. He glanced back at the X-wing, seeing the Verpine descend upon it and feeling a small tug of hesitance to leave his snubfighter in the hands of the unfamiliar. Much the same tug he felt over anything that removed him from duty, even that which was necessary. He turned back to Glayde.<o></o>

"I imagine you have a more private venue in mind for this discussion? Eavesdropping and gossip are the last things we need."

[John Glayde]

Glayde nodded, gesturing off in the direction behind them; Peradun probably took the first step, but ultimately they wound up progressing through the Rebel compound, side-by-side. "I'd invite you to my office on-ship," he explained, arms shifting casually as they walked, "But you only just dropped out of Hyperspace and, well -" He winced a little, uncomfortable at the admission he was making. "- I hear from your cousin that being confined inside a spacecraft isn't something that your species is generally fond of, so I figured we'd stay planetside as long as possible."

They found their way inside a building, and begun working down a maze of corridors; the increase in ambient hum revealed that they were heading towards a location where alcoholic beverages were served. As if the sound wasn't evidence enough, the somewhat discoloured Technician busily throwing up into a plant pot provided an extra clue.

A set of doors parted, and Glayde stepped inside; a wall of noise and stench slammed into it, assaulting some of his senses while others - sight in particular - were woefully neglected by the lack of ambiance. He glanced towards a cluster of Sullustans, chittering away in the corner; this was all likely a concession to their sensitive eyes.

"Not 'private'," Glayde conceeded, having to raise his voice a little to cut above the ambiant sound and ensure he was heard by the Flight Officer. "But the odds of anyone overhearing are slim to none."

[Meeristali Peradun]

Meeristali grunted at the distinct lack of cleanliness of the establishment, the wordless sentiment further imprinted by how his ears were assailed by the noise. Not music, noise. There was a distinct difference, after all. His sensory faculties were heightened by the fact that he was what he was, much more than his half-breed relation. It was an assault that he was just managing to remain unprovoked from.

"It's not the ships, Glayde." He replied to John's earlier concession and frowned, having to raise his voice notches above normal to make sure he was heard, but not enough to be overheard. "It's hyperspace, specifically, that forces the change. Though, I admit I am presently not in any position to endure a great deal more confinement with... other living beings, in any case."

He took another deep scan through the place, still not liking it, but hard-pressed for any other options. He wasn't familiar with the base and would have to take what was given him. The thought of disassembling the sound system floated through his consciousness and it nearly perked his mood. Nearly.

"It will do." He agreed, rolling his shoulders under the weight of the rucksack and crossing his arms. Despite the lack of favour he put into this place already, he found himself wanting for the distinct liquors of his home province. A thought came to mind from that want, which caused him to wince. "I don't suppose this venue offers anything other than weak sludge?"

Stali shook his head, thinking better of it. "Never mind. Let's be seated and you tell me what's happened."

[John Glayde]

Stali's explanation that it was Hyperspace which caused the bigger problems caught John a little by surprise. He'd always suspected that it did something, but he and Mara had never really discussed that sort of thing; wasn't really on the mandate for the kinds of topics they talked about. When every day was spent living the grave and mournful life of a soldier, you generally spent your downtime talking about something - anything - as idle, trivial, and lighthearted as possible.

Having known her for so long, John had of course picked up on Mara's personal distaste for being aboard starships for protracted periods. He'd just assumed it was a racial thing. Guess not.

He settled down into one of the seats around a relatively secluded table, chuckling to himself at the implied notion that the alcohol that the technicians on this base in particular used was 'weak' - he was pretty sure he'd seen a few barrels of the stuff getting loaded onto the shuttle back up to the ship when he'd arrived here, labelled on the cargo manifest as 'industrial solvent'.

Regardless, right now Glayde wasn't feeling nearly reckless enough to try and match drinks with a Felacatian; instead, he turned his attention towards the direct question Stali had posed.

"Mara isn't handling things too well lately." He tried to phrase things as delicately as he could; tried to avoid speculating too much on the matter lest he stumble upon yet another misconception about the nature of Felacians. "Maybe it's just that point in her cycle or whatever, but she seems even more aggressive and violent than I've ever seen her before. There's one officer in particular - Lieutenant Tur'enne - who seems to spark her off worst of all, but after tearing her own version of a Corellia Boulevard star and handprints into the floor of my gym -"

His voice trailed off. "If this keeps up, and word gets around to the other personnel, it's going to be bad for business. Bad for morale. Now, Tur'enne is a Corellian, and I can deal with her. But I -" He sighed. Shook his head. Slumped a little at his shoulders. "I can't deal with Mara. Not anymore."