padawannabes | [open post] Training camp/barracks

The transmission came through on a quiet evening when, the Jedi-in-training were out on individual meditations all night and Luke was holding down the fort in case something went wrong.

Not that anything was going too--he'd made sure the place was pretty safe and everyone he'd sent out had basic survival, as well. So when the signal came from a ship dropping out of hyperspace in the vicinity, it took him a moment to realize there wasn't actually anyone else around to look into it.

Luke dropped into the chair at the small communications station and checked the readout. Personal ship, one occupant, in orbit. He clicked open a hailing frequency, and hailed the ship. Best to be careful, after all. There were plenty of people in the galaxy who weren't all that excited by the prospect of a new Jedi order, though if this was one of them, they were going to find themself outnumbered.

"This is Homebase calling unidentified ship in orbit. Please identify yourself."

Ah, look at that. Just who he was looking for.

He needs refueling. Honest. He didn't come here on purpose looking for Luke or anything, and even if he did, it's completely justified. (The little freighter is absolute junk, Sinjir's shocked it's still spaceworthy, and his piloting doesn't really do it any favors.)

He keys the comm.

"Homebase?" he asks. "Might need a better name. Speaking of bad names, this is the good ship Meatball, requesting permission to land, and while this ship's name might be worse than Homebase, at least it's creative."

Luke chuckles into the comm, not because Sinjir is actually funny or anything but because Luke's a little stupidly grateful to hear his voice. He's surrounded by youth in this place, and while he's still pretty young himself it's a relief to hear from someone who's not going to pretend they haven't just been staring at him with their jaw on the floor.

Besides, and not that he's allowing himself to actually think about this, there's a tingling sense-memory of warmth he stuffs down because he's well aware that was just a one night thing and that's a thing people do, when they're bored and horny. Just because it was a first time thing for Luke doesn't mean it meant anything more.

"Come down here and tell me a better one," he says. "You've got clearance, and coordinates." Which is basically, Luke knows you're here and no weird Force things are going to happen if you land.

"Most anything would be more creative." His hands flick over the controls. He zeroes in on the coordinates. Atmospheric entry he does in a careful, orbital slide, though he can still see the readouts as it heats up the hull. "Call it 'Planet'. Dirt. Landing. Trees. Pick your favorite nearby geographical feature, and, bam, there's a name."

The planet is gorgeous, Sinjir must say. How Luke found one in the habitable zone with such a temperate climate, and no one living there, he has no idea.

He doesn't say anything personal. On purpose; you never know who might be listening in.

"I was naming my location, not the planet itself. I'm assuming you, of all people, know where you are."

No names, though, nothing identifying. But he rises, reaching out to sense the perimeter, the life signs close by. Everything is as it should be, and he runs a hand through his hair, bouncing a little on his toes.

Sinjir probably just needs fuel, but... He closes his eyes, centers himself, and waits.

"What, you don't think a small settlement should be called Planet?" returns Sinjir. "Whyever not?"

A little smirk is audible in his voice.

He sweeps the ship in over the forest, over the perimeter beacons. Slow velocity, engage repulsorlifts, and he gently settles the ship down in the large, open area near the stone buildings. Maybe takes a little long to actually get the thing on the ground, but that's because he's not really a good judge of these things, and he'd rather tap it down than slam it down.

He starts flipping through engine shutdown sequence. Sighs; it's been a while sitting in the cockpit.

Blaster on his hip (reflex), scuffed jacket on, scruffed beard on, Sinjir strides down the open ramp. His emotions twist in the air around him, though he gives no physical sign of it; he wants to see Luke. Wants to look at him, as simple as that is.

"I'm surprised your ship isn't named Ship," Luke smirks into his comm. And then he realizes the lights had all been off, so he turns a few of them on in the common area, avoiding calling attention to the door to his private chamber.

By the time Sinjir lands, Luke is lounging in the doorway, watching. Trying not to have any feelings one way or the other about this, but unable to help the hint of curiosity at Sinjir's presence.

He crosses the landing field, approaches stripping off his gloves. He wears them by habit on ship, in case he needs to patch something together. He's not the best technician, but he can usually keep the thing going.

Stuffs the gloves in his jacket pocket, and he greets Luke with a little smile. Glad to see him, genuinely, which surprises Sinjir. He's not really the kind of person who likes people.

"Someone else named the ship," he says, by way of greeting. "For your information."

"Meatball? Really?"

Luke's smiling, trying not to blush, grin or both.

"I guess you think I should call this place Secret Jedi Facility? Bomb Here if You Don't Trust Skywalker?"

He's not sure what the greeting is for their non-relationship, so he doesn't do anything but step aside to let Sinjir in. There has to be a reason for him to be here, Luke thinks. But he'd almost like to pretend he gets social calls.

"Can I get you something?" he asks as the door slides shut.

Sinjir pulls a bottle out of the bag on his shoulder. "Corellian," he says, "berry-wine. I wanted a drink, didn't know if you'd have any intoxicants on a planet full of young and untrained Jedi."

And/or untrained, really; he knows that not all of them, perhaps not even most of them, are young.

(He's actually a little flattered that he knows about this at all. This is a very high-level secret. But he's been in place helping erase any obvious tracks, so.)

"You can provide the cup." A pause. "Or cups." He's not entirely sure how to navigate this either.

He follows Luke in. "I thought I might drop by," he says. "I need refueling, and I don't think you lot bring in a lot of shipping, so you can have first pick of the cargo I'm running. I'm not usually a shipper, but while I'm hopping between planets..."

Maybe it is a social call, after all. At least, Sinjir's willing to make it one. Okay. Luke follows, waving to the low couches and moving to the galley area to grab two glasses.

"Decent of you," he says. "And you guessed right--I don't have anything like that in stock, but I've sent everyone out for the night."

The implication being, along with the extra glass, that Luke is willing to join him, since it's on offer. There are... other potential implications to we're alone tonight he's not touching lest his face or other things give him away.

"What brings you this way?" he asks casually, and he returns to the sitting area. The building isn't fancy, it's for training after all, but it's clean and comfortable, if spare.

Sinjir has draped himself on a chair in a way that would be somewhat inappropriate in any remotely formal setting. Leg over an armrest, something like that.

"How goes the training?" he asks, accepting the glass, taking a long sip. It's rather alcoholic, for wine. This is a plus, as far as Sinjir's concerned.

The question he's really asking is how Luke is doing with all of this responsibility. Sinjir has his doubts about Luke's capability, right now, and not because he thinks Luke is inadequate. This is just not something that should be put on one man, especially one who has only recently and with a great deal of difficulty won any wisdom and power in the Force.

Besides, didn't Jedi Masters have some sort of creed about a lack of passion? Sinjir doesn't think that's translated well to this generation, given what he saw of Luke that night.

Luke's posture is less casual, but he doesn't mind Sinjir taking his ease. He's just been unable to truly relax, since this began. Or, no, it's not exactly that. He's felt unable to be entirely himself, is more like it. He has to be a Jedi Master, for this to work.

Whatever that actually means, he has to command some kind of respect.

So instinctively, he doesn't sprawl, just sits opposite Sinjir and takes a sip of his wine. And then glances at it--it's more powerful than anything he's had lately, but he welcomes the deviation from routine. He raises his eyes to lift one eyebrow at the other man.

"You came to check up on me?" he asks, faintly amused but feeling a slight sting that's less about Sinjir and more about the number of times he's been asked if he's ready for this. By perfectly well-meaning people (Han and Leia, specifically) who knew him before. They might not even be wrong to worry, but he's not sure what choice there is. There are people out there whose potential will, at best, go unused. At worst? Destroy lives. Someone needs to help them. "It's fine. Slow going, for some of them. It's not like I have a manual."

Or, you know, a complete training. He's working with what he's got, trying to hold it all together himself.

"Yes," says Sinjir, frankly. If the night with Luke taught him anything about dealing with the Jedi Master, it was to use honesty. Not unkindness, but honesty. "You got a terrible deal in all of this. Three years from farmboy to teaching a bunch of raw wizards isn't my idea of a simple, helpful life trajectory."

It seems to Sinjir to be a reasonable thing to say. He's not surprised Luke is a little stiff. He probably has to be.

"Though I'm not sure a manual would do you much good," he says. "If all the Empire said about the Jedi was propaganda, the Republic couldn't have fallen the way it did."

"Four years," Luke corrects vaguely, as if 24 is any different from 23, but it is. At least as far as how his own personal galaxy has changed. He scrubs at his eyes, feeling like that year is worth ten, in terms of how old he feels, and about five minutes, in terms of any wisdom he actually feels he's learned. Earned. Whichever.

"Anyway, I never wanted to be a farmboy. I got what I wanted, Sinjir, just... more of it than I'd bargained for." The honesty seems to be working, inasmuch as Luke's unthinkingly reciprocating. "I just wish I knew something, anything about the old Order. Even if it's just to avoid making the same mistakes."

The last thing he wants is to create a new Vader, even if he'd never think to characterize Obi-Wan that way.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking up and running a hand through his hair and smiling before taking another sip. It's a genuine smile, even if the shadows behind his eyes remain. "You're offering concern, and I... appreciate that. But neither of us are in the simple life trajectory business, I'm afraid."

They've both been directly affected by the actions of a few men, the same men. Maybe that's what lets Sinjir talk to him this way--the way their paths have come to the same place from opposite sides. It's one of the reasons Luke feels he can trust the other man. He's just afraid he'll chase him away with whining.

[closed to Luke and Sinjir]

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Off time, outside.

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