| abstract | - Orson: Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. He is wearing fur pants, thick white, large and billowing at the legs. A black tank top covers his thick barrel chest; while fit and stout, he is not overly muscled. A gray scarf encircles his waist, evening the dark and light on the man and helping keep his clothes in place. It has been knotted on one side and trails almost all the way to the ground. Soft-soled but thick boots cover his feet. An oversized set of goggles are strapped to his head, stretchy material securing them in an 'X' shaped band around the back of his skull. The lenses are tinted rose red. Jessalyn: The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. Jessa is dressed in a drab green sleeveless shirt, and a pair of kakhi pants with plenty of pockets. Around her waist is a black leather utility belt. Her hair is held back from her face and clipped behind her head, though stray curling locks continue to fall into her eyes. The fit of her trousers and the sturdy brown suede boots on her legs emphasize her narrow waist and the long-legged rhythm of her strides. Having spent several hours in space repairing the damage that had been caused in yesterday's outing, the ship is finally back up to its usual equilibrium, purring without a hitch as she glides in an easy orbit around Myrkr. The planet turns her face like a swirled, cloudy gem, patches of green and blue mingling with the white clouds covering the surface. Coming out of the cockpit after a final check of the readouts, Jessa goes over to the small table in the main hold, grabbing a pitcher from which she pours water into a plastic cup. "Well, that went much easier," she comments to Orson in a lazy Corellian drawl, after taking a long swig of water. "Thanks for letting me help you repair what I did yesterday." Before he can have a chance to reply, she adds, a little more softly, "If you want, we could try a couple of little exercises. If you're still sure you want to give this a try." "It was nothing that couldn't be fixed," Orson comments, looking up from an open panel, clipping it shut without looking. There was little she could do, at least to a ship, that couldn't be fixed by the mechanic. The direction they were headed now though, that was a different matter entirely. He stands, putting his hands first in front of him, then on his hips, then behind his back, like he can't decide where they should hang for proper Jedi instruction. "I'm not sure I can make it work like that. I'm not sure I know what I'm doing." Orson turns, gesturing at the control panel, clarifying. "But yes, I still want to see." Setting down her cup, Jessalyn taps her lips with her finger, then walks to the center of the hold, where there's enough floor space to move without bumping into something. She looks around as if in thought, not having done this before. But she had been a thoughtful student, and understood most of the steps that Luke had taken her through when she was in training. Finally, she nods her head with satisfaction, and motions for him to follow her. "Come over here. Can you do a handstand?" It turns out that the way his arms hang have nothing to do with Orson's first moment of instruction, and he steps forward tentatively to the center of the hold. The mechanic grits his teeth, reaching down to adjust the clothing at his waist, cinching his gray scarf a little tighter at the tuck of his tank top, since he'll be upside-down. "I could way back, on a repulsor board," he says, suddenly leaning forward and putting his hands on the deck. His face flushes instantly, and it's with no small amount of effort that he exclaims "Catch my feet!" as he kicks his fur-covered legs into the air. Decisive, at least. She does so, but the Jedi doesn't move a step or reach out her arms. Instead, unseen hands steady Orson's legs until it seems he can keep his balance on his own. Jessalyn keeps her hands behind her as she takes a few steps back, coming into his line of view. "Very good. Physical training is very important to a Jedi. A lightsaber is only as strong as the body wielding it. But the most important lesson, of course, is to be able to sense the Force within you." She smiles slightly. "Go ahead and relax. Don't worry, if you lose your balance, I'm here." Orson clears his throat, his voice thick and muffled by the reorientation of his body. His legs flail for a moment, and then settle back into place as they kick into the soft grip of the Force. "Relax?" he asks, large boots twitching in midair. It's rhetorical though, or a joke, and he blows out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. Every time he does so, he begins to tilt to one side. After a long moment, he's come to rely on the pillowy barrier around him, and he is arrow-straight, fingers dug into the grating on the floor. The mechanic's strong hands are red, knotty veins standing out along his thick forearms. Jessa smiles her approval, beginning to walk in a leisurely circle around him as she folds her arms. "Now, really relax for me. Be at peace, calm, passive... listen to your body. To your heartbeats and the blood flowing through your veins. It's like the Force, that flows through your body from one end to the other, filling you, connecting you to everything else in the universe. Feel each breath, each nerve twining through your body, the muscles wrapped around your bones...." She has a soft, modulated tone in her voice, suggestive itself of passivity and peace as she tries to guide him into awareness of his own body and the bright core of his gifts lurking not so far from the surface. A dull ache grows in Orson's arms, the quick swish of his blood pounding in his ears. That's not so hard to hear, and the noise of his own body at work is at first a distraction. He reorients his grip, walking himself around to face the other direction and almost falling in the process. "Erm," is the only sound he spares, keeping his thoughts to himself. How he would actually get down if she didn't want him down would be interesting, he thinks, finding a soft lock on his wrist and elbows that takes all the strain off his muscles and puts some on his joints. Still, Orson isn't made for this, physique more capable with strength than grace in most cases. The mechanic-businessman's scarf belt falls and partially covers his face, but he's so busy keeping this stance that he doesn't notice. From within that dull ache in his muscles comes just a whisper of a second wind, a cool liquid pouring into the almost empty shell of Orson. He snaps open his eyes and remarks "Oh!" The strength is suddenly gone, and losing the tentative touch with the Force sends him crumpling straight down, into a pile with his legs over his head, breathing hard. Jessa comes to a stop before Orson topples over, quiet now, letting him drift on his own. When the mechanic goes toppling onto the floor, she frowns, taking a couple of steps toward him as she extends a hand to help him up. "Are you okay? "Except for looking like a fool," Orson murmurs while still in his odd tangle of limbs. He carefully unrolls himself, sitting up and blowing out the air in his chest. Orson pulls the rose-red goggles from his face and tosses them to holochess table, rubbing at his face to remove the red marks around his eyes. "I felt," Orson declares profoundly, taking his instructors hand but not relying on it as he lifts to his feet. "Well, maybe I was going to pass out." She can't keep from chuckling as she returns her hands to her hips, dipping her head slightly to try to look into his eyes. "No, tell me what you felt, Orson." Jessa's brows are arched, green eyes bright with anticipation and curiosity. She's enjoyig this a little more than she thought she would. There's something inherently satisfying and even joyful about sharing her knowledge, and bringing awareness to the Force to a new person. Especially a friend she has fought beside. "Don't be afraid." Orson looks away, down, eyes flicking uselessly to one side or another as he tries to remember precisely the feeling. "I felt," he repeats, starting again in the same voice. "Like I was falling. And then not, like I could be a statue if I'd wanted." His face grows hard and he points it back at the red-haired Jedi. "Is that right?" he asks, shaking his head from side to side. Can't be. Nothing at all like working on the ship. He thinks. "Did you feel the Force?" Jessalyn asks pointedly. "Only you can answer that question, Orson." It might not be the kind of straightforward answer he would expect from the plain-spoken technician, but she can hardly recall a time when any of Luke's advice made any rational sense at first. "You will know when you feel it. Don't fight it. It's part of you." Orson's lower lip rolls itself into a crescent, his brow heavily wrinkled. It's as if he's suddenly not even capable in the language she's using. He lifts a finger, the digit extended but half-curled, and taps at his head. "It's only in my head," he says strangely. That statement has significant implications, be it that he's sure he /didn't/ feel the Force, or that he's somehow now aware of the link. Then, after simply staring at her, he leans forward as if he's going to grapple her, and puts his working-man hands on the deck, kicking up his feet and giving it another shot. "This is. Well... upside-down." With that he widens the stance of his hands, shifting his weight dangerously. The struggling man's eyes close. Impressed at his tenacity, Jessalyn moves out of the way so he has plenty of room as once again he's inverted. She waits for a while, ready to use the Force to steady him should he begin to lose his balance, giving him a chance to slip back into the meditative state she was trying to engender before. She manages to keep her expression under control, suppressing a smile that threatens to tug at her lips. "Pick one hand up," she instructs. A heavy drop of sweat treks slowly down a crazy lock of hair. It must obey gravity, and when it reaches the end of the hairs it is riding the drop hangs on for dear life. Orson is silent and seems not to have heard her instruction. It's almost a minute before his breathing has slowed to something normal, rhythmic and steady. Then, slowly, without shifting his weight, he brings his hand off the deck, and it rests on a flat plane of air about four centimeters away from the grating. Blue flashes in his mind, and Orson is suddenly frozen. No movement of his legs, hardly a breath, just the occasional bead of moisture rolling over his face and pattering down into the grating. "I said I'm lonely without you," he cries suddenly, voice loud. He gasps, and opens his mouth to talk again but can't find the word. Indeed, a statue has been put in the center of the ship, a mechanic in a one-handed handstand rooted to the metal floor as firmly as a living tree might be to the earth itself. Another minute passes, and the rigidness that's been holding him shatters without warning, and Orson all but explodes into the floor, falling heavily. He sits on his knees and looks up at her, frowning. "Gah, I can't even balance myself now," the mechanic grunts, exasperated. "Hold my feet again." He moves to take another stab at it, shaking his head to himself. He's not realized time has passed. Jessalyn had held her breath as she sensed him growing more attuned to the Force, his body rigid and perfectly balanced even when his hand leaves the deck. But when he cries out and falls to the floor, she merely watches with a passive expression, even when he stands up and prepares to repeat the maneuver. "Orson," she says softly. "Slow down. Be aware. You're doing it right." It's the only advice she knows to give. Until he realizes what he's doing, whatever demons that are blocking him will continue to do so. She licks her lips nervously and nods her head, indicating he should continue. "Doing it right?" he echoes, his version thick with uncertainty. "What does this have to ..." Orson starts, clipping off the sentence and merely inserting an "Okay." where some frustrated comment would go. He kicks himself up slowly, hanging onto the metal plate with so much tenacity that white bands appear in his knuckles where the bones and tendons are stretched taut. It looks promising, then he starts to flail, his own effort doing the work this time. Despite the persistence, his feet start to fall forward. Instead of suffering that fall, he bends his spine, tucks his head, and rolls forward neatly. "I don't know. Maybe I need to work on my strength," he says, coming to his feet. "I'll keep practicing that one. What next?" "Nope," Jessa says, shaking her red head. "We're not done here. This isn't about your strength. Don't rely on your muscles, Orson. Rely on the Force. You can feel it, I know you can." Looking stern, she extends her arm and points to the ship's deck where he just was. "Let's see you do it." Orson's mouth hangs slightly open, his face shocked by the clearness and directness of her instructions. "Fine," he says, turning his back to her and pacing around the spot where he's going to make his stand. "I mean ... okay," the man modifies, looking back at her with a shrug and a slightly apologetic look. He breathes deep, moving this way and that, in no particular hurry to begin. He hates the floor. Fingers apart, hands flat, arms just slightly bent. Legs in the air. Quiet. It's there now, but it's fading. Orson's eyes swim in blood, so he closes the lids. His ears are filled with the deep thrum of his own heart, so he retreats to a quieter spot in his mind, searching around for It. There. Stronger, and like he's touching his finger just to the surface of some cool water, he's doing it, and aware at the same time. He had planned, when he turned away, to make some flustered comment to her when he finally got it. That's forgotten. Jessalyn exhales a breath she'd been holding for some time as she watched him react with frustration. But when at last his mind quiets and she senses the use of the Force supporting his body like tiny wavelets in a pool of water, she breaks into a smile herself. Not wanting to disturb the moment, she merely murmurs, "That's it. Feel the Force, Orson. If you trust it, it won't let you fall. You have to believe it." He hears now, though his focus on is something centered on his own body. He imagines his eyes rolled back in his head so far that they've come all the way around and are seeing the room again. The grating of the floor, the floor, and the room itself are tiny, blurry versions of themselves. Only Jessalyn is the same size as he in his mind, her arms crossed over her chest and pointing at the floor at the same time. Strange. His imaginary legs poke way out of the top of the ship into space. His hand practically fills the room, broad and strong. The man's other hand: held, palm up at the end of his straight-out arm that stretches parallel along the floor. He's shaking a little, muscles spent, but even the tentative touch with the Force is enough to keep him aright. It's all Jessa can do to keep from clapping out with glee. She does manage to keep her composure, though, and she inhales a long, contented breath through her nostrils before dropping her hands to her sides. When she speaks to Orson, it's a soft mental voice that is similar in tone and sweetness to her speaking voice, accompanied by the familiar jewel tones of her Force-essence. -That's perfect, Orson. You can stand back up now. Take it nice and slow.- Orson seems startled by this, and he whumps to the ground, keeping some composure and letting his boot tips thud into the grating. He stands on his feet, blinking his eyes and looking at the non-speaking woman. "I heard that," he reels, head loose on his neck. "It was, like, I could see it all, even though my eyes were closed?" He walks past her, keeping his attention on the woman even though he moves to sit at the holochess table. "I felt something. It was just, suddenly easy. Like, just standing with my feet." The contrast between the directness in her voice a moment ago and the sudden softness and intimateness of her mental touch is odd, and it sends Orson wondering how he feels about the redhead. The mild scolding was no good. But the lesson he's just learned ... while handstands don't seem so useful, something incredibly meaningful had happened. And then hearing her, inside his own head. Being with her that way was simpler, and probably as good as ... Erk. He looks up, lips pressed together in white bands, and wondering if she can mentally listen in as easily as she can speak. "It's amazing." The woman has a knowing look on her face as she returns Orson's gaze, the tiniest of smiles touching her mouth. She follows him to the table, sitting across, folding her hands calmly in her lap as she listens to him reason it all out. "It was pretty incredible, huh?" Jess murmurs softly. "Your other senses are useful to you, yes. But you'll soon learn that what you're able to perceive through the Force is so much more. That's one reason I was so disoriented when we first came to Myrkr." If she can read his more intimate thoughts, she doesn't show it. She only smiles at him, pride and relief showing in her face. Maybe she can do this after all, she realizes, seeing the barriers fall away before Orson's very eyes. Orson puts his gray eyes to her face, seeming concerned about all this. "It was," the short man repeats. "Incredible." At his most eloquent. He taps at the table quietly, the overdose of blood, oxygen, and exposure to the Force on his brain sending it into bizarre loops. "We can't sense the Force on Myrkr," he states, putting enough of it together to arrive at that conclusion. We. "I hope you can figure out why not." He stands suddenly, stomping to the cockpit but taking an odd route toward it - circumnavigating about the dramatic spot where he first touched the Force and knew it. The mechanic pauses at the door. "Because I can't invent reasons to fly around forever. I guess we can go soon, when the plan's ready ... but now's not the time to tell Karrde this." Orson studies Jessalyn's response for just a moment, and dives toward the cockpit.
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