"Aftermath" Log Date: 2/18, 2/20, 2/21/00 Log Cast: Shenner, Webb Log Intro: Life is fairly quiet for Shenner -- though lately it's been a bit livened up with the knowledge that her Jedi friend, Luke Skywalker, has been hanging around Caspar a lot. Moreover, she's recently discovered that another old friend of hers from the New Republic, Tarroc D'agor, has become one of Luke's pupils... and, like Luke, was close to the missing Jessalyn Valios. Shenner has learned something, however, when it comes to Light Jedi gathering anywhere in interesting numbers -- and that's that Dark Jedi are bound to show up and clash with them sooner or later. It's happened on Luke's prior visits to Caspar, and this time is no exception. But as it turns out, it's not Shen that becomes involved in one of these clashes. Rather, it's the man she loves... ---------- The simple fact that Paul Nighman is teaching one of her classes this semester is the very likely cause of Shenner's having thrown herself wholeheartedly into a massive pile of research tonight -- though the young singer wouldn't ever be about to admit that that particular Corellian might be responsible for her current education fervor. Still, though, the man _is_ the person from whom she's learned her study habits. For the last three hours, Shen has pored through datadisc and holocube, through flimsy printout and actual _book_, in hot pursuit of an outline and facts with which to fill it in for an upcoming paper. However, there's one difference between Shenner's study habits and Paul's, at least so far as Shenner is aware: Shenner works a lot better with music swelling through the background. Even as she's chugged down mug after mug of coffee, even as she's stared at her computer screen till her eyes hurt, she's had music ranging from a performance of the New Republic Symphony Orchestra to the latest raucous offering from a band calling themselves Crime and the Forces of Evil. Jazzed on caffeine and music, every so often taking a break herself to snatch up Rekkie's twelve-stringed guitar or her namdhi-harp to jam along with whatever she's got in the disc player -- all part of her cognitive processes, don't you know -- Shenner is in a rare element most of Plaxton City doesn't get to see. She's not only exercising her musical skill, she's also exercising her mind, and the young singer has quite happily lost track of time. The city might be burning down around her, and she probably wouldn't notice. It's been a long day for Webb, heavy on phsyical and mental exertion, with a decent dose of being smacked around for good measure. Fit for duty he might be, he's now beginning to feel the pain of it all. Hence, there's not exactly much in terms of a spring in his step when the front door opens to admit him. Though he's not exactly bleeding or missing any parts, he rather looks like... hell. Rings of fatigue have formed around his eyes, and his movements betray many an ache. He manages to hang up his jacket as the door closes behind him, and trudges inward. Harpsong and a piping flute are what meet Webb's ears; a veritable flood of the detritus and devices of Shenner's research meet his eyes. Although Shenner can play both harp and flute, she's not actually playing either at the moment; rather, she's back in the kitchen area, warming up a fresh pot of coffee. She swivels her head around at the sound of the door's opening, a smile and a cry of "Jon!" on her lips -- until she gets a look at the state of the man she's grown to and sometimes even manages to admit to having grown to love. Green eyes blink. And then, without preamble, she finishes pouring that coffee she was about to pour and comes striding straight over. En route she snatches up the remote to the disc player and thumbs the volume down, then tosses the remote onto the couch. The coffee is set down upon the table before her couch. And then she's there, wrapping her arms around you and studying your haggard features in intent, anxious concern. "I ain't even gonna ask what kind of a day you've had," she begins, brow furrowed. Webb blinks a few times, as if still catching up to the facts, with the fog that's settled into his brain. A faint, tired grin that's almost a wince spreads from one corner of his mouth as his arms come up to wrap about your waist, and he finds himself leaning into you wearily. "Hi honey, I'm home," he murmurs to you in a half-groan. After all, he might be in significant pain, but he's not without the ability to be social and even express some kind of grim humour. Though you're inches taller than Shen, still she shifts her stance ever so slightly to better hold you in her arms as she feels you sway. "Gods, Jon, did you get run over by a tank?" she asks in husky tones, only half rhetorical. Then she turns you about, nudging you encouragingly towards the couch and the steaming mug of coffee on the table next to it. "Coffee's hot -- though frankly, you look like you need brandy instead. Sit the kark down, c'mon...." Webb is silent for a second or two, as if seriously thinking about your question, before he answers with some level of certainty, "No." He's certainly not resistant to the idea of moving in the direction which you seem to be intent upon guiding him, though his pace is far from swift. But rather than sitting, upon reaching the couch, he more or less topples, gracelessly flopping onto the cushions, and is now firmly ensconced in a horizontal position, though with his knees bent in such a fashion so that he only really occupies two-thirds of it. "Caffiene probably wouldn't be wise," he agrees, "But if you have an ice pack..." Shenner's fine-boned face tightens into a more apparent frown of concern as she goes down on her knees before you, briskly reaching to try to settle you into the most comfortable position possible. Three books at the opposite end of the couch are peremptorily swept out of the way, to give her room to lift your feet up off the floor. This gives her time, too, to try to inspect you for any signs of damage. She hasn't had to do this kind of thing since the war -- but she hasn't forgotten. The singer's slim, deft hands track anxiously over your body and your head as well, particularly the latter. She's seen you exhausted before. But Shenner cannot, off the top of her head, recall ever seeing you quite so dazed -- and considering the usual exquisite physical coordination she's grown to expect you to display, seeing you crumple over apparently without conscious control sends a little shudder of cold worry through her. Her voice and face, though, remain calmly efficient, softened only slightly by the concern in her eyes. "I've got coldpacks, yeah," she tells you. "You want anything else?" Webb watches you through heavy lidded eyes as you make your inspection. He certainly hasn't fainted or anything of the like, though he seems to have a definite preference towards being off of his feet and somewhere comfortable. That quick inspection is sufficient to determine that nothing is broken, lacerated, or punctured, though when he turns his head to look up at you, you can detect a network of faint bruises running up one side of his face, with the darkest spots near his temple. "I'm gonna be fine," he murmurs as he peers up at you, "Been checked twice already. Nothing broken. No concussion. No internal injuries..." Shenner has seen you bruised, too, and so the slight damage your face has taken doesn't bother too much; a Ranger, after all, takes a great deal of physical abuse during the course of an average day. If Shen's learned anything about your chosen profession, it's certainly that. Satisfied by what her own inspection has shown her, she takes more assurance from your words now and nods relievedly at the news that you've already received some medical attention. Her fingers linger at your brow now, stroking gently, as she answers, "Good. So, coldpacks. You want anything else? Something warm to drink?" A little smile quirks one side of her mouth as she adds, "I think this is the part in the holovid where the heroine is supposed to give the hero high holy hells about whatever damnfool thing he's just done, but I think I can hold off on that till you look a little more perky." Webb's eyes close, and he actually laughs at the comment about scolding him. It's a short, chuckle, that initially sounds almost like a cough. His eyes open again as he considers the offer of a warm drink. The idea of something warm in his stomach is actually quite appealing at the moment, especially seeing as his current state more or less robbed him of an appatite for several hours, "Bowl of soup. That would be nice about now." "You got it, soldier." Shenner leans lightly forward, adding the brush of her lips to where her fingers had just touched. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere, hmmm?" With that, the singer rises, turning to lope back off into the kitchenette. Sounds of her rummaging through the storage cabinets intermingle with the trio of harp, flute, and oboe wafting forth from her sound system. Soup. She's got soup. Several little canisters of it, in fact; it's easy to cook, and while Shenner may be a mistress of a number of skills, cooking is not one of them. In fact, her larder tends to an ecletic blend of military simplicity and the randomness of a University student -- except on those occasions when you bring in rather more palatable fare. Tonight, though, she has the suspicion that you might fall asleep if she tries to make anything too complex, and although sleep might be good regardless, soup you've requested, and so soup you will get. As she pulls out a canister of chicken broth and decides that'll fit the bill nicely if she maybe fortities it a bit with milk, a bit of actual chicken and vegetables, she calls over, "So what happened, anyway?" Webb emits a soft, gentle 'mmmm' sound at the touch of your lips, suddenly seeming quite incredibly comfortable with this particular arrangement. The next comment, the one about not going anywhere is answered with an arched eyebrow. When you turn to walk away, he's watching you, eyes growing heavy-lidded again, and thoughtful. "Suit crash," he explains as he lifts his head a little so that he might peer into the kitchen, "Missed a landing while manuevering in surface effect... got bounced along a rooftop like a skipping stone. If it's any consolation, the roof looks like hell." Shenner recalls she left hot coffee on that table back over there, and comes back to get it and drink it, if you're not planning to. As she does she leans down again to kiss your brow, grinning wryly. "I ain't planning on going outside in a Plaxton City winter to give tender lovin' care to a rooftop, but I _am_ somewhat consoled. How's your suit?" Back she goes, then, to check on the soup. "Scuffed all to hell, but those things are made to take a beating. It was able to carry me back to base once I figured out which way was up again," Webb relates, after his eyes drift open once again, "Think I damaged the jump jets... mangled my main electro-optical sensors a bit, and some other external equipment, but no structural damage. It'll be ready for more come morning." "They don't dock that kinda thing out of your pay, do they?" comes Shenner's inquiry, from over there by the heating unit. She watches the timer tick down to announcing the soup's suitably heated, then as it beeps that very alarm, she grabs a plate to carry the bowl upon and a spoon to go with it. Then her russet brows quirk as she rejoins you, steaming soup in hand. "Back to base? What, so they took you guys out on maneuvers?" Webb hesitates for a moment as he gazes up at you. He shakes his head slowly, "Nah. This was a live one. Imps brought down a 'delegation' of sorts. 'Poor impulse control' written all over 'em. We shadowed... bloody Emperor is there. Him and his cronies have it out with Skywalker in the square." He takes in a breath, as if waiting to see how you will take this tidbit of news before he'll think about continuing. Color drains quite abruptly out of Shenner's face. For a fraction of an instant, all she can see behind her eyes is a fleeting memory of a menacing figure spitting forth lightning from his hands, almost electrocuting Princess Leia-Organa Solo. Then, with a pair of rapid-fire, sickening lurches, her imagination provides her with the suggestion of a similar figure doing the same to Skywalker... and then to you. Her eyes slam shut, and only after expending a great deal of concentrated effort is she able to turn and set the bowl down on the table, extremely carefully, so as to avoid dropping it. Then she sits on the very edge of the couch, with that same extreme care. Green eyes turned abruptly darker rest their gaze upon you now as she croaks hoarsely, "Is Luke all right?" Webb is silent for a moment as he lays back, looking up at the ceiling. "Got out without a scratch, near as we could tell. Not bad for being outnumbered four to one," murmurs, opting for the good news first, "But he just looked... shattered. Like he was on the edge of a breakdown or something." Webb is a fairly good judge of that 'look', having seen people under extreme stress many a time, many of whom he might have put on that brink personally. "He looked like he was being taken care of, though." "Ah... hells," Shenner whispers. Still moving with that odd caution, she leans forward to lay her head against your chest, sliding her arms about you... and now it might be noted that the young singer is trembling. "Jon, I... remember the last time Luke got into trouble here with the Empire..." Webb's arms slowly come up to wrap about you, one hand resting between your shoulderblades, and the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head. He lets out a breath slowly as his eyes angle downwards to allow him to glimpse your face, "Pondered following him, but given the circumstances..." His voice trails off at the point. "I'm glad you came back here, Jon... karkin' hells..." Her slender arms squeeze round you, and then she lifts herself up on her elbows, anxiously studying your face. "The Emperor... hurt Luke, I remember. Before. If he'da hurt you..." She doesn't want to finish that thought, and so she doesn't, simply cupping a hand along your cheek instead. Webb's gaze returns to the ceiling as his arms tighten about you in turn. He did, after all, come back, as he always does. "We were careful..." he murmurs, swallowing hard. "This isn't the first time that we've dealt with their kind." His voice is soft, distant, "Wasn't about to lose anyone on a milk run like that." "The... kark... I'm sorry, Jon..." Shenner's eyes close, and she lays her head against your shoulder once more. In a small and tightly embarrassed voice, she mutters, "They just don't... ever leave Luke _alone_, and dammit... why the hell's the Empire _here_ again? And... " A small curse escapes her, something that sounds surprisingly lyrical and sweet in contrast to the force with which she utters it: something in Jaer that Jairen must have taught her. With that, she concludes hoarsely, "Dark Forcers gimme the creeps." Webb mmhmms softly in agreement with the comment about 'Dark Forcers', not that 'the creeps' ever seems to be anything that affects him strongly... not for as long as you've known him at least. "From my observations..." he murmurs, as if somehow on some level all of this makes some kind of bizarre sense, "It's all starting to seem so simple and complex at once. The Jedi talk about the light side and the dark side, and make it seem like it's something private... like they've discovered some great insight into the universe. They're lily white, and on the other side, there's the bad guys. It's a Jedi's job to save the universe from all of these. Skywalker... he's a small piece of a larger struggle that transcends species, nationality, ideology, religion... everything that's usually described as the boundary between 'us and them'. It even transcends the struggle of the Jedi vs. the Sith." It would seem that Webb has thought for a while upon this whole subject... Fretfully, Shenner tries to settle down, to hug you close for comfort -- though for your own or for hers, it's anyone's guess. Forgetting the soup she's brought you entirely, she murmurs against your shoulder, "Maybe. I... I wish I knew. I wish I understood it all. All I know is... Luke doesn't gimme the creeps and Sinjon doesn't and Jessa... didn't... and every time I see somebody they're fighting..." Another shudder wings through her, and her head comes up again, green eyes anxiously seeking your own. "I've... felt the Force, Jon. I've seen it do stuff right before my very eyes, and..." You can see her eyes squeeze shut for a moment, a muscle jumping in her cheek, before she looks at you again and concludes raspily, "And somethin' happened to me on Mandalore that r-ripped my head apart. Promise me... promise me you won't... ever try to take on a dark Forcer, Jon... promise me?" "I killed one once," murmurs Webb, "It was so dependant upon the Force, that when it taxed its capacities to the limit, it had nothing to fall back on. It ceased to be powerful. I shot it. It bled, and it died, just like any other sentient, because we had stuff that it didn't. It's when we tried to fight them straight on... when we gave it when it wanted..." Webb sighs softly and peers downwards to you, "They pick on Skywalker and the others because they see the Force as the be all and end all. They believe their power infallible, so the only threat that they take seriously is power of the same kind. The light power and the dark power... they're the same. What makes it light or dark is how it's used. There's an old saying... that anyone can cope with adversity, but to handle power is the real challenge. The ones that Skywalker fights... they've become real pieces of work. Their minds are... twisted. And if you're sensitive to the power..." he swallows and says, "You get a full view of what's in their souls, such as they are. They also pick on him because they think he's weak... but stronger people could eventually follow him. And to an extent, they're right, because he's only just finding out what war really is." For a long time, Shenner is silent, listening to this, absorbing it, though her head remains nestled against your shoulder. The words all _sound_ logical, her head tells her. But her heart is still shadowed, with old memory coming up from the very back of her mind, and at last all she can say is a tinily whispered "I... I lost somebody I loved 'cause of... somethin' that happened to me with the Force once already, Jon. I-I-I... couldn't take it if it happened again. Please... if you hafta fight a dark Forcer again... promise me you'll be careful..." Her head knows you're a warrior. But it's not that part of her that asks for assurance now. He smiles, oddly enough. No, Webb isn't grinning from ear to ear like some perky doofus who is demonstrating what exactly 'ignorance is bliss' really means. It's just a soft, gentle smile, brought on by the affection at the core of your words. Truth be told, there have been times where Webb has been a bundle of reckless energy, lashing out in a less than controlled fashion... times when he didn't particularly care wether he lived or died. But now he kisses you as the two of you cling to each other, for you have become one prominent reason among many for why he came back from the bring. Then he whispers to you, "You have my word." To this tenderly murmured promise, Shenner lifts herself up to fuse her lips to your own; her kiss is equally tender, needy, grateful beyond words that you're here and you understand and that you've pulled her back from a brink of her own. Then she pulls back to meet your eyes with her liquid green ones, smiling a tiny crooked smile, blushing just a little. "Soup," she mumbles. Webb's grin makes another brief appearance, accompanied by a sheepish blush. Oh yes, the soup. My, weren't the two of you perilously close to forgetting all about that. He quips softly expressing some reluctance to any change in your current posture, "You make a pretty good substitute for a warm blanket." A little giggle vibrates its way though Shen, more felt than heard with your arms around her. "This mean you don't want me to move?" she murmurs. "If you ain't gonna eat it, I oughtta recycle it..." Webb emits an exagerated sigh as he ponders this little predicament, and finally murmurs, "I'd better eat." His arms loosen about you as his hands trail their way down your back, as he adds coyly, "Gotta replenish my energy for later, after all." A bob of Shen's dark russet head, and she manages a grin. "Might hafta feed you a bit more than soup if you wanna get into _that_, soldier." But she slowly and carefully gets up, unwilling to lay too much weight upon your battered frame; this also lets her trail a hand across your chest as she sits up at last, giving you access to the bowl on the table nearby. And she muses, as she does, "I better find Luke... I bet Sinjon could help me out with that... if I can find Sinjon." Webb emits a soft chuckle, then begins to pull himself up into a seated position. He reaches out to accept the bowl of soup, explaining in sage-like tones, "I heal fast." He holds the bowl up so that the vapour wafts into his face, before he picks up the spoon and begins to consume the soup. "If not," he murmurs, "I know someone else who can find him." Webb pauses to consume another spoonfull, making a /faint/ slurping sound in his apparent haste, "Your friend Skywalker... he's gonna need a lot of help. He has formidable talents, but he's still grappling with becoming a warrior." "I guess," Shenner murmurs uncertainly, settling into place beside you on the couch and leaning her head against its back, "he ain't exactly in a place where he can be anything else." Then she frowns in consideration. "But he was in the Rebellion for years and years... I'd think he'd have it down by now. Hells, Jon... Jair called _me_ a warrior, and I sure don't feel like one half the time." The frown segues into a sheepish crooked grin. "None of us has it down perfectly," concedes Webb. "And granted, I'm going on hunch. Sometimes, it's just looking into someone's eyes. That guy... he's been pushed down this path for years, but in all honesty, I don't think he came about it willingly. It just snuck up and bit him on the ass, and now he's trying to figure out what the hell to do with it. I've seen it happen before." Webb shrugs his shoulder faintly and says serenely into the rapidly diminishing bowl of soup, "I'm babbling, aren't I?" "I get the idea ya just don't exactly _choose_ to be a Jedi, it just kinda happens -- or you're born with it, or somethin'. So yeah, I guess it did kinda sneak up on Luke. Makes sense." Shenner smiles at you, reaching over a hand again to stroke your chest. And she says wryly, "Maybe y'are, but I don't mind." "It's not just being a jedi, I think. But it's most certaintly part of it. The Rebellion... wasn't the sort of thing that was the best prepartion for taking on the universe. Not all of it. So much of it was rag-tag bands of hot-shots, just out there saving the universe. Being that could make everything so deceptively simple. Sometimes that attitude was more dangerous to us than it was to the enemy." Webb gets that sort of distant look in his eyes as he contemplates the old days, "The most humbling experience in the universe can be finding out that suddenly, it's no longer a game, and that the rules that we'd known are but a parody of the reality." As she listens, Shenner cautiously snuggles in beside you, careful to avoid making you spill what's left of the soup. This lets her get close enough to keep rubbing her hand back and forth across your chest, and lets her study your face as she takes in your words, as well. _You sound so old,_ she thinks to you, wondering again as she sometimes does what has happened to you over the years to put that tone of weary experience into your voice. She knows some of it, of course -- but only bits and pieces, hints, suggestions. The next time the bowl comes down, her fingers lift up to stroke across that symbol emblazoned into your skin, one of those unspoken pieces of your past. And then, perhaps because she's finally grown comfortable enough with you that she can share most of her innermost thoughts, Shen murmurs, "It's a big karkin' nasty galaxy... but it's not all that. Rememberin' that... that's the tough part." The soup bowl is pretty much empty now, so Webb sets it down upon the table where it will be out of the way. He tends to eat fast, it seems, when there's not someone eating with him. It's probably some carry over from combat experience... and the image of him gulping down a field ration during some 30 second lull in his busy day is the sort of thing that readily comes to mind. "It's a funny place," he agrees as he turns slightly in a manner which will allow him to more easily take your weight, should more of it be leaned upon him... after all, he's bound to be much more aware of every residual ache. "Flying through it, you can see so much, but sometimes... you have to lower yourself down into the muck of some tiny forsaken part of it, and crawl through it on your belly like a worm to really experience it." To this, Shenner chuckles, very softly. "So speaks the guy who likes to hang out in a place called 'the Sickener'," she murmurs, nestling once more against your shoulder as the empty bowl is safely dismissed once more to the table. Webb's eyebrows waggle up and down faintly as he states, "It's a... humbling environment." One corner of his mouth pulls up faintly as his arms come up to enfold you. Onne arm moves a little more slowly and stiffly than the other one, seeming to indicate soreness confined to the shoulder which you are not presently leaning against. He turns slightly upon the couch so that he more fully facing you, permitting him to brush his lips lightly against your forehead. "Well," Shenner murmurs, moving her hand to stroke that other shoulder and knead her fingertips gently into your flesh, "there ain't nothin' wrong with a little justifiable pride either, soldier." He seems to be coaxing a sort of a gradual transition, back to the earlier position of your body laying atop of his. A soft sigh escapes Webb's lips as he holds you close to him, savouring the warmth of the embrace, "This is true." "Rest," Shenner breathes, reaching up to pull down the blanket draped as always across her couch down to lie lightly over you both. "You've earned it, Jon." "Yes ma'am," he murmurs in a soft, compliant tone as he settles down atop the couch with you nestled warmly atop of him. Getting Webb to rest is a task that has driven many incredibly resolute individuals right up the wall. You make it seem so easy. Willingly enough, Shenner snuggles herself into the most comfortable position possible. Anyone else would have had an equally near-insurmountable task getting _her_ to distract herself from the storm of research that has left its evidence all over the room -- and even now, her mind is still quite wakeful, with caffeine humming through her blood. But she's quite happy to take a little time away from her reading, because although you've had the much more difficult eevening, you're not the only one in need of a rest. "Player," she calls into the air, "loop cycle. One quarter volume." And with that, as harp and flute and occasionally an oboe and violin lay a soothing spell of music across the room, Shenner prepares herself to rest with you. Even if you fall asleep in her arms, perhaps she'll be able to figure out that outline after all. [End log.]