"I'm Thomas Drake, I'm Here to Rescue You!"

Log Date:
	8/17/97

Log Cast:
	Thomas Drake, Tabak (NPC), Galdric (NPC), Rellawy Woodlake, Han Solo

Log Intro:
	Rell's life had turned upside down again.
	She supposed that she could hardly protest the upheaval -- after all,
having a mysterious stranger show up in the Burning Deck, speaking words
that not only contradicted notions she'd held all her life about the
fabled Jedi Knights, but named _her_ as one of their number, and a special
one at that -- was more than a distraction from the oppressive atmosphere
of the Smugglers' Moon. But _this_ distraction, Rell wasn't sure she
wanted. _It's too soon,_ she told herself plaintively as she trekked a
cautious course through the linktubes of the sector called The Pot,
leaving the freighter captain Thomas Drake behind on his vessel. _Too
soon, and I've got plans, I've got to get Da's logs...!_
	That Drake may well have provided her a clue towards the very
information she needed out of Jord Woodlake's private records couldn't help
but cross her mind. Indeed, she wrestled with that implication and a host of
others while she headed back towards the Burning Deck, Drake's words to
her ringing through her thoughts.
	_"The Jedi Healers were a subset of the Jedi Knights themselves..."_
	_Was_ she a Jedi Healer?
	She was some kind of healer, no doubt about it.
	But... Jedi?
	She was still pondering, torn, troubled, and deeply confused, when
without warning a pair of hands reached out -- seemingly out of nowhere --
to seize her. To haul her into an alleyway. And to clamp down hard over her
mouth to choke off a scream, while holding her in an iron grip. A disturbingly
familiar face leered down at her, while behind the black-haired human with
the eyepatch, a Gamorrean loomed, a rumbled threat just barely audible in
his throat.
	"Lookee what we got here," Galdric purred. "Our little healer. Our
little ticket to fortune and glory."
	Rell couldn't scream, and struggle though she might in Galdric's gloved
hands, she couldn't break free.
	_Ah, -crap-!_

---------- 
Level 601 - The Pot [Nar Shaddaa](#276RFL)
The atmosphere here is close; not only too close, but close enough to
 settle a layer of paranoia on beings who linger here. It is quiet and warm,
 and faintly smells of methane. In between the support columns are junk pile
 and battered chairs, and a number of thin cracked walls that makes sections
 of the area maze-like and enclosing. Beings sleep here and there, weary
 beyond physical fatigue, and the occasional being moves briskly through,
 oblivious to the living refuse.
An establishment called The Meltdown Cafe croaches to the south. A dark
 linktube to the northeast extends the roaming range of beings to the nearby
 tower of the Duros Sector. There is a turbolift here. (OOC: Type '+level
 list').
Obvious exits:
The Kache  The Meltdown Cafe  Linktube 42

Drake steps out of the turbolift.
Drake has arrived.
Drake emerges from the turbolift, obviously having postponed the nap he'd 
  intended to take for a meal.
Drake looks at you for a moment.

There is an immediate edge of _alarm_ in the methane-scented air here. A large 
  but furtive shadow -- a Gamorrean -- flashes his tusked head from side to 
  side before melting into the shadow of an alcove, from which that same edge 
  of _alarm_ now emanates.

Drake isn't paying attention to alcoves; he's tired, he's hungry, and the last 
  thing he's looking for now is a Gamorrean. He makes his way towards the 
  linktube, plodding along at a lumbering gait.

The Gamorrean vanishes. But from that direction emerges a muffled, momentary 
  shriek -- both audible and not, almost more a surge of _alarm/fear/fury_ 
  than an actual noise. Almost immediately, however, the shriek/not-shriek 
  cuts off into silence.

Drake didn't catch the Gammorean; but he caught the shriek, and the 
  fear--immediately, he whirls around, eyes searching through the dimness to 
  find the source of the sound; he walks forward.

_Her_. There, in that shadowed alcove.

Drake strides quickly towards the alcove, hand near his belt and blaster. He 
  says nothing--only squints through the darkness, to try and make out who's 
  where in the alcove.

The Gamorrean is visible less than two meters away, his big hands grasped 
  around the shaft of what can only be a vibro-ax. Past him, deeper in, 
  perhaps at the very back of this alley-let, a soft voice rasps out in a 
  barely audible whisper, "We're gonna give you one more shot at doin' this 
  the easy way, darlin'. Your call."

"Jump off the top of the P--!" hisses a liltingly accented voice that cuts off 
  sharly in a gasp of air, sounding exactly like a blow had just been dealt to 
  the belly of the speaker.

That it's an alcove apparentely gives Drake some kind of excuse; immediately, 
  without hesitation, the snap-hiss of his lightsaber ignites the blade, which 
  he swings towards the Gammorean's ax-hand; either the ax or the hand, Drake 
  doesn't seem terribly concerned as to which one he strikes.

The sound of the blade's ignition makes the big porcine whirl, just in time -- 
  and barely -- to avoid the swish of the saber. He squeals out an alarm, 
  though that hadn't been necessary, for whoever lingers at the back of the 
  alcove with the cornered girl has already noticed the commotion. The moment 
  the Gamorrean is out of the way, two blaster bolts singe the air, aiming 
  towards the newcomer.

Drake does not look in the direction of the incoming blaster bolts; his 
  lightsaber parries, deflecting the bolts skywards. "I will only warn you 
  once," Drake hisses, "Let her go."

Drake's cloak snaps in the breeze behind him, and whatever weariness was 
  present before appears to be gone, now--the crackling energy of the Jedi's 
  weapon permeates every moment.

"Get your own girl, pal," snarls the raspy voice, just as the Gamorrean, 
  squealing a battle cry, closes in fast with the vibro-ax, swinging it 
  straight towards the intruder's neck. Blaster bolts slice the air again. 
  From Rell -- for the feel of the alcove screams her presence -- there is no 
  sound.

Drake ducks his head back and brings his saber up to catch the blow of the 
  axe; and deftly, Drake flicks his wrist down and to the left, towards the 
  Gamorrean's wrist. No more does Drake talk, or even look concerned with 
  talking. He also doesn't appear to have realized that, without the Gamorean 
  there, the other fellow would have a clear shot at him.

The Gamorrean, however, grinning as much as a Gamorrean can, appears to have 
  realized just this, swinging his blade to and fro with enough professional 
  speed and agility to indicate that he is _not_ just a big porcine brute. He 
  begins trying to edge the intruder around, perhaps to put him between 
  himself and his partner.

Drake's attempts to disarm the Gamorrean having failed, he launches on the 
  offensive; raising his lightsaber high and brining it down in a wide, 
  slashing arc, Drake's movements are measured--Drake, it would appear, is 
  better at this than he is at convincing strangers to fly off somewhere with 
  him.

Apparentely, the commotion caused by a Gamorrean and Jedi doing battle is not 
  enough to rouse the interest of the local drudgery, who continue about their 
  business, with the full knowledge that the moon will be with one less human 
  shortly.

The axe handle shatters. The blade goes flying in one direction, and the rest 
  of the half in the other; infuriated, the Gamorrean bellows his rage, and 
  aims out a vicious kick towards his opponent's legs. Evidently, this 
  creature is now wary enough of the glowing blade that he's not going to 
  charge at the man wielding it head-on.

Drake has fought Gamorreans before; this one, however, seems to be smarter 
  than most, and that is a source of frustration for Drake; annoyed, the Jedi 
  steps back, keeping his saber low, and draws his blaster in his other hand; 
  point, and shoot.

The Gamorrean grunts in dismay and throws his bulk hard to one side -- 
  ducking. And the moment he does, his partner at the back of the alley fires 
  his own weapon, pumping shots off towards the intruder.

Drake, caught off guard, narrowly avoids the first couple shots by spinning 
  out of the direct line of sight of the alcove. The buzzing sound of the 
  lightsaber fades, and Drake puts both it and the blaster away; "I am a 
  reasonable man," he calls, keeping a wary eye on the Gamorrean, "We can talk 
  about this."
Either Drake's fatigue is taking its toll on him, or he's nuts.

"Nothin' to say, pal," growls back the raspy voice from the back of the alley. 
  "Get lost." As the unseen blaster-wielder speaks, the Gamorrean makes it to 
  a half-crouch, his hand snaking around behind his back -- going for another 
  weapon?

Drake's arm snakes out, and a pile of refuse begins shuddering on the ground, 
  not too far away; after shuddering for a moment, it starts to fly at the 
  Gamorrean. "Perhaps you'd care to reconsider," Drake grunts.

And then, abruptly, Rell's voice calls out hoarsely, "Go, Drake! Go before 
  Tabak breaks ye in ha-aaaah!" Again, she is cut off by the sound of a blow.

The Gamorrean whips out a length of rather wicked-looking chain, swinging it 
  heavily up to knock the flying refuge aside. From the back of the alley 
  comes an explosively muttered oath.

Drake is, at this point, beginning to get fed up with the Gamorrean. His 
  lightsaber is in his grasp once more, and the snap-hiss is barely audible 
  before he flings the thing at the Gamorrean; concentrating on his target, 
  the lightsaber even alters course a little on the way, spiraling at the 
  Other White Meat.

The instant the intruder is in view again, the blaster sings out once more, 
  though another oath accompanies it as the lightsaber is hurled. A third shot 
  is pumped off at the blade -- and the Gamorrean advances menancingly on the 
  blade-hurler now, the chain beginning to whirl as he swings it round, round, 
  round.

Drake catches a blaster bolt in the arm, and falters, but his gaze is dead set 
  on the flying saber--sweat pours down his brow, and he makes a slight 
  gesture with one hand; through the chain, through the refuse, apparentely 
  Drake has few compunctions about what the lightsaber cannot cut.
The blaster burn, or the pain it must apparentely be causing, does not even 
  register on Drake's face. Yet.

As the blaster bolt strikes home, a strangled noise sounds from the back of 
  the alley -- a scream, perhaps, bitten off hard before it fully escapes its 
  utterer. Then Rell shouts hoarsely, "No! Stop it, damn ye! STOP IT!" Her 
  assailant, the still unseen one with the raspy voice, can be heard to swear 
  again, his attention diverted.

The Gamorrean issues a scream of his own as the saber reaches his shoulder, 
  slicing through the protective plating he is wearing there... and reaching 
  flesh.

Solo steps out of the turbolift.
Solo has arrived.
Solo steps out of the dirty turbolift and moves quickly through the area, his 
  long stride and, most of all, his expression, slicing the collection of 
  wretches before him. They seem to be scattering anyway, apparently, and the 
  Corellian's attention snaps to the sound of the blaster and screams. His own 
  weapon finds itself in his hand and he adopts a stance of armed paranoia.

Drake's own stance is now one of mildly-armed paranoia, and he makes what 
  could be the mistake of dismissing the Gamorrean as 'downed' -- turning with 
  a very deliberate slowness towards Rellawy and Galdric, he holds out a hand: 
  "Let her go. Now."

"Tabak!" hollers the man in the back of the alley, a sharp call for status 
  rather than any sort of concern. The unseen one then promptly adds to Drake, 
  "Come and get her, worm-meat!"

The Gamorrean lurches to his feet, his big muscled arm streaming with blood 
  now, and his face filled with rage. _Now_ he charges at Drake, thinking of 
  nothing but downing that man.

A shot comes in from -behind- Drake, low, catching the large creature in the 
  thigh. Solo, dropped down, sights along his blaster, frowning.

Drake is, by now, extremely--very, very fed up--with the Gamorrean. He sees 
  him coming out of his periphal vision, but his fatigue and injury make what 
  might be a regrettable decision; a curt, almost rude gesture is made towards 
  the oncoming Pork.
Drake finds his lack of faith ... disturbing.

Between the blaster shot to his thigh and the sudden gesture from Drake, the 
  Gamorrean goes down in a squealing, twitching heap. And as he does, the girl 
  still at the back of the alley lets out a piercing shriek: "STOP IT!"

A beat after, the raspy-voiced man snarls out, "Tabak!" There is no reply from 
  the downed porcine, who is moaning on the permacrete, now.

"Tabak?!" shouts the man again, this time with more alarm in his voice. 
  "Tabak, answer me!"

Drake makes a second gesture, and his lightsaber returns to his grasp; 
  striding forward, Drake snarls, "Let her go and you will both live," He 
  holds his lightsaber out in front of him, towards the man, whom he continues 
  to approach.

Solo rises to a better stance and seems content to stay there, watching the 
  conflict as the backup man.

"She's gonna fix him, first," snarls the man, now coming forward into the 
  light, hauling a grey-faced Rell in an iron grip -- and pointing his blaster 
  to her head. "She's gonna fix him."

Solo's expression adopts a 'I don't believe this' expression and he looks 
  hesitant, but keeps his blaster up.

The girl _appears_ unharmed, but her expression is stricken, her eyes glazed 
  over, and riveted on the fallen creature. "No," she gasps out, but there's 
  no strength to it, and she stumbles along next to her captor as though only 
  barely conscious.

Rell's captor, now, can be seen: a tall and lanky human with oily-looking, 
  shaggy dark hair, dark stubble covering the lower half of his face, and a 
  patch over one eye. He is clad in ratty clothing, including old gloves with 
  their fingers cut off. But he, like the blaster he's got jammed up to the 
  girl's temple, clearly means business.

"I'll make you a deal," Drake says quietly, breathing heavily, "I'll give you 
  one good shot at me. I won't move. If I die, you get to keep her. If I 
  don't, you take your friend and get the hell of this rock. Look where you 
  are, man, you don't have a whole lot of options."
Drake makes perfect sense. See? See!

The man with the eyepatch thrusts Rell at the Gamorrean, ordering her, "Do him 
  -- like you did me! I know you can!" Then, his attention snapping round to 
  Drake, he stares hard at the other man for a moment, then grins, leeringly, 
  raising his blaster. "Your funeral, pal," he growls, his finger depressing 
  the trigger.

Rell falls over onto her knees by the Gamorrean. She is trembling violently, 
  and her eyes clamp shut. But even as they do, her hands slam down onto the 
  wounded porcine's flesh -- and the Gamorrean, in the middle of another 
  squeal of pain, cuts it off, sounding strangely startled.

Eyepatch's blaster bolt goes zinging at Drake.

Drake sort-of sees Rellawy go help the Gamorrean, looking somewhat startled; 
  whose side /is/ she on? Drake sees the blaster bolt coming, and doesn't try 
  to move out of the way; his hand held out, he catches his breath for a 
  moment--it strikes him, and his eyes fly open, and . . . nothing. Nothing 
  happens. Nearing the limit of his endurance, Drake advances on eyepatch, 
  lightsaber raised to strike.

Solo's eyebrows raise, and he straightens, lowering his blaster warily, as if 
  expecting more shots. He takes a step back, then moves off to the side, 
  seeking unobtrusive cover and a clean shot at the thugs if needed.

Eyepatch gapes as a shot fired at point-blank range fails to down his target. 
  His face flooding with the beginnings of fear, he snaps his gaze around to 
  his partner, barking, "Tabak?!"

Rell remains poised where she's crouched for a moment, her hands grabbing at 
  the porcine... then, without preamble or much more than a barely breathed 
  shuddering sigh, she keels over backwards. The Gamorrean rouses, squealing 
  in startlement and scrambling away from the fallen girl.

Bloody and filthy still, the Gamorrean nevertheless makes it to his feet with 
  apparently far less effort than a creature who's taken the injuries it has 
  should be showing. He grunts out a string of frantic syllables to his 
  partner -- who, now catching sight of Solo with his unwaveringly sighted 
  blaster, apparently finally decides that fleeing is the better part of 
  valor. "Go, Tabak, go!" Eyepatch raggedly barks.

Solo keeps his blaster trained on the big being, looking like he'd like to use 
  it.

The porcine needs no more urging. He skitters off into the darkness, meaty 
  feet clomping as he goes; Eyepatch, flicking a single-eyed, hate-filled look 
  at the other two men, goes scrambling in the opposite direction, his blaster 
  held out defensively before himself as he, too, retreats.

With a dull fzzz-whuut, Drake's blade disappears, and he turns to face 
  Rellawy. "I can't take you anywhere," he rasps, nearly collapsing against 
  the wall.

And Rell, with a breathy groan, rolls over. Trembling as though gripped in 
  some kind of fever, she hauls herself laboriously to her knees, then to her 
  feet. She stumbles straight towards Drake, her eyes curiously blank, her 
  hands lifting to his wounded shoulder.

Drake, who is struggling to remain standing, somehow finds the energy to grip 
  Rellawy's wrist. "Don't," he hisses sharply.

With a disgusted look, Solo holsters his blaster and stays where he is, 
  watching.

Drake grabs her one hand, which makes the girl's face twist in surprise and 
  undeniable pain. She blinks owlishly a moment, then, mechanically, the other 
  hand comes up to clap heavily down on the man's wounded shoulder...

You paged Drake with 'IC: It's as if some kind of electrical current surges 
  out of her flesh and into yours -- or perhaps a sudden, massive upsurge in 
  the Force? It pours into your arm, lancing straight for blaster-burnt flesh, 
  willing it to mend. To heal itself. To reveal to it the nature of this 
  being it is repairing, so that it can do it right... before finally sweeping 
  back in a whirlwind of energy into the girl.'.

Drake looks only a little less disgusted with himself than Solo does with 
  Drake. "I can't believe that just happened," though he doesn't specify what 
  he's referring to. "I'm going back to the ship," he mutters, hauling himself 
  back to his feet.

Drake pages: It would be overwhelming at first, a wash of memories and 
  impulses; frustration, surprise at facing an opponent who actually posed a 
  threat to him; that, apparentely, Drake hasn't done in a while. Concern for 
  Rellawy both because she is Rellawy and because he thinks she's important to 
  some kind of effort, or movement, though which isn't clear.

As her hand connects with Drake, Rellawy twitches, and her head snaps back as 
  though she's just been struck. Then, blinking again, and frowning in 
  disorientation, she mumbles, "Thomas....?" And abruptly collapses.

Drake expounds a string of unflattering curses, puts his saber back on his 
  belt, and leans down to throw Rellawy over his shoulder.

Solo watches from the beginning of an alley. It's clear he's not sure what to 
  do.

It would seem that the girl has fainted. She doesn't stir as she's swept up 
  over the blond man's shoulder; her head and limbs loll, boneless.

Drake lopes out of the alcove, headed for the turbolift. If he notices Solo, 
  he doesn't say anything.

Solo seems content to leave it that way, and smirks bitterly at the two as 
  Drake sprints past.

[End log.]