28.1
The recorder turns on in time to catch the end of an irritated exhale of air. Timestamp shows it being either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on one's perspective. This is a bad night. I've lost my temper twice and I can't sleep. Another exhale, irritated, then silence. Timestamp shows one minute, twenty seconds elapse. There was a race, hosted by the slavers. I'd heard from Cal-var that one possibility was that the cartel had its base on Alderaan, specifically at the Shining Star Cantina. Figuring it would be empty, I decided to explore. Nothing. No hard evidence for crimes committed in Republic space. Oh, I'm sure there's enough to get him on something small, but not for slaving, or spice dealing or – Cuts out. Time stamp shows seventeen minutes, seven seconds elapse. Arel's voice is terse when it picks up again. I've lost my temper three times tonight. Am I going about this the wrong way? I'm so used to being able to feel the will of the Force, to let it guide me. Why do I feel like I'm, hah, stumbling around in the dark? I've let it be known that I believe Pakarvo to be an untrained Force sensitive. If only half the stories he wrote about in his private logs are true, then there's really no other option. He seems quite pleased with how “luck” treats him, even has a few rants in here about the nonexistence of the Force, about there only being luck, but – He chuckles dryly, more impressed than amused. Kriff, if I tried half the things in here, I'd be dead. He'll be someone to watch. I half expect this artifact we're hunting to end up in his lap by “luck”. I don't know how I managed to break into the office of a known crime lord and come back with nothing but his diary. I don't very much like organized crime, even more so when it means an empty desk and any incriminating evidence filed away where I can't easily find it. I was interrupted in my search. I was listening to the public comm channel, trying to gauge the length of the race. Overestimated. I was certain there would be some sort of festivities afterward, closer to the finish line of the race, but no. I feel... uncomfortable thinking that the Force is more with the cartel's leader than me. I didn't notice their return until I felt a foreign presence getting closer. Dek, I think the name was. I grabbed the journal, slipped it under my shirt at the small of my back, and stumbled out, pretending to be inebriated. It's helpful, sometimes, to be a small blind man. Middle aged. People underestimate. That one I really don't like was there. Took my fake ID, the one for Agus Vern. I've had that for seven years, and I don't like the idea of having to track down another one, or the idea of paying the outrageous cost again to have another made. Don't like the idea that they've seen my face, either. I'll have to keep my hood up when I wear my 'saber. The ID worked, though. They chased Vern off without shooting me in the back of the head, for which I'm quite grateful. Unfortunately, I've had to flesh out Vern's record: addition of minor criminal convictions, medical reports, bankruptcy files, the sort of thing you'd find on an addict. Which means, when I find anther ID, I'll probably have to deal with law enforcement when it's active. Knowing the leader's “luck”, I'm certain that will end up working in his favor. There's another matter. Timestamp shows forty-eight minutes, fifteen seconds elapse. Anders, the boy I spoke with once about teaching, has left the Order. I knew the Council had made a bad decision regarding him. I knew something like this would happen if no one stepped in. I should've .. I should've been more proactive. Fear made me hesitate, and he pays the cost. Perhaps that is egotistical. Perhaps I could've done nothing. Perhaps this is how it should be. I don't know. I was surprised at the grief I felt. Anger as well. There was a sickness and it was ignored, not treated, and it cost a new Knight. I have a hard time thinking this as something the Force willed, though it could be. I worry that the decision made regarding the boy was done not out of wisdom and quiet contemplation, but out of fear. But now I have a headache and I'll have to be up in a few hours. I'll go through the journal again, see if I can't find something, and I'll sift through my own feelings. Perhaps I have developed a maladaptive coping mechanism and it is only this stress that now lets me uncover it. If so, I should welcome the test.
