Bounce

Ultimate Comics: DC - Shadows Among Us

| P L A N E T • G R A X O S • I V |

The two Lanterns stood within the Guardian ship Sentinel, standing on opposite sides of the central, round work table over which a holographic detailing of the crime scene was depicted in horrifying detail. The young monk was still visibly unsettled by the experience of having witnessed such a travesty, while the grizzled H'lven merely chewed on one of his odorous cigars in apathetic disregard for the emotional fetters which lay like landmines before them on their mission. Inbetween the youthful inexperience and the jaded outlook of the veteran, the ship's artificial intelligence processed the raw data from Ch'p's ring with perfect, stoic detachment. Aya had no feelings on the matter, either for or against. Information was merely a collection of numbers, calculations, statistical probabilities, and logical hypothesis.

"There were three Bolovaxians," the computer's detached voice supplied, as three indistinct shapes appeared in the holographic recreation, drawing Kai-ro's attention for the familiarity of the form.

"Bolovaxians?" the Chinese monk echoed, obviously not wanting to believe his ears. "But... they don't leave their homeworld," the boy stated, somewhat haltingly for the implication that left regarding the one Bolovaxian which both of them knew. And knew well.

Kilowog lived in exile for the honor of having been chosen by the same ring which had chosen them.

"Not if they're known criminals," Ch'p noted dryly, barely sparing his trainee a glance as he spoke. "Bolovaxians like to take a shit in the galactic backyard. Repeat offender? Just toss him off-world. Let the fracking universe deal with the problem."

"Blue Lantern's assessment of the Bolovaxian criminal justice system is crude, but correct," Aya noted, the synthetic, disembodied voice echoing around the interior of the ship. "Homeless, unaware of the galaxy at large, and seeking means by which to satisfy the basic needs of organic lifeforms, exiled Bolovaxians become easy targets for Consortium recruiters who desire them for their imposing physical characteristics."

"What about the Tamaranean?" Ch'p inquired sharply, staring hard down into the holographic image.

"It is feasible that the hair could have come from a legitimate visitor to the home, and may not be connected to the crime."

"We're a long way from Tamaran," the H'lven retorted with a snort. "Inquire with the dock masters. Ask whether any ships passing through have carried three Bolovaxians and a Tamaranean."

"Processing," the computer responded obediently.

"What's a Tamaranean?" the young monk inquired finally, looking over the crime scene projection at the floating rodent. "I've never heard of that world."

"Trouble," Ch'p supplied in answer, the cryptic response eliciting a non-verbal expression on the human's face which clearly illustrated he had expected something more. "Warrior society fueled on emotion. They get stronger the more pissed off they become."

"Blue Lantern, a vessel arrived two days ago from the Antedaen System. Passenger manifest included three Bolovaxians and a Tamaraen."

"Where's that ship now?" the H'lven demanded.

"The ship no longer appears on any manifests; however, it's departure was not logged by any star port authority."

The chipmunk-like Blue Lantern swore under his breath. "Aya, where was the ship last recorded?" Kai-ro asked.

"The ship landed at docking port ninety-four."

"Please send planetary coordinates to my ring for docking port ninety-four," the young monk requested.

"Someone could just have deleted the departure data from the records," Ch'p commented dryly.

"Correct, in which case the local star port may still have physical copies of records," the young monk countered politely. "Even if not, someone may recall witnessing the ship depart. In either case, a likely avenue for investigation."

The H'lven snorted, spitting tobacco into a trash receptacle. "Frackin'-A. You're starting to sound like a frellin' cop." Dropping what remained of his gnawed cigar into the bin, the Blue Lantern gestured for his Green trainee to move out. "Aya, see if you can do a trace-back on the records. See if anything was deleted or modified."

"Acknowledged. Good luck, Lanterns."

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

What what what? More youngling randomness you say?

I hear. And I obey.

:)

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

Removed from out of the highly structured and sheltered environment in which the two youngling boys had lived their whole lives as either remembered them, and struggling with feelings of guilt, grief, and loss that adults would have difficulty coping with, the children had gone from friends to fighting in less than twenty-four hours. For what reason? Neither boy could have said. Simply, at some point, Zak had either declared Sor-Jan to be a butthole, or perhaps it had been SJ who had first called the Nautolan Squidboy, or perhaps the name-calling had started later and something else entirely had started the fight.

Whatever the case may have been, in the somewhat bi-polar nature of younglings, the fighting had been brief and the two were again friends as suddenly as they had stopped being so. Albeit, the black-haired Anzati now sported a black eye and the moss green Nautolan had a split lip whose red scar stood out against the gray-green flesh.

To be sure, both boys were thoroughly confused. Without a night or a day, neither youngling had any notion of time. Without their clan master, neither knew to whom they were beholden. Were they supposed to meditate? Were they supposed to study? Was there going to be a test later?

And so the two younglings did largely as they pleased. They went to sleep when they were tired, they ate when they were hungry, and they played as they saw fit. The pair always kept somewhat near where the knights and padawans were meditating or talking, just in case one of them had something for the boys to do, but it seemed that they were passing their time on the journey between themselves.

For their first task, which had been the one they’d been undertaking when their friendship had abruptly soured, the boys had constructed a fortification by using the Force to manipulate and move a series of crates and boxes from around the lower hold of the ship. This structure was known as Kilo Base and it was surrounded by an imaginary moat of lava. One had to know the right deckplates to step on and the proper order for stepping on them in order not to get burned by the lava. From out of their self-made sanctuary of Kilo Base, the two younglings played at being Sector Rangers – a game which seemed to involve harassing padawans (space pirates) and zipping around knights (asteroid fields) while making starfighter noises. Whatever those were.

One of the real Sector Rangers had provided the younglings with a sleeping bag, which was large enough for the both of them, and old shirts, which fit the boys like a tent, so that their Jedi clothing could be patched and refreshed. On at least one occasion, someone had even managed to get the boys themselves into the fresher.

“Beskad Maximus?”

Large, dark, opaque eyes blinked open. Dark gray swirls moving like storm clouds in the black orbs of the Nautolan’s eyes as the youngling woke from out of a nap that he didn’t recall lying down for. Zak and SJ had returned to Kilo Base to review top secret plans detailing a space pirate invasion – which also happened to be a holocomic saved on SJ’s datapad. Zak could remember everything up to about page twelve, at which point he must have dozed off.

True to form, as the young Nautolan pushed himself up off the deck with his arms, he felt a dead weight shift against his side and realized that Sor-Jan had dozed off as well. The datapad slipped from out of the sleeping Anzati’s fingers, clattering to the floor with a sound that made the near-human Anzat jump awake, the sight of which immediately sent Zak into a fit of giggles. And the sight of the Nautolan laughing at him sent the embarrassed Anzati pouncing on top of the other youngling as the pair descended into play-wrestling.

“He is a potential ally Kraytan.”

The two younglings stopped their play at the sound, or rather the tone, of the voices echoing over to their crate-and-box fort. Were the adults arguing?

Disentangling themselves from one another, the two boys pulled themselves up on crates that they had stacked inside of the walls of the fort, allowing each to stand on a box and so peer over the sides of the fortification’s wall. The moss green head of the Nautolan appeared first, followed shortly after by SJ’s piercing blue eyes, as the two boys peered from over the walls of their imagination castle and watched the discussion taking place among the knights.

Ultimate One Universe: Marvel/DC RPG

“The king is dead. Long live the king.”

The boat moved through the mists, a tidal chop lifting and dipping the bow of the Nordic dingy as it moved over dark waters and stranger tides. The youth wasn’t certain of at what point he had become consciously aware of his existence on that boat, for time was a concept which now seemed to elude him. What was moments ago seemed no different than what was happening now. Or perhaps what was – what had been – was all that was important in this place.

He was.

He had been.

And now? He wasn’t even certain that there was a now, let alone whether or not this was now. This did not even seem to be a moment, but perhaps, instead, he was in the moments between moments.

And so, for how long he had drifted, he knew not. There was a light upon the horizon, a light like that of a fisherman’s village upon the shore, and so he journeyed toward it. A journey of seconds, a journey of a thousand lifetimes, a journey in which the journey was meaningless. It was all the same.

The bottom hull ground into sand, the boat beaching itself in a shoreline which dipped into the dark waters and gave rise to an ancient village with spear towers and palisades, dirt streets on which Aesir, frost giants, elves, and dwarves mingled and mulled. It was a place quite unlike any he had seen in life.

“You, there, boy!”



The child looked up from the bow of the ship, as gray ash from the fires burning in the village began to snow down around him. Red eyes peered outward from out of a face that was a midnight blue, the color of his skin having been a fixation. Because he realized, this was his flesh. This was his true color. And he had never seen it before.

A dwarf, the owner of the voice that had called out to him, appeared from out of the mists and smoke on the shore, wading through ankle-deep water as the bearded warrior took hold of front of the boat and got a better glimpse at its sole passenger. “You’re a wee one for a frost giant,” the dwarf offered by way of greeting, a meaty arm stuck out to help the youth ashore. “Welcome to Hel.”

As the boy’s bare feet sank into the wet sand the sensation of the coarse silt crunching between his toes made an immediate impression as to how very real this was. And, yet, none of it seemed real. Not his blue flesh. Not spontaneously waking in a boat somewhere on a dark ocean. Not landing here in the spectre of so many yesterdays. He felt empty, as though there was a void somewhere in his very being – his very blood – and he knew it to be the absence of magic.

He had no power here.

“Startling, eh?” the dwarf rumbled, clapping the youth on the shoulder. “Aye. Aye, it is,” the bearded creature offered simply. “But, let’s get you with the maester. You don’t want to put off the scales of fate.”

The maester was an actuary of souls, a man who looked as though he might have been the personification of time itself, a withered body of an elder man whose pock-marked skin was stretched taunt across a hunchbacked frame of brittle bone. His beard trailed the ground as he hobbled between book shelves teeming with tomes and scrolls; the accounts of the living, the deeds of the dead, the sins of the damned, and the libram of heroes.

In was in a round, animal skin hut that he was to meet judgment. The judgment of his fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers. It was daunting to try and fathom how many had gone before this man. Had Loki done so before? Another chapter in life, another story...

”Your name,” the maester demanded simply, holding a quill pen and looking down at the youth as he prepared to make another entry in the voluminous scroll whose parchment overflowed the simple wooden bench on which he labored at his scribe.

Holding himself proudly, proud like he hoped Thor might be of him, the boy held his head high and answered, “I am Loki, son of Odin.”

Laughter.

It crept through the walls, through the shelves, through the books. An eerie, otherworldly sound, as though souls of a thousand reckonings were looking down now upon him. And the maester? The man set his quill aside and folded his spindly arms down on the table. “We have no sons of Odin here, little man,” the actuary stated, in a very matter-of-fact tone. Looking the child up and down, the man stood on trembling legs and made his way to a shelf, from which he procured a large, leather and iron-bound tome, the cover of which was marked by the symbol for Jotunheim. Dust flew from out between the pages of the book as he spread it open on the table and looked back at the youth. “And Odin has no son named Loki,” the man stated in the same observational commentary, as a witch’s finger trailed down a list of names. “But, let’s see if you’re here...”

In some ways, the boy found himself terrified of what might be written there. He was Loki Odinson. He had been Loki Odinson from the time he could first walk. It was Odin who taught him to lace his own tunic, to string his own bow, to hold his own in the hunt. It was Odin who had calmed a child’s nightmares, soothed a child’s fever, and encouraged him to not back down from his own fights.

But Loki was a frost giant. And so it was true. Odin could not be his father.

“Ah, yes, I see. You are Loki, son of Laufey,” the actuary announced, looking up from his book as the boy blanched slightly.

Laufey. Odin’s enemy. The barbarian king of the frost giants. And he was Loki’s true father?

The actuary had blanched somewhat as well. “You are the Odin ward. The frost giant who became king of Asgard,” the man stated, as the laughter suddenly hushed over the room. An uncomfortable silence ensued, in which the boy tried to wrestle with his own denial of his parentage and the actuary seemed to want to doubt that the frost giant child before him was the person he now knew the boy to be.

“What are you doing here?”

The question hung between them. Loki had no answer, and neither did the actuary.

“Bah! Things are such a mess with new management,” the man proclaimed gruffly, slamming the cover on the iron-bound tome in another flurry of dust.

“Hela did not return from Asgard,” the young giant noted aloud. It hadn’t been a question, even though the boy was fishing for something that would confirm suspicion sparked by the man’s last comment.

“No. Heimdall now rules in Hel in her place.”

“Heimdall?” the boy echoed, in disbelief. And, yet, it made sense. Heimdall’s eye was everywhere. Heimdall, alone, could have witnessed Balder assassinate the young King of Asgard. That made his presence in Asgard a problem for Freya and Balder, aside from which, their new Loki likely wanted to leverage dignitas and prestige for herself by claiming Heimdall’s role as Observer. And Heimdall’s Observatory was likely the only place in Asgard where Loki could be reassured that Freya didn’t have agents. That was the thing about Asgard. Even the walls had eyes, and all of them loyal to the All-Mother.

“Aye. Strange eve it is, even in the long night of Hel,” the actuary offered candidly, before giving a snort and waving at the boy in a dismissive manner. “But, ours is not a fate you should concern yourself with, young king,” the man said, as the dwarf who had led Loki to the man now reappeared through the doorway. Looking at his Hound, the actuary said, “Light the signal flame. This one belongs in Valhalla.”

“Wait,” Loki commanded, the request clearly a demand as the boy still spoke as though he reigned still. He heard it as well, the sound of his own voice immediately making him mindful of the fact that he was no longer king. And he had no power in Hel. In Hel or in death, and so what he did now he would have to do with the assistance of people. And not because he was king.

“You do not wish to go to the honored halls of the All-Father?” the dwarf asked, clearly in disbelief at being commanded to stand down from such an august task as to led one to Valhalla.

Turning back to the old man, the boy said, “Someone should have passed through Hel not long before I. A handmaiden of Asgard.”

The old man did not move. He merely peered down impassively at the youth as he asked, “You would stay in Hel for a handmaiden?”

“Her name is Leah,” Loki stated, ignoring the question. Or answering it. To be truthful, the answer seemed obvious.

“I know this name,” the actuary responded. “A Valkyrie awaited her arrival. I could not judge her.”

A Valkyrie? Waiting on a handmaiden? “Then she has passed to Valhalla?” Loki inquired hesitantly. Already, he felt a knot of dread in his stomach. His being here was no mere accident of fate. Neither, then, should he assume Leah or the Valkyrie’s presence to be mere coincidence.

“No.” the actuary confirmed. “They are here... as though they await something,” the man remarked, hesitating as he came to the final thought as though achieving a realization there. Looking down at the boy, the actuary asked plainly, “My king, are you betrayed?”

“All the Nine Realms betrayed, maester,” the boy affirmed firmly, as in his mind he began to put the pieces of his own life together in such a way as he had never viewed them before. “In life, my mother saw fit to lay a trap for me. She does so again in death,” Loki stated, as he turned back toward the door and prepared to take his leave. “And I shall not disappoint her,” the youth added in a quiet, reflective tone.

“My child, to be destroyed in Hel is to be destroyed in totality,” the man warned in a stern voice, pausing the youth’s brash step as he warned further. “Your story will be over.”

Turning his head, Loki looked back at the old man and smiled a smile that was as deep in sorrow as it was in pity. “It was never my story, maester,” the boy-king stated, and then he left to meet his fate.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

Team Green is present.

Ultimate One Universe: Marvel/DC RPG

Boom. That just happened.

Winston Churchill said This is not the end. This is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

Ultimate One Universe: Marvel/DC RPG

| A S G A R D |

"Now, you will lay down your weapons or... frankly, my lady, we shall send you all back to the Hel from whence you came."

The army of the dead stood between the warriors of Asgard and the heroes of Olympus. Hela had walked into a trap. She was intelligent, she had to understand that there was no good outcome for her in this. The best course of action now was to yield and submit to Asgard. Still, standing within reach of the Lady of Hel, this had to be counted among the bravest things that Loki had ever undertaken. If she would not be swayed from this course of war, their fighting would still result in needless bloodletting and death. Least of all possibly his own, for he was neither armored nor armed for the fighting. And still he stood his ground, standing on the line drawn in the snow, with the message that said to her army this far, and no farther.

Were she Aesir, she would kill him where he stood and march gladly into the waiting arms of death. With horns blowing and poets to sing the praises of the fools and the fools who followed them.

But Hela was not Aesir.

Still, were he honest -- which, he would admit, was truly the best policy and yet, by simple process of elimination, dishonesty was then the second best policy -- but if he were honest, then Loki would admit that in the moments between breaths, he said a prayer. To whom did gods pray? Loki did not know. Still, even without knowing to whom he was offering a prayer, he did so anyway. Because he wanted to believe that reason could still triumph. That intelligent, reasoned beings could be reasonable and not resolve their objections through the art of war.

War was unforgiving, indiscriminate, and had nothing to do with truth or lie... but to the victor went the spoils. And, if that were true, then reason was madness for it was a futile pursuit in a world where might made right. Loki was more interested in the saving of lives than the taking of them. For what was the life lost? Glory? Honor? Vengeance? With all regard for his father -- for Odin -- Loki would not be that king of Asgard. If there existed the option to avoid war, then that option must be the one he championed.

He hadn't been honest before. Not even to himself. Loki knew to whom he had prayed.

He prayed to Odin.

And, for just a moment, he thought that Odin might have answered. Looking down at the young king, the Lady of Hel lowered her sword so that it pointed to the ground. "I..." the goddess began, as her mouth began to form the shape of the next word. He knew what she was about to say. The word 'yield' was already written across her face.

"HOLD!"

Hela stopped mid-sentence, jerking her head up as Loki turned to see Balder the Brave riding through the army of Asgardian warriors astride a white horse. Balder, who had abdicated the throne and then gone in search of Thor. Returning now, in Loki's moment of triumph, the victory a bloodless war, without Thor. And with brandished sword. Still, despite the evidence, in spite of his own conscious, Loki found himself uttering aloud, "What is he doing?"

"Men of Asgard, hear me!" Balder shouted, circling in front of the Asgardian warriors before raising his sword and turning toward the column of Greeks. "Champions of Olympus, lend me your ears. I am Balder, firstborn of Asgard and rightful king of all Asgard!"

...and rightful king of all Asgard. The words ran through the boy-king as through he had just been impaled upon the sword that Balder the Fool was waving. He should have been relieved. He had never wanted the throne. He didn't belong on the throne. And, yet, never had Loki known fear as he did now. Fear as to what Balder would do with the throne of Asgard. Because he knew. He knew the answer. The invasion of Jotunheim, the completion of the task that Odin had abandoned: the genocide of the frost giants. Only, Balder would not be satisfied by that glory. He would set all nine realms ablaze if he could be king of the ashes.

"The Lands of Hel have risen up arms against Asgard. Will you let this slight be forgiven?" Balder shouted, turning back toward the Asgardians as he worked to stir their bloodlust.

And the Asgardians answered, "No!"

"Will you let yourselves be led by this virginal boy who does not even carry a blade?"

As the roar of the crowd sent a tremor through the air, Hela raised her sword. The army of the dead braced itself for the charge, as Balder again turned toward the Greeks. "Olympians, did you come for a fight!?" As the Olympian gods added their shouts to the roar, Balder pointed his blade at the Lady of Hel and roared, "FOR ODIN!"

The Asgardians blew their horns. The Greeks raised their spears. And then the two armies collided with the legion of the dead with such a thunder as Loki had never experienced before. The ground shook as though the earth itself was moved by the advance of the two great armies, and when they met in combat the combined force unleashed a terror unlike any witnessed by any mortal eye. Beta Ray Bill's hammer send bodies and pieces of bodies flying through the air, while Ares' blade cut down whole columns of men as though he were reaping stalks of wheat. And, in the midst, was the giant Lady of Hel, her massive form and blade hewing Asgardian and Olympian alike until the sky rained with the blood of the fallen.

And there stood Loki. King. Son of Odin. First of his name. Standing on the field of glorious battle, hearing the horns of his brothers and beholding the banners of Olympus, his mouth agape in horror at the massacre taking shape. Tears formed behind his eyes, falling as he saw the first Asgardian felled. And, in that death, he saw the whole of his reign as king of Asgard. And he knew. He knew in that instant that he had failed.

He had failed them all.

"Damn him," the boy muttered, as he raised his tearful eyes to try and glimpse upon the blood splattered Blader the Brave. "Damn us all," the youth affirmed darkly.

"My lord!"

The sound of her voice made his heart stop. As the color drained from his face, Loki realized that Sif had followed him out onto the battlefield. And following Sif had been...

Grabbing her king roughly by the shoulders, Leah used the weight of her body to shove the boy out of the way of the spearman's thrust. The shaft of the dead warrior instead running through her body, as Loki could only look on in horror.

"NO!"

There is no scream of rage, but as all of his sorrow and hatred combined in that single moment, the boy held his hand out toward the dead spearman who now stood over the crumpled form of Leah and wished that the man did not exist. It was a whim. It was a child's anger. But, for one with Loki's power, such thoughts were, themselves, weapons. The spearman briefly glowed with a greenish light before his body broke apart, burning from the inside out with witchfire as it dissolved into ash.

Sinking to his knees, the boy-king of Asgard held a handmaiden in his arms and realized... he didn't have the power to save her. He didn't know what to do to save her. He only knew to hold her, wishing for one moment longer as he witnessed her life passing between his fingers and watched her fade away.

Leah was dead.

His subjects were dying.

Balder the Brave, he who would be the rightful king of Asgard was getting his earnest wish. To set his throne upon bodies strewn across the battlefield. And, like all good kings, it mattered little whose bodies littered the ground they were so long as Balder emerged the victor. For to the victor went the spoils. Might made right. That was the Asgardian way.

And, still, something inside of him whispered and said no. This could not be Asgard's future. That voice found shape as the boy rose to his feet and locked a spiteful gaze upon Balder -- upon he who Loki was destined to kill -- and he shouted, "Brother, please, end this!"

Dispatching his opponent, the black-haired Aesir prince stormed through the army of the dead until he stood over the small boy-who-would-be-king. And Blader answered, "Take heart, young giant, this was your idea."

The comment stunned the boy for a moment, as Balder's free hand wrapped around the boy's shoulder, drawing the youth in close as he bent a knee. As Balder pulled him near, Loki felt a cold sensation as the breath seemed to suddenly leave his body. Gasping in an attempt to catch his breath, Loki's vision blurred out of focus and he heard Balder's voice.

And the voice said, "The All-Mother sends her regards."

Grabbing onto Balder's arm to steady himself, the boy blinked to clear his vision and then realized that the hilt of Balder's sword was jutting out of his midsection. Looking up at his brother in confusion, Loki shuddered -- in his breathless state, unable to scream -- as Balder stepped back and pulled the sword from out of the boy's body, spilling his blood out onto the snow as the young king dropped back to his knees.

As he looked down at his own blood, the boy saw a dead magpie lying in the snow. Glancing up, the boy's mind wrestled to make sense out of events, as he witnessed Sif standing beside Balder.

And then Loki realized, that wasn't Sif.

"Ikol?" the boy asked, because he'd been uncertain at first. But, somehow, it made sense. Perhaps the blood loss, but he was certain with a second look at her. Which left only one question remaining: "Why?"

The darked hair avatar of his former self merely looked down on him as if he were a street urchin as she answered, "I did say, I am Loki, who you must not trust."

And so it would appear. He had been out Loki'd by Loki. Perhaps there was no dispute in that. Who better than Loki to un-do the work of Loki?

As his body began to surrender to its wounds, the boy crumpled to the ground. He had not realized until just then where he had been standing when he'd been felled. He was facing her. The color had drained from Leah's face. Her lips had turned blue as the warmth left her body like the blood spreading in rivets through the snow packed around her corpse. Even in death, she was still the most beautiful thing that he had ever laid eyes upon. In his lifetime, he had loved her. And had never told her that. Still, it was a lucky thing, the conscious of the king who lay in a deathbed of earth and snow, a fickle thing, the last whimsy, the last conscious thought of life, that he would die within sight of her.

And so passed Loki, son of Odin, King of Asgard.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

Felt like posting, so there's your daily recommended dose of youngling randomness.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

"Corporal, are there any medics aboard this craft? We need a few more sets of trained eyes on our injured."

As the Feeorin padawan, who had emerged as what seemed the foremost medical authority among them, directed his question at the corporal the voice of another man answered. "Go get the MD droid and bring it here to help out the Jedi," the newcomer directed, identifying himself without words as someone in charge. Just as the Feeorin's blood-stained appearance shattered many of Zak's illusions of the Jedi as invincible champions, it was likewise jarring to the young boy to go from outright massacre to... adults talking. Granted, in a contest between the two options, Zak would have opted for the latter, it was still strange to now be standing witness to casual conversation when, not minutes before, they had been in the fight of their lives.

Looking back at the LAAT, the young Nautolan felt a twinge of guilt for the fact that he wasn't doing more... except, Zak really didn't know what to do. Sor-Jan was still there, passing out bandages, but that wasn't really helping anything. Bandages only helped if it was like a not-bad cut. These Jedi had broken bones, blaster wounds, and problems that the youngling was quick to shut out from his mind.

They were Jedi. They were the guardians of peace. Bad things like this... weren't supposed to happen to people like them.

So, instead of going back inside of the LAAT, the young amphibian took a step outside. Cautiously, the child's large, black eyes swept between the Sector Ranger and the Jedi. No one was telling him that he wasn't supposed to be on the transport. Another step. Then a second, tip-toeing further and further away from the LAAT. Again, no one told him to come back.

The first rule of Clan Womprat: The lack of express disapproval is implicit approval.

Zak could, if he had wanted to, asked a padawan or a knight if he could go exploring, but then someone would have the option of telling him no. In contrast, the lack of a stated no was the absence of evidence that he couldn't go exploring. Plus, the padawans and knights had better things to do right now. Like talk with the Sector Rangers. So by not asking permission, Zak was actually just saving them time so that they could do... whatever adults did. Wait, what did adults do? Talk. That.

...and, besides, the Thisspiasian clan master was dead, so Zak didn't know who was responsible for him now.

Bare, webbed feet padding over the military deck plating, as the boy did a jaunt around the launch bay where the LAAT was now secured. His gait was staggered as his head turned every which way, so that it seemed he paid scant attention to what was in front of him or where he was going. Zak had lived at the Jedi Temple since he was three years old. Most youngling clans got off Coruscant for field trips, but the Clone Wars had kept the boy planetbound for the danger posed by the Separatist Rebellion. There had been one time, a trip to Deneba, before the war had begun but... he'd been six years old then. He barely remembered any of it, and hadn't been able to appreciate traveling by starcruiser because they'd been told to meditate on this, or reflect on that, or review their history notes on the Jedi Con... Convo... something-or-other. Conversion? No, that wasn't the right word...

...the big Jedi meeting-thing on Deneba, whatever that was supposed to be called, when they'd regrouped there during the Krath Holy War upteenth-bajillion generations ago.

A door opened nearby, the sound attracting the youngling's fickle attention, as a medical droid entered the bay. Probably the one the Sector Ranger had mentioned, but that wasn't what really had Zak's focus at the moment. Instead, he was more interested in the open door which led to somewhere other than this launch bay.

Ultimate One Universe: Marvel/DC RPG

Byrd Man said
You make Kid Loki evil by letting you play him. Boy, you are the goddamn devil.

This is truth.