The Outlaw's Clutch
"Justice is always violent to the offending party, for every man is innocent in his own eyes."
The Whaladon was asleep. Lonely corridors, pale and long, throbbed with the lazy hum of Corellian engines. There was nothing; not the lively clamour of voices or the ceaseless drone of shuffling feet; the chaos of day surrendered to the night, taken in a stranglehold of tranquility. Then footsteps, drumming a stacatto beat into the metal, echoed in the hollow halls. Abarai Loki walked with purpose, burdened under a heavy backpack. When he reached the end of the corridor, the turbolift greeted him with a sleepy yawn. Swift was the lift in its descent, and with it came the sluggish churn of innards and the sinking dread of the fall. It had been a week since the combat drop onto Ilum, and in the aftermath of which, so much had changed. Now, the cargo bay resounded with the crack and hiss of newly-minted lightsabers. It was a sobering success. And, while bacta made short work of cuts and bruises, there were some wounds that only time could heal, for they were raw, and ran deep.
After a moment, the turbolift doors parted, revealing a long stretch of hangar space populated with starfighters and shuttles. Here, the first signs of life, as a couple of deckhands busied themselves with the disembowelled electronics of an Actis interceptor, while its mounted astromech hooted furiously overhead. Another such ship was being prepped by a small team on the far side of the hangar bay, beside which there was a conspicuously empty space, Loki frowned and hurried. Greeted by the ranking officer, he was quick to deal with the tedious discourse that preceeded every flight, and climbed into his ship. It was much smaller than an A-Wing, which suited him fine, and had a faded blue livery, weathered from years of service during the Clone Wars. And while a fresh coat of paint looked smart, indeed the offer had been on the table, the young Jedi was explicit that his ship was to retain its old-fashioned appearance. Everytime he sunk into the musty cockpit, a quiet thrill like electricity surged through him, for he was sitting in a piece of authentic Jedi history.
The cockpit sealed with a heavy clunk, shutting out the barked orders and grinding of docking clamps. His seat gave a soft shudder as the reactor hummed to life. Caught in the vice grip of the docking clamps, the interceptor and its booster ring were lifted and hauled into position before the magnetic shield. Once the pre-flight cycle was complete, the clamps released with a hiss and the ship wavered gingerly in the air. Easing down on the foot pedals, Loki allowed the starfighter to drift forward, scrutinising the closing gap between the airlock perimeter and the bulky hyperdrive frame. On his flank, the mounted R4 droid gave an apprehensive whine. All was going well, until just as he was about to clear the magnetic shield, he heard a piercing scratch which rang throughout the hanger. The little astromech whistled, its domed head spun, and found itself on the recieving end of a damning glare. Finally, the interceptor spilled out of the transport and into the deep Stygian soup.
Surely enough, Loki was greeted by the sight of an abandoned booster ring, and went rigid in his seat as a second starfighter shot past at alarming speed. S-Foils deployed, it turned into a wild spin and tumbled out of sight. Opening a comm channel, he said:
"Corell Capstan, if only you were this punctual for your lightsaber lessons."
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