SithLore

"The range is hot. I say again, the range is hot. Shooters, please approach your lanes."

The dull voice of the safety officer quivered into existence over the intercom. The familiar thrum of power cells inserted into blasters buzzed through the air. It wasn't long before the first fusiliade came as weapons were discharged. A violent storm of red and blue hues illuminated the grounds. The open range smelled of ozone; it was thick and suffocating. The shrill sound of blaster bolts pierced through the earmuffs that rested uncomfortably on Meldawn's ears. At the far end of the range, there sat a lone Chiss. His violet skin and crimson eyes marked him as a stranger on this planet. He could feel that stare. The ones that drilled into one's being as if those that looked at him were trying to read his soul. It made him sweat and disturbed. Just enough that it would occupy his mind and distract him from shooting.

clack clack clack

A heavy sigh came from Meldawn's chest. He looked down at his blaster rifle as it rested on a bipod. Frustration lined his brow as a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He blinked. How many times has he done this before? How many times did he always make this mistake? He twirled the power cell in his hand, adjusting it upright before inserting it into his weapon with a satisfying click. The E-10 blaster rifle came to life as it hummed with energy. Meldawn shifted in his chair, bringing the rifle to bear. Its cushioned stock nestled nicely in the nook of his arm. The heavy metal of the frame felt nice in his hands and the cold steel reminded him of his operating equipment. His brow relaxed, his facial expression softening. He stared down the sight aperture, his optic giving him a clear image of the hologram that stood some several hundred meters away. As the crosshairs of his scope lined up neatly to the torso of the distant target, he placed the tip of his index finger on the trigger. He let out a breath of air, slowly, deliberately, as his lungs emptied; and then he pulled the trigger.

He missed.

The bolt flew harmlessly past the hologram. It flickered, briefly. The statue of light mockingly readjusting itself. A screen in Meldawn's lane flashed white, as it updated him of his inaccuracy. He ignored it. He firmly grasped at a series of dials and nobs located on the sides of his scope between his index and thumb. He mentally counted each miniscule rotation as he turned them. He never took his eyes off his target as the image of the hologram blurred and focused as he adjusted his rifle's optic. Content with his changes, Meldawn once more caressed the trigger, his finger finding purchase on the thin grooved metal before firing again.

This time, the bolt found its mark. A bright red mark appearing on the chest of his target. Yet Meldawn was not satisfied. He turned those same dials by rote as his lips curled into a snarl. Not good enough, he thought to himself. And so he found himself in a vicious cycle. Continuously he would reorient his scope, continuously he would fire at the target, and continuously would he find himself discontented with his marksmanship. This went on for some time, until he cracked a smirk. As he fired his twentieth shot, the bolt shrieked through the air before landing directly at his intended target: the sternum of the hologram. Meldawn's shoulders instinctively relaxed. And then he fired again. Again. Again. His E-10 conducting an orchestra of blaster fire that was harmonious to his ears and with each trigger pull, he aimed true.

As he emptied his power cell of its last charges, Meldawn looked up at the targeting screen in his lane. Forty-two shots in total, at five-hundred meters. He had allowed himself half of those for adjustment and refinement. A close grouping of bright red dots showed themselves along the center mass of the holographic display. Meldawn smiled, if only for a moment, proud of his advancing skill as a marksman.

Sitting straight in his chair, Meldawn removed the blaster from its bipod. He hefted its weight and placed it on his thigh. He looked down at the instrument, his hand wrapped firmly around the grip, his other along the frame. He chuckled internally, the irony of the situation not lost to him. He had recently graduated from medical school and here he was, practicing how to shoot a blaster rifle. As to why he did this, he could not say. Was it therapeutic? Perhaps. There is an appeal to being able to destroy something in a controlled environment. Maybe it was the simple fact he spent a good sum of credits for this rifle and he intended to get his use out of it. Regardless, he found himself at the range more often than the operating room. For some reason, he felt calmer out here, more than he did under the auspices of a ruthless examination board.

Fishing for a nearby rag, Meldawn began to clean his weapon. As the fabric glided across the weapon, polishing the metal, his mind began to wander. What started as idle thoughts quickly began to form themselves into more serious manner. He first thought of home. Of Coruscant. The deep slums. Then to his family, then to his sister. Meldawn felt his jaw clench, his muscles tightening. He felt the ice cold grip of fear clutch at his heart as he released a ragged breath. He realized he had been still for several minutes, his once polished blaster rifle now stained with sweat. Swearing to himself he dismissed those dark thoughts of his kin, and cleaned his weapon anew.

It had been a long time since Zasabi had visited a range. Usually he got his practice in on his variety of specialty weapons at his home base, or on the Bebop. He had been busy, however, and had begun to neglect the basics.

The lanky Theelin had opted for a more concealing half helmet, covering half of his face from the nose up and hiding his distinctive green hair from sight. The rest of his ensemble could have belonged to any thousand mercenaries across the galaxy- he wasn't on the job today, but he didn't want to advertise his presence.

Strolling past a few others working on their own skills, he finally walked by someone cleaning their rifle with an intensity that suggested the gun was not their actual problem.

Entering the booth next to him, he put on his earmuffs and sunshades more out of respect for the range's rules than actual necessity. Snapping the locks off of his twin blaster pistols, he touched them gingerly before taking in a breath.

Letting out his breath, he slapped the activation button with his left hand, drawing with his right. Sighting down the various holograms his program had summoned, the Theelin fired one handed at his targets. In his youth he used to draw both at the same time, overwhelming his targets with the weight of fire, but now he focused on sustained shots, making each one count while not waiting longer than a moment between pulls of trigger.

As his blaster ran dry, he quickly switched hands, drawing his left pistol while beginning the process of reloading his right. Pleased that he had maintained his rhythm, he continued raining steady shots down the range.

By the time his first set was finished, he had gone through several magazines. Studying the results of his handiwork, the Theelin frowned for a moment before letting a small smile cross his lips. It was true that his accuracy had suffered some, but he had managed to maintain a steady flow for much of his set. More importantly, he had done so without relying on his connection to the Force, which meant that his old training had not yet degraded to the point of concern. Still, there was a lot of room to grow.

"Can't always rely on the heavy gear," he muttered to himself as he began letting his hands prepare his blasters for a second set. Suddenly, he stopped. The cleaning kit at his station was missing a few things. Putting his pistols down, he stepped out of his stall and looked into the one next to him, it's occupant wielding a rifle with a professional looking biopod set up. Knocking just loud enough to be heard, he put on a friendly smile.

"Hey neighbor, sorry to bother you. My cleaning supplies here are a bit short- don't suppose you have a barrel brush you'd be willing to lend for a minute?"

Meldawn visibly flinched upon hearing the Theelin's request. He was so lost in thought that the outside world had ceased to exist to him. Coughing into a hand, Meldawn set his rifle down with the care a mother would show to a newborn. With wordless emotion, he reached across his station, towards a heavy plastic case that rested on a metal shelf. It slid across the ledge producing a grating sound. One could see Meldawn's face contort into one of disgust. Deliberately, he pried open the case revealing an assortment of blaster equipment only an enthusiast would care to have. Spare power cells, oil & polish, another scope, and of course, cleaning utensils. All neatly arranged. Without looking, Meldawn reached for a bronze rod. Attached on the end of it was a metal brush. He turned it over in his hand, offering his fellow shootist the cleaning rod.

" I'd like it back, if you don't mind, " Meldawn intoned, his voice laced with exhaustion. " ...or don't. I'll just get another one from the range master. "

The Chiss stared unblinking towards his neighbor, his crimson eyes resting lazily in their sockets. His unkempt hair, hastily tied into a ponytail in tandem with his stubble made him look as if he were a vagrant. Had he been walking around the street hours before, it would not come as a surprise if he would have been stopped by the local enforcers. It was only his thick leather jacket that was draped tightly around his figure that betrayed who he really was. A pair of patches that depicted a faded red cross against a white background, located on both of his shoulders. The symbols stood out against the subdued blacks and grays of his attire, almost like a beacon in the void of space. But what was most interesting was the tattered emblem of the Alliance located on the breast pocket just above his heart. It was clear he had been out for some time, and it didn't take a great leap of imagination to understand the man's allegiances were murky at best. Regardless, Meldawn seemed unphased about his current conditions.

Although the Chiss likely couldn't see it behind the half mask, he might be able to picture the surprise on Zasabi's face as he took the brush.

"Is that an E-10? Looks almost factory new the way you've cleaned it. Even the brush looks cleaner than most guns I've seen."

Turning over to his booth, he quickly cleaned both blaster pistols before returning to the rifleman. Extending the brush handle-forward, he gave the man a more genuine smile.

"Appreciate it. Can't get good results with poorly maintained equipment.

He gestured lightly at the patch on Meldawn's shoulder. "If you don't mind me asking, were you in the early civil war or just got the jacket second hand?"

Delthum'ari'noll "Marin"

Marin sat inside the firing range lobby, the pale fluorescent lighting giving her blue skin a ghastly pallor. She idly spun her long black locks around a finger as she awaited her brother Meldawn, who was practicing within.

Of course, he didn't know she was here. If Meldawn knew, he'd rush from the firing range with a flurry of apologies and anxious questions.

Marin sighed, leaning backward on the bench as her unfocused vision fuzzed over. The past year contained some of the most difficult days in Marin and Meldawn's life. Most of those hardships had been caused by her: specifically, the accident. Marin knew her relationship with Meldawn had fundamentally changed due to her actions. Of course, her brother wouldn't say it aloud. But, he was afraid of her.

'It hurts, I hate this. I need to atone, I need to do something! At this rate, nothing is ever going to change, and I- Marin's mind roared with a roiling mix of emotions and she began to panic. The bench underneath her began to rattle against the lobby floor as Marin's breath quickened, painful moments of the past months flashing through her memory.

She gripped the edge of the bench, her knuckles whitening under the strain as began to practice a breathing technique, desperate to calm herself before something else horrible could happen.

'It doesn't help to think about this. I need to suppress it, bury it, and leave it be for now. At least until I find someone who can help me,' Marin thought, her willpower controlling her emotions with an iron grip. By necessity, she'd grown a talent for controlling her thoughts in these past months.

Marin stood, her hands trembling as she pulled her jacket close. She took a few tentative steps towards the doorway leading to the firing range, flashing her ID to the custodian before walking forward and partially opening the door.

Within, she saw Meldawn talking with a stranger. He looked so relaxed and unlike his usual self in the firing range. Her pallid cheeks flushed as she smiled, happy for her brother. Perhaps she couldn't be part of his happiness anymore. But, she could watch over him as he found his place in this galaxy. Perhaps, she'd find her own belonging in the process.

Upon hearing the Theelin's remark about the E-10, Meldawn turned his head, looking at the weapon as he accepted the cleaning rod back. The rifle was polished to a mirror sheen; preservative oils were graciously applied along the metal surface. However the monotony of cleaning a blaster tended to lead one's mind to wander elsewhere, almost ignoring the current task at hand entirely. At least, for Meldawn that is. He placed a hand around the grip, careful not to place his index on the trigger. He hoisted the rifle up and turned it on its sides, inspecting it. No blemishes, no dirt, not even fingerprints from its use just moments prior. It very much looked like it had rolled out of the production line.

" This piece of junk? No...I just don't use it all that much. " Meldawn grunted, returning the weapon to its stand. " And no. I was not apart of the civil war. This jacket was... "

As Meldawn grabbed the hem of his jacket and looked down, his brow creased. He stopped mid-speech as a frown formed at the edges of his lips. A thought began to manifest in his mind. He smelled the acrid scent of the Coruscant. Those dark depths that seemed to swallow everything. His chest felt heavy as the thumping of his heart quickened in pace to match his now shallow breathing. There was a distant cry of help, the sounds of cargo loaders blaring. Meldawn could have sworn the felt his eyes sting as the chemical smoke filled his lungs and suffocated him. His face twisted into a look of anger, or perhaps focus, as he recalled his early years. Tumultuous is how he would describe it. There was no such thing as living in the underbelly of Coruscant, only persistence. All of this, his memories, recollections of pain, seemed to come and go, with no rhyme or reason. But they all ended the same: the feeling of determination commingled with fear as he remembered a hollowed promise made to his sister.

" It was apart of a uniform. Alliance med school. Just decided to keep it. " Meldawn finished, as if casually discussing about the weather. He leaned back in his chair, seemingly undisturbed by his inner-turmoil. That same tired expression graced his face; the entire ordeal transpired in less than a few seconds. As he opened his mouth to form a question his eyes quickly shifted. He espied a notable individual lurking some several yards away, cloaked by the heavy metal doors of the firing line. There was only one other blue hued person in a 5 mile radius. He shot out of his chair, apologizing to the Theelin midstride with such sincerity, a nearby Zeltron could be heard remarking about how the air felt lighter. As Meldawn approached Marin, he folded his arms, staring up at her with an intensity to match the radiant heat from the nearby blaster fire.

" Forgive me, " Meldawn's voice thick with worry. " I had not noticed the time. It wasn't my intention to stay here long. Pray, allow me but several moments to retrieve my belongings and I will see you home. It...I did not forget it was my turn to make us dinner...sorry. " Meldawn briefly hugged Marin, before he began to assail her with a myriad of questions, all pointed towards her wellbeing. It appeared he already forgot about his equipment he left at the firing lane.

Befuddled, he watched as the Chiss' body language changed almost instantly, the man taking off to the exit with a sincere but quick apology. Turning to follow him, he saw another figure in the distance he couldn't quite make out in the comparatively dim lighting.

"Must be late for a date," he muttered to himself wryly before turning back to his stall. As he turned, his eyes caught on the man's immaculately maintained rifle. Without a word, he picked it up delicately and, after ensuring it was unloaded, carried it and it's ammunition to its owner.

As he neared Meldawn, he began to make out who the chiss had run off to. Might have been more right than I thought. Or is this family maybe? It was always difficult to tell family relations with Chiss and other rarer species- he simply hadn't met enough to learn their varieties.

"Hey, you left your rifle," Zasabi offered with a smile. "Not a good idea with a rifle this well maintained. Range master might assume it's one of their sale models."

For a moment, his eyes flitted to the woman next to Meldawn before returning to the chiss. Although his mask helped disguise his curiosity, something about her seemed odd. He began slowly loosening the clamp on his Force senses, languidly stretching out his sixth sense to size the pair up.