Barracks

*The conversation was as much steeped in hatred as it was in brevity, like the phrases were glancing blows intended to ward off each other├óÔé¼Ôäós presence. Sinistra felt of pure fury and anger, but also indifference, as if she had once cared for the man and trusted him, but was no longer anchored by such feelings and emotions. The taller man, only larger in height, was as quick to barge in as he was to retreat. He stood near a half foot higher than Walter, and looked as if he had just rolled out of a grave and fallen into another one. He smelled of hospital floor wax and bed sheets and old festering wounds, as if he had chosen to try and heal naturally. It was obviously the incorrect decision, the smell of the festering stab wound was almost enough to make Walter consider retching, just to fill the taste of his mouth with something more preferable. The bald man was succinct and to the point, his intentions well known. He planned to travel to Korriban to intervene in the coming Mandolorian attack. Whether his intent was to prove useful, loyal, or just capable, it was hard to tell. His head was covered in scars and he was balding, either by choice or genetically, and the sun reflected off his scalp like a giant glowing orb that threatened to blind. The beard on his face implied he had spent a great deal of time in the hospital or chose to allow age to take its course.

There was no greeting between Holy Man and Walter, though Walter knew who he was. He was one of the founding members of the Dark Tide, one of the fallen. And his speed to take action instead of recover did not impress the Lord of Battle, and he imagined it didn't impress Sinistra either. And Holy Man likely cared little for about the former, though was seemingly invested in turning things around.**He's going to get himself killed.**As the door slammed behind him and the bunker was closed once more, Walter felt a bit of comfort in the new freshness of the air.**It was starting to get stale.**He leaned forward and turned a nob on the transparisteel, cracking the window and letting in some air. It was an attempt to get the wounded smell out of the bunker, the smell of a man on his last leg and too proud to care for wounds the conventional manner. The smell of the need for pain to remember how to feel; to feel anything but shame. And he reeked of it.*

"I need to remember to get that door fixed. It seems that lock doesn't work. You'll get a key of course, it is your barracks after all."

*His helmeted visage turned from the door back to the window, watching as the lone figure walked back off towards the Hangar. He wasn't taking the most efficient route, but then again, Walter had built the barracks up to be a small dust bitten metropolis that resembled a maze as much a training facility. One could get lost in this place for hours and often did so. The shirt holy man wore was haphazardly attached to his torso and flapped in the wind as he walked, the waning sun just on the near side of setting in the direction he walked.**At least he has a purpose now.*

"It seems the Mandalorians will meet all sorts of characters in this war. Sith, Jedi, and the walking dead."

*Walter noticed a scuff in the window and pressed his finger against it, attempting to rub it clean. It was to no avail. Behind his hand, a group of men, carrying luggage as if they were about to take a trip, set up a make shift camp near the far end of the obstacle course.**I guess they missed the ship.**Commander Donavin, on his way to supper in his always timely manner, stopped and pointed off in the direction of the hangar bay. 'Maybe if they run, they'll make it in time to head to Korriban,' he probably told them. Their armor was painted gray with the brown caricature of a rancor squeezing a man between its hand, popping him like a tube of paste. They each had two or more packs and a few carried heavy rotary cannons and sniper rifles.**There seem to be almost a hundred of them.**Dust was all that was left as they followed a trough of grass towards the Hangar, perhaps passing the tall bald man on their way and giving him a better sense of direction.*

"Odd, how our ghosts tend to catch up with us."

*She did not try to stop him as he turned and left, his retreating steps leading him onto his fate. She murmured her answer to Avius, her arms still crossed over her chest and an air of annoyance on her visage.*

"He was walking dead before I stabbed him. He's been disengaged and drifting since he was captured by the Mandalorians. Perhaps this is his payback to them. Perhaps this will reignite his thirst for the darkness. Or this will be his requiem. He is the only one who can answer that now."

*She sighed and shook it off, adopting a calmer demeanor for a moment as she turned back to Avius.*

"It is your bunker, if you wish to lock me out of it, so be it. I need no key to your sanctum. You are off the grid in here and while I may be supremely jealous of your ability to avoid the work I am immersed in, I would not take that from you."

*She released her arms and walked back over to the table and picked up the glass of whiskey. It took only a moment to drain the glass, her hand setting it down as she forced the liquor in a hard swallow.*

"Is there anything else, Lord Avius?"

*He paused at the window, the fading shadow of the nearby structures moving slowly across the abandoning area adjacent to the window. During the day, it would often be heavily ridden with soldiers that smelled as bad as the insects they resembled. Like an infestation that was treated by the changing of the day, the fleas were all but removed and Walters view was no longer obscured by the ugliness of it all. Walter removed himself from the window momentarily and approached a small wooden table that sat at the foot of his bed, nudged snugly against the metal frame. It had one main drawer at the top and a decently sized empty space beneath that could hold various random items. He pulled a blue bottle from beneath the table, it sloshed a bit, being half empty, and placed it on the larger table. As he uncorked it, he placed it to the bridge of his nose sensor, indicated by a small hole above the mouth of the mask, and sniffed. It smelled slightly of apples and age, the fruity texture on the pallet was only slight enough to be detected by the most refined connoisseur. The label on the blue bottle was yellow and old and peeling, but it was clear that it was Menkooro Bourbon Whiskey. He tilted the bottle over and red fluid poured out, resembling something more related to fluid in a vehicle than what would be considered alcohol. The shine in the crystalline glass cast flickering lights against the table, hardly noticeable in the dimming sunset, all but gone. Setting the bottle back down on the table, Walter turned from Sinistra and faced the window, glass in hand.

With a sudden jerk, he pulled the mouth piece from his mask and sloshed the fluid around before sipping. It tasted of charred red wood casks and sour mash, and burned with a roughness and sweetness that seemed at odds with one another. It had been all day since Walter had eaten and much more of the amber fluid would likely threaten to topple the man who rarely partook in alcohol, anymore. He placed the metal piece down on the windowsill.*

"You are welcome here any time Lord Sinistra."*His voice had lost the metallic nature that the mask created, but the same scholarly tone and accent flooded forth, indicating that it was either his true voice, a surgical implant, or a lifetime practiced skill.* "But for now, there is nothing more to speak of."*He seemed to find it curious that she had been the one to sneak into his bunker and meet with him and now she had been the one to ask whether they were done or not, as if he had called the meeting.**Seeing him must have really infuriated you.*