Log Date:
	6/24/99, 6/26/99, 6/27/99

Log Cast:
	Shenner, Webb

Log Intro:
	After a deeply disturbing day in which Shenner has had vehement
arguments with two of her close friends, and in which she's shut herself up
in her apartment getting quietly drunk with a copy of _Thieves of the
Sacred Scrolls_ to keep her company, the young musician has been deeply
startled by a late-night intruder in her apartment: Jonathan Webb, who's
been worried about her ever since their argument on the bluffs. Rendered
vulnerable by the alcohol she's put down, Shen has gone from trying to throw 
Webb out of her apartment to awkwardly admitting that she's lonely... and
so Webb has stayed with her during the night, curling up with her on her
couch to keep her company. Which means, of course, that he's still there 
when the morning arrives...

----------
With the morning's arrival, the room has grown steadily lighter, the daylight 
  peeking in through the apartment's front window. The holo-player on the 
  floor, having dutifully played a third time through _Thieves of the Sacred 
  Scrolls_, has gone into hibernation mode, a single green flashing light on 
  the console the only sign of any remaining life from the unit... well, that, 
  and the tiny chrono display also still active on its front console. That 
  chrono as well as the one on Shen's well report, though no eyes are yet open 
  to acknowledge this, that it's well after 0900 hours.

At last, Shenner is not at all sure what awakes her. As she begins to creep 
  out of unconsciousness, a disjointed feeling of deja vu prods at her; 
  something about what her senses are reporting in is somehow familiar. She's 
  got a blanket around her. She is, or at least so she vaguely remembers, on a 
  couch. And she's cuddled up close to someone. For a while, old memories well 
  up from somewhere within her, and she half-expects to find herself on a 
  different couch... on Corellia... until she opens her eyes. Then the light 
  begins to strike painfully at her sight, awakening the beginnings of a 
  hangover behind her eyes. And it begins to occur to her that while there 
  _does_ seem to be someone warm and awfully close to her, that someone is... 
  "W-Webb?"

"Mmm?" answers Webb, if one might call that an answer, as he stirs ever so 
  faintly. Whereas he fell asleep in what was a more or less sitting position, 
  gravity and an instinctive search for comfort steadily tugged him downwards, 
  until he was laying across the couch. Now the two of you lay stretched out 
  upon the couch, covered by the same blanket, your head resting upon his 
  chest. In his state of only the vaguest shred of conciousness, his hand 
  moves in a semi-reflexive fashion, causing his fingers to zig-zag their 
  way down your neck, following the path of your spine.

For just a moment, memory swirls behind Shen's eyes again. The last time she'd 
  lain on a couch in a man's arms, that man had been Paul Nighman, and that 
  memory is strong enough to set off a yearnful ache in her. This disturbs the 
  musician enough that she has to shake her head to try to clear it -- she's 
  not on Corellia, she's on Caspar. But shaking her head only makes that 
  hangover gain strength, and she slumps down again, her head sinking back to 
  rest against the Marine even as she tries to get her senses under control. 
  "You awake?" she croaks.

Little tiny crinkles appear at the corners of Webb's eyes as his eyelids 
  squeeze together, as if he were desperately clinging to his rapidly 
  evaporating state of slumber. A few seconds pass, before he inhales sharply, 
  and his eyes suddenly jerk wide open, fixated straight ahead at the ceiling 
  of your apartment as a sort of reflexive twitch ripples through his frame, 
  prompting his arms to tighten about you for an instant. Okay, it would 
  appear that he's awake.

Shen feels that twitch, and is equally aware of the tightening of the embrace 
  around her that results. A little groan slips out of her, then. She's warm. 
  She's comfortable... well, mostly comfortable; her head protests the mere 
  thought of her trying to sit up. But she's also becoming more and more aware 
  of her current position... and the fact that her system seems to still be 
  behaving strangely in response to Jonathan Webb's athletic form beneath her. 
  Reluctantly, she lifts her head, her eyes darkened and a little dazed, 
  squinted against the brightness in the room for all that the light level is 
  relatively mild. "Should... you be here?" she asks, her voice sounding 
  rusty... and nervous. A distinct flush of red has begun to creep across her 
  face.

Webb's expression seems distant, shocked, haunted, and almost terrified. 
  Wherever he was in his dreams only moments ago, it must not have been a 
  pleasant place or time. "I..." he stammers in a quiet, hollow tone, before 
  he lets out his breath slowly, and he takes a moment to peer about his 
  surroundings, then down at you, "What time is it?"

Disturbed again by the expression on Webb's face, Shenner blinks; her own 
  expression shifts a bit, uncertain. Then she squints sideways, glimpses the 
  small display on the front of the holo-player, and she grunts huskily, 
  "Oh-nine... forty-three. Oooh." Her head doesn't like that motion, either, 
  and she has to rest her forehead against the shoulder beneath it for a few 
  more moments.

Webb's brow furrows faintly as his gaze shifts back up to the ceiling, as if 
  trying to conjure up the most of his early morning cognitive abilities, 
  before he asks his next question, "What day?" Yes, he just might be faintly 
  disoriented after his rather abrupt awakening.

With a full brandy bottle's worth of hangover pulsing behind her eyes, 
  that question baffles Shen a little, particularly since she's not a hundred 
  percent certain herself. Still curled up prone in her companion's arms, she 
  mutters thickly, "Not sure... gimme a minute... my head hurts." The singer 
  then comes to realize _why_ her head hurts, and then she mumbles a day name 
  in small embarrassed tones, appending in its wake, "Ohhhh, kark..." That 
  flush of red gets brighter as she begins to try to lift her head again.

Webb looks down at you again as he feels you attempting to lift your head 
  again, and makes full eye contact for perhaps the first time this morning, 
  as he reaches blindly for his comlink, eventually fishing off of the nearby 
  coffee table. He squints as he takes a moment to look at it, as he mutters, 
  "Nothing urgent going on, apparently." This realisation prompts Webb to 
  relax slightly, "Means I have time to fix you breakfast," he smirks in an 
  almost shy manner, "It'd help with the hangover."

Shen manages to lever herself up on one elbow, bringing her face up within 
  decent visual range. Her hair is decidedly rumpled, the braid having come 
  loose at some time during the night; now, made wavier by prolonged 
  confinement in that braid, loose russet curls frame her features. Sleep, the 
  hangover, or both still have a grip on her, too. As soon as she manages to 
  meet the blue-gray glance directed her way her own gaze skitters away again, 
  her eyes half-squeezed shut. Little crinkles line one cheek, where she'd had 
  it pressed against your chest throughout the night. "Y'don't hafta do that," 
  she mumbles sheepishly.

Webb peers curiously at your hair, for he hasn't really ever seen it freed 
  from its braid, nor did he ever suspect that it might have a curl of some 
  sort to it. He lifts his hand as if tempted for a moment to reach out to 
  touch it, as he murmurs, "I know. But I can."

There's curl there, all right; loose curls, but curls all the same. Shen's own 
  hand comes up as she unthinkingly tries to shove dark red waves out of her 
  eyes, and the hand stays there as she pinches her nose between her 
  forefinger and thumb. "Breakfast," she uncertainly rasps, trying to decide 
  whether the idea is at all palatable... and not at all sure what she thinks 
  of this young man preparing it for her in the first place, especially when 
  the urge is still very strong just to curl up where she is and drop back 
  into sleep. For the life of her, too, she can't quite remember either what 
  food if any she has in her tiny kitchen. Finally, though, she adds, "Sure... 
  I guess... thanks..."

Webb mutters softly, "Unless you'd rather go back to sleep until a reasonably 
  civilised hour." Webb shifts faintly beneath you, so as to make a lump in 
  the couch somewhat more comfortable, not that there aren't certain things 
  about this situation that might be considered to be rather comfortable. His 
  eyelids seem to become heavier as he gazes down at you, indicating that his 
  own inclination to rest.

"But..." the singer murmurs, caught between lying down again and trying to get 
  up. Then she stops, caution reminding her that unexpected pleasures are 
  liable to vanish if she questions them -- and besides, it's so hard to think 
  with her head feeling like a vicious little jawa is swinging a club against 
  the inside of her skull. Her eyes go shut again, and her head sinks down to 
  nestle once more against your shoulder; the arm on which she'd propped 
  herself slides back down to where it can lie comfortably between her body 
  and your own; her free hand fumbles for the blanket, trying to draw it more 
  securely around you both. "C'n live with that idea," she muses, her voice 
  dropping in volume as she stops trying to fight the demands of her senses.

Webb reaches down to assist in repositioning with the blanket, drawing it up 
  to the middle of your neck, before he carefully gathers up your wavy mass of 
  hair and carefully places it atop the blanket, so that is won't get all 
  scrunched up or caught upon anything while the two of you doze.

Something small and silver and ornate slips out of Shenner's hair; the clasp 
  with which she usually holds that braid in place, the thing Jairen had given 
  her at the end of the Battle of Liberation. Shen, however, doesn't notice. A 
  small sleepful noise escapes her, her only reply as those red locks of hers 
  are lifted up and out of the blanket's way. Her free hand comes up to rest 
  against your other shoulder, and in very short order, she's dropped asleep 
  once more.

Time continues to creep by outside the little cocoon of a blanket around a 
  weary soldier and a hungover singer. The light level grows in the room as 
  the day continues towards noon outside; occasionally, sounds that might be 
  aircars and skimmers rushing by along Minutes Road drift into the room. 
  Once, there comes a discreet chiming from somewhere in the apartment as 
  Shen's telecomm unit goes off, signaling an incoming call. But the volume is 
  very low, and the musician doesn't stir at its announcement of its presence. 
  Other than that, silence reigns in the little apartment.

Webb frequently drifts in and out of sleep as the morning progresses. While 
  the various sounds of the world about the two of you occasionally rouse him 
  from his slumber, but each time the realisation that he has somewhere warm 
  and comfortable and safe to rest prompts him to drift back to sleep. 
  Sometimes he shifts ever so faintly when he awakens, allowing him to peek at 
  face as you rest against his chest. His breathing is slow, even, and 
  indicative of comfort with his present situation. At one point, he feels 
  that clasp poking at him, and fishes it out from beneath the blanket, and 
  places it onto the nearby coffee table, then places his hand among your mane 
  of russet coloured hair, twining his fingers into it slowly. The next time 
  he awakens, the quiet trilling of the telecom unit catches his ear, and he 
  looks about the room curiously, attempting to lift his head off of the 
  pillow to locate the source of the sound.

Shenner remains at rest... at peace, for once. Without the usual fire of her 
  temperament animating her features, one can easily think them delicate, 
  fragile. A pleased little sigh drifts out of her at the feel of the fingers 
  in her hair -- unbraided, there seems to be much more of it than one might 
  expect, as if it had to be compressed to be braided -- and her head turns 
  for the briefest of instants to rub against the warm body upon which it 
  rests. Lulled by the rise and fall of your chest, lulled by the overall 
  warmth of where she lies, the redheaded singer doesn't once seem inclined to 
  uncurl from around your form. Only when you try to look up does she murmur 
  something sleepily into your chest, vaguely sensing the motion, and tighten 
  her free arm around you.

The telecomm trill comes from somewhere in the kitchen area -- the unit's on 
  the counter, perhaps. But after a time it shuts off, the party on the other 
  end giving up, and the unit dutifully records a message delivered in the 
  accents of the Twi'lek singer Aa'leet before falling silent again.

Webb emits a soft, contented sigh as one of his fingers slowly strokes up and 
  down the middle of your back beneath the blanket, not daring to disturb the 
  serenity by getting up to answer your telecomm unit. As he hears the message 
  recorder kick in, he strains his ears to detect the message, so as to 
  ascertain wether or not it is important enough to merit waking you, while he 
  ponders what strikes him as an amusing prospect - how Aa'leet would have 
  reacted had he made his way to the telecomm unit to answer the call.

Aa'leet's Basic is excellent, though her accent still has the distinctive 
  hints of her race's homeworld. The recorder is turned down, though, and only 
  a few words carry across the room: something from the keyboard player about 
  hoping Shen feels better, perhaps. There's no urgency in those softly spoken 
  words, though.

And in the meantime, as that hand courses up and down her back, the feel of it 
  drifts into Shenner's sleeping mind. She pulls in a long slow breath and 
  then lets it out again; her shoulders shift once, turning her upper body 
  ever so slightly towards that hand's attentions.

Webb's finger follows a rather snaking path along your spine, dipping into all 
  of the little sensitive notches from the small of your back, all of the way 
  up to the base of your neck, before his hand starts to descend once again. 
  His lips curl into a faint, lazy smile as he detects the response to the 
  caresses spreading through your muscles.

Her eyes still firmly shut, Shenner is nevertheless growing more aware of 
  those light trails of sensation being drawn down her back, even through the 
  clothing she's still wearing from yesterday, rumpled by her having slept in 
  them. The rhythm of her breathing begins to shift, and her mouth parts 
  slightly, letting a warm little exhalation of breath course across your 
  chest.

While that one hand slowly trails up and down your back, occasionally pausing 
  at certain points to ease tense spots in your muscles with delicate 
  caresses, the other begins to carefully stroke through your hair - pushing 
  it back from your face, trailing down it to the tips of each strand that 
  passes through his fingers, then repeating.

Between the activities of both of those hands, Shenner stirs but does not yet 
  wake. Her own free hand moves, coming up again to your shoulder, where it 
  kneads seemingly of its own volition for a few moments, like the paw of a 
  sleepy cat. A little tremor of reaction spreads down through the singer, 
  from the hand in her hair towards which her head cranes, down to the shift 
  of her hips at the hand at the small of her back. And finally a sound of 
  drowsy pleasure escapes her, even as her brow crinkles in faint bemusement 
  over her closed eyes.

Webb arches one eyebrow faintly at that sound that escapes from your lips. His 
  fingers slip out from your hair, interrupting the pattern that they were 
  following for a moment, before you feel the tip of his index finger touching 
  your forehead, tracing a line just above your eyebrow, then starting down 
  the side of your face across your temple, as if mapping out the contours of 
  your face by touch.

Shen's mind bobs up out of the depths of slumber, only to be thrown off guard 
  by the reports in from various corners of her body that they feel... nice. 
  The feel of that light touch along her brow brings her mouth open as she 
  catches her breath, and her head, already lying sideways, rolls slightly to 
  bare a stretch of her throat... and only then does it begin to occur to her 
  that something odd is occurring, something that might warrant a little more 
  attention. Her eyelids flicker open, revealing a sleepy and unfocused gaze, 
  and she starts trying to rally her wits enough to speak. "Wha..."

His finger progresses, via a highly meandering route, all of the way down to 
  the tip of your chin before your eyes finally flutter open. Seeing the 
  movement of your eyelids, his finger stops abruptly. For a moment, this 
  seems to be a sort of a 'caught in the act' behaviour, before Webb relaxes a 
  little and murmurs to you, "Morning..." though there's not much morning left.

It takes a few moments before that murmur makes it through the layers of 
  drowsiness still clinging to Shen's brain... as well as the lingering traces 
  of pleasant sensation along her face. Before she can really consider the 
  words, she hears herself huskily request, "Don't stop..."

Webb's eyebrows arch faintly once again, and after the scantest moment of 
  hesitation, his fingers begin to move once again, following the line of your 
  jawbone back up to your cheek in a decidedly unhurried manner before 
  abruptly changing directions to follow along the contour of the faint ridge 
  of bone just beneath the eye, until his finger bumps gently against the 
  bridge of your nose. "Okay," he murmurs ever so quietly.

Shenner's eyes shiver closed again, and for a time she lets herself be aware 
  of nothing but those fingertips tracing a course along the lines and planes 
  of her face. Both to those exploring fingers and an inquiring gaze, subtle 
  little details of her features might be noted: the faint little dent in her 
  chin, the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Soon, 
  though, it seems to her that she can't let this last; something, eventually, 
  will intrude. But it also seems to her that that idea holds a distinct lack 
  of appeal. Her brows knit together over her closed eyes -- which stay 
  closed, in an unconscious defense against the probable intrusions of reality 
  -- and she plaintively mutters, "Oughtta let you get gone soon..."

"Maybe," comes Webb's faint reply as he takes in all of the little details of 
  your face, even going so far as to attempt to count the freckles upon the 
  bridge of your nose as his finger trails downwards along the edge of your 
  nose, descending until his finger brushes against the slightly softer skin 
  of your lip in a manner that faintly tickles at first.

Shen's head arches back a little, when your finger reaches her mouth, and her 
  breath stops briefly, shakily, and then starts again. A slight strain has 
  appeared around the corners of her eyes -- that hangover threatening to 
  pulse back into life if she lets herself think too intently. But those small 
  simple touches are proving an excellent distraction. "You should," she 
  begins hoarsely, and then she stops. _You should keep doing that..._ Another 
  pleased little sound escapes her, coming up from somewhere in the back of 
  her throat.

After only a moment of hesitation, Webb seems to be more inclined (for the 
  moment) to pay attention to what you're thinking rather than what you're 
  saying (it's really just a lucky guess on his part, rather than any form of 
  telepathy). Now, the path of his finger traces along the very edge of your 
  lower lip, taking a few seconds to traverse from one corner of your mouth to 
  the other, before proceeding back across your upper lip, producing a faint 
  tingle in nerve endings which you would normally not know existed.

Shen wouldn't normally know such things, no, and even now she's not inclined 
  to think about things like nerve endings. The gentle tracings around her 
  lips fill her consciousness, allowing for very little other active thought. 
  Only a half-automatic movement of her free hand, beginning to stroke along 
  the shoulder beneath it, betrays any sign of desire to stir out of the warm, 
  secure stasis in which she's currently blanketed.

His finger makes another orbit, this time slower than last, before on the next 
  pass his finger strokes along the somewhat more inner portions of your lips. 
  The motion seems almost automatic, as instinctive as his desire to remain 
  warm and comfortable in this refuge that the two of you seem to have found.

Shen's free hand wanders of its own accord along the line of your shoulder and 
  then down again, along your arm, and then skipping off lightly to your side. 
  Then it returns the way it had come, seeking out the shapes of muscles 
  beneath your clothing. Its progress is slow as well, as though the orbit of 
  the fingertip tracing out the shape of her mouth dictates the speed of her 
  motions; it certainly dictates the small reflexive pursing of her lips 
  against that finger, a fleeting brush of a kiss.

Finally, a faint shiver can be felt in his muscles, apparently conjured by 
  your own explorations. Though none of his muscles that your fingers find are 
  bulky or even that much larger than would be considered to be normal (for 
  that would generally degrade cardiovascular fitness and slow his reactions) 
  but every last fibre has a firm, toned feel to it. And yet, for all of his 
  strength and training, Webb is (mostly... as far as you can tell) still just 
  flesh and blood human. As your finger purses against the caress of his 
  finger, the caress becomes slower, and slightly firmer, in response to the 
  change in tension of the muscles of your face.

Her eyes are still closed, but the rate of her breathing bear witness to the 
  fact that Shen is now undeniably awake. Both her hands are occupied -- the 
  one still pinned beneath her, the other running up and down your side, 
  fingers spread, palm rubbing into the leanly defined muscle there. And so 
  her lips are left to begin returning your fingers' attentions, brushing soft 
  and pliant and warm along your hand.

A change in tension of his muscles betrays his intent to move before it 
  actually occurs, as Webb slowly raises his head, and brushes his lips ever 
  so faintly against your forehead as he allows you in turn to plant kisses 
  upon the hand that caressed your lips. Another delicate brushing of his lips 
  soon follows, this one upon your closed eyelid, then moving directly 
  downwards, in a path conspicuously mirroring that which led to his fingers 
  caressing your lips.

As you move down, so does Shen move up ever so slightly, her arm sliding up to 
  loop in under your neck. Her face turns to your own, letting your mouth lay 
  down its trail until it reaches hers. And with that, this often angry, 
  fiery, temperamental musician... this lonely, vulnerable young woman... is 
  kissing you, with lips turned soft and full by those prior delicate 
  attentions, but whose motions are growing steadily more intent.

Webb's job often means that he must face intense physical and mental 
  hardship... sometimes, it's just the thing to make one feel alive. Other 
  times, it can leave one feeling a little... less than human. Now, this 
  exchange of affections offers an opportunity to feel a little more human 
  once again. Though there is perhaps momentary hesitation on his part before 
  his lips finally come into contact with yours. When they do, the touch of 
  his lips is light, tender, and patient - very much in opposition to the 
  maelstom of his life spent upon the cutting edge. The feeling is so 
  overwhelmingly appealing that any reservations are steadily pushed aside, 
  and his lips eagerly become more and more engaged with yours, progressing 
  from just gentle brushing, to parting gently to close about your lower lip.

Shenner pulls herself up a little, till at last she lies more or less atop 
  you, your head cradled on her arm. And for a long span of moments, she lets 
  herself tenderly kiss you, till at last she lifts her head to catch her 
  breath. Her free hand comes up to brush fingertips against your cheek, and 
  she gazes down at you with green eyes turned dark with need and 
  consternation. Dismay begins to trickle across her expression, and she 
  mutters -- half to herself, half to you -- "What am I doing? I can't..."

A soft, electronic-sounding beep interrupts both your protests, and any 
  attempts for the two of you to offer forth any sort of affection. The 
  culprit would be the comlink which he had placed upon your coffee table 
  before falling asleep with you. Webb was perhaps just about to respond to 
  your comment, but instead emits a soft sigh as he slowly turns his head, 
  reaching out to grasp the device.

Shenner blows out a breath, and slowly, reluctantly, begins to sit up to give 
  you room to reach for the comlink. Her hand lingers for a fraction of an 
  instant against your cheek before she lifts that hand up to scrub across her 
  eyes, and then she's up now, the blanket sloppily draped about her slender 
  form, the unkempt mop of her hair falling into her face.

With hands still slightly shakey with excitement from the earlier activities, 
  Webb inserts the earpiece of the comlink into place, before he finally opens 
  the channel, and answers tiredly, "Webb here... yeah... about 20 minutes? 
  Understood." With a soft sigh, he removes the comlink once again, and starts 
  to slowly sit up, his expression turning apologetic.

"You gotta go," says Shenner softly, turning her head to consider you, green 
  eyes serious and unsurprised behind the loose strands of red draping across 
  her brow. It's not a question. She, too, looks a trifle shaken... and 
  apologetic. "Look, pal... I..."

Webb nods slowly and looks up to meet your gaze, as he mutters, "Yeah, I do." 
  A faint smirk registers in the corner of his mouth as he takes in your 
  somewhat unkept appearance. Ordinarily, he might find the sight a touch more 
  on the amusing side, but given the recent levels of seriousness which have 
  asserted themselves upon this situation. So, the smirk vanishes rapidly, 
  before it can fully form, as he braces himself for the words that you are 
  trying to get out.

What _to_ say? For a few seconds, Shen considers asking about the woman rumor 
  had linked with Webb in Trinumvira Base... but on the other hand, she's not 
  at all sure she wants to even consider that line of questioning, much less 
  think about it. And so the singer settles for saying gruffly, her gaze 
  flicking off across the room to rest upon the holo-player still on the 
  floor, "Thanks for... stayin' with me."

What to say indeed. Webb ponders that quite thoroughly, as shown in his 
  decidedly thoughtful expression as he gazes up at you. Indeed, during the 
  lengthy moment of unspoken communication, he almost ponders wether or not to 
  bring up the very individual who is on your mind, while he ponders wether or 
  not to ask about certain aquaintances of your own. Of course, given the 
  actual spoken communication, that might not be all that appropriate, and 
  hence, his own gaze wanders. Finally, he answers, "Uh... it was my 
  pleasure," before he realises how silly that particular statement may have 
  sounded.

Shenner smiles, a small, awkward little grin. And then she rises, shucking off 
  the blanket, revealing herself clad in all she'd had on last night -- her 
  tank top, her camo pants. The silver chain of her pendant is still round her 
  neck, vanishing into the top. With a slight smirk, then, she peers down at 
  herself and then stumbles off for the door of her 'fresher nook. Almost 
  visibly drawing her more normal temperament about her, as though she were 
  pulling on an unseen garment, she says as she goes, "I, uh, think I remember 
  you sayin' somethin' about havin' to talk to me. About Ms. Laarken, that 
  is..." And she steps into the 'fresher nook, though she doesn't close the 
  little door. The sound of water runs, underneath the sound of her voice.

Webb flashes a faint smirk of his own as you emerge from beneath the 
  blanket... not that the sight of a camouflage clad, rumpled looking russet 
  haired bard might be amusing first thing in the morning or anything. The 
  fact that /both/ of you are attired in camouflage and possibly equally 
  rumpled looking might be the source of greater amusemnt. He furrows his brow 
  for a moment while he attempts to recall that, "Uh, yeah... I seem to 
  remember something about that too," he says to you over the sound of the 
  running water as he gathers up his gear. He bites his lower lip again, 
  before he suggests, "Did it involve clones?"

A moment or two later Shenner emerges from the 'fresher, her face damp and a 
  trifle less bleary, her hair damp too; she's pulling a comb through the red 
  strands. But she pauses as she comes back into view, peering over at her 
  visitor. "Yeah," she hazards. "I remember that." Apparently, a full bottle 
  of Corellian brandy doesn't much impact Shenner's memory.

"Think about the next most viable candidate for replacement, seeing as the 
  replacement Taylor had aspirations for control of the Union," Webb relates 
  casually as he tugs on his combat boots and laces them up.

Shenner brings the comb down out of her hair, and goes very still, staring 
  over at you. Then she grimaces, reaching up to rub the bridge of her nose; 
  the thought now blossoming across her mind threatens to awaken the hangover 
  all over again. "Shiisa," she rasps at last.

Webb nods slowly in wholehearted agreement as he straps his holstered sidearm 
  onto his right thigh, "My thoughts exactly," with a thin, grim smirk. The 
  next thing he picks up is his combat knife, and several pouches of 
  ammunition for his sidearm. The sidearm ammo is strapped to his left thigh 
  opposite the sidearm itself, while his combat knife gets strapped about his 
  left ankle. "Bloody mess," he sighs.

Shenner's eyes go dark again, but this time for entirely different reasons, as 
  she ponders the implications of what she's just had revealed to her. She 
  steps barefootedly to her low table, picking up the silver clasp that 
  generally holds her hair in place, and for a heartbeat or two, she stares at 
  it as though the ornate little object might reveal some hidden wisdom to 
  her, some clue about what she, a street rat bar singer, might do if someone 
  is trying to clone people in the government of her adopted homeworld. 
  Finally, she begins to braid her hair, in motions practiced enough that she 
  doesn't need a mirror, and as she does she says hoarsely, "Thanks for 
  tellin' me."

Yes, information like that can be a touch overwhelming. In spite of the fact 
  that Webb might appear a touch on the formidable side as he attires and arms 
  himself, his preoccupied expression might suggest that even a veteran 
  officer in one of the most elite units in the known galaxy might not readily 
  know how to respond to such a threat. "Yeah..."

The braid is soon done, pulling russet locks of hair out of Shenner's face; 
  the silver clasp goes onto the end, snapped shut with a quiet *snk*. Then 
  she drops the thick braid back over one shoulder, and stands there watching 
  you as you reassemble your gear. "Why'd you tell me?" she asks then, her 
  voice still low and rough.

Webb takes a moment to struggle with his armored vest, fitting his head 
  through the proper hole, before he reaches to close up the side closures 
  beneath each arm. As he does this he mutters, "Varying reasons. Because it 
  might save your skin. Because it might suggest that I'm not just another 
  conspirator gunning for her power." He shrugs his shoulder faintly, "We can 
  tell if she is... with enough analysis. The process by which the Taylor 
  clone was constructed produced very minor genetic irregularities."

For a moment, Shen wants to correct her visitor, to point out that what she 
  meant was that she sees little practical use for her knowing the information 
  that Taylor was cloned... and in that same moment, she opens her mouth to 
  utter that protest. Then she closes it again, still standing there quietly. 
  And with a sigh, she then says simply, "I'll... keep an eye out. For what 
  it's worth. Maybe I can figure out if somethin' happens."

Webb checks the safety on his rifle, and slings it over his shoulder as he 
  offers you a faint, hopefully reassuring smile. He hefts up his rucksack, 
  and his helmet, and starts to trudge his way towards your bedroom, 
  apparently intent on going back out the window through which he came. He 
  pauses for a moment, immediately in front of you as he looks down into your 
  eyes and comments, "Thanks for putting up with me."

Webb
You see before you a human male who you would guess to be approximately in his 
  mid-twenties. He stands just a touch under six feet tall, with a rather 
  wirey build. His eyes are grey in colour, with just a hint of blue. His hair 
  is of a shade somewhere between blond and brown, and could appear to be 
  either depending upon the light of the room. A few small scars dot his face, 
  though other than that his complexion is perfectly clear, though pale enough 
  to suit some corpses. The cold sterile image of the Imperial Nova has been 
  burned into the skin of his forehead, perhaps with a surgical laser.
Webb is presently attired in the blended slate green and black splotch 
  camouflage typical of the CDU Marines; a uniform which he was made to fill. 
  His body is covered fully by a one piece coverall of blaster resistant 
  material, thickened slightly about the thigh, shin, forearm, and in other 
  places that don't need the flexibility. The garnment is slightly baggy, 
  affording easy movement, and comes up to just beneath his chin. His torso is 
  further protected by a rigid, load bearing torso shell, fitted carefully to 
  the dimensions of his frame. This torso shell serves not only to protect him 
  from weapons fire, but also carries the vast bulk of the supplies that he 
  will need in combat. Ammunition, grenades, explosive charges, and other such 
  handy items are kept in easy reach in the chest pockets, while the larger 
  utility pockets about his waist and hips contain bulkier items like a 
  filtration canteen, a medical pack, and other survival gear. Boots, gloves, 
  and a full coverage helmet complete this outfit, with attachment points that 
  can be sealed to render the suit airtight for operating in hostile 
  environments. His helmet is fitted with an enhanced sensor visor sporting 
  three lenses which gaze out at the world unblinkingly.
He is armed. In a sheath that is slung over one shoulder he carries a long, 
  machete-like vibroblade. His sidearm is stowed in a tactical holster which 
  is strapped about her right thigh, in easy reach should he need it. His 
  rifle is a CDMC built KXE series bi-polar type blaster, in carbine format 
  for easy use in close quarters. An extended power unit is fitted beneath the 
  receiver, while atop the weapon rests a small electro-optical scope with a 
  laser rangefinder, fitted with a thin cable to relay the information to the 
  heads up display in his helmet.
                -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Carried Virtual Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> E-11 Blaster Rifle 
=> Vibro-Blade 
=> Kylan-3 Heavy Blaster Pistol 
=> Protective Vest 
=> Field Armor 

Shenner's mouth curls up on one side. Although she's gotten her hair back in 
  order, although she's standing up tall and has pulled composure about her 
  like a cloak, there still lurks in her green eyes a hint of the acutely 
  troubled young woman she'd been last night. Signs of her, too, can be 
  glimpsed in her still-disheveled clothing, and in the slight shadows about 
  her eyes. A few clever ideas for what to say in reply flicker across her 
  mind, but with that steady blue-gray gaze upon her, it somehow seems best to 
  simply murmur, "Welcome."

Webb finds himself pondering clever responses, both in speech and in action, 
  as he gazes down into your luminous green eyes. Even attired for his often 
  violent job, the tenderness that he expressed to you earlier seems to linger 
  on in his gaze. "Hmm," is all that he can really say, before he leans to 
  plant a quick kiss upon your cheek.

The singer's crooked grin grows a little more crooked; by way of reply, she 
  lifts up a hand, first touching your shoulder, and then your face, along the 
  line of your jaw. "Don't do anything stupid," she requests softly.

Webb arches an eyebrow faintly at your request, then gestures to the window, 
  indicating a vaguely downwards direction as your touch prompts him to bite 
  his lower lip once again, as he does rather often when subject to things 
  such as this. "Umm," he points out, "That could be tricky." He winks, 
  allowing his smirk to take on decidedly impish proportions.

Shenner's grin crooks up again, though her eyes still remain earnest. As her 
  hand comes lightly down again, she laughs a little and then adds, "Yeah, 
  well... by the way... I think I remember you askin' me somethin' too last 
  night, and, uh... just to answer the question, I ain't goin' nowhere."

"Good," comes Webb's answer in a manner as his comlink begins to demand his 
  attention once again. He turns towards the bedroom, slipping towards the 
  window. "I'd miss you if you did," he says as he slides open the window and 
  grasps the abseiling line with which he lowered himself to your window. He 
  takes a moment to clip the line into place, and in a decidedly unceremonious 
  manner, slips out through the window.

[End log.]