The Phantom Affair

[sw_npc]

The lab is filled with terminal banks, screens, modules, monitors, and all sorts of devices with blinking lights. The lighting is nearly as cold, precise, and mathematical as Professor Rorax Falken, sitting in his repulsorchair and staring down Dllr Nep and Mirax Terrik

Comments

[rogueofsullust]

"One thing I don't understand, Falken;" Dllr snarls at the professor. "If the phantom ship is phony, why'd you hold that auction? What did you think--that the Empire wouldn't notice that it didn't work?!" The sheer naivete of the Mrissti boils the Sullustan pilot's blood.

[sw_npc]

"That wasn't my idea," snaps Professor Rorax Falken, hovering in his repulsorchair. "The project was supposed to be lost; we would fake an explosion or something of that nature. But after my..." The pause is just long enough to be awkward. "Breakdown, Gyr Keela became president of the academy, and he didn't know that the project was fake." The Ghost Jedi still keeps watch behind Falken, wavering in the light. "He's not a bad president, Gyr. But he made a mistake. He thought that one can make a fair deal with the Empire. I made the same mistake, once." His wrinkled face looks pinched.

"I trusted that they needed my knowledge, my ideas, to build artificial moons, better worlds. To help people." He trails off, and the cybernetic devices pressed to his forehead blink blue. A floating holo model of the infamous, ominous, artificial moon appears behind him. "They made the Death Star."

"The news broke me." He glances to one side, speaking to himself more than to the intruders or his students now. "It was music that nursed me back to

[incorsecsdreams]

"Health? Falken, you're insane. You blew up your lab, faked all of our deaths, and now you're holding us prisoner while our friends think we're dead. This doesn't strike me as 'healthy' behavior. And when were you planning on letting us go, anyway?"

[sw_npc]

Falken faces down the annoyed woman, unconcerned and, quite frankly, not paying much attention. "You'll be released when the time is right," he says. "If that time comes." With that singularly cheerful bit of news, he turns away, tapping at the keypad on his repulsorchair's armrest.