Poguala sits in a sequestered booth, in the VIP Lounge, dressed elegantly and rather sensually in a white gown of considerable value and taste. She inclines her head to Bazil when he arrives, asking in a very musical tenor, "I trust you found your way easily, Lieutenant...?"

Bazil nods momentarily, "Yes. Sorry to say, though, that everyone I asked was closed-mouth on why I'm here..." He takes a seat for himself, across from Poguala. His clothing consists of a clean pair of pressed black slacks, matte black boots, and a boring, yet elequant dress shirt. The only thing out of place on his body would be the small black pouch at his side.

Poguala is careful to look Bazil over as he sits, noting hsi clothes, his stance...she seems to be oddly attentive, her strange green eyes morphing, or molding, from green to black. Perhaps thirty seconds pass as she watches him, interested and utterly silent. When she is concluded with her private assessment, she inclines her head to Bazil at that point. "I am not one to hark the coming of my affairs," the Representative explains, "because precious few people need to know and information on many matters is to be exchanged on that basis. I am Poguala Waaris-Dawntreader, Representative to the Inner Council, to make my position clear to you. It is my understanding that you were once employed by IGN, and are an experienced pilot of a number of craft. Am I correct in this?"

Bazil simply nods, in response, "Yes. Many craft... shuttles, freighters, and fighters." He looks inquisitively at her, his face showing the slightest hint of confusion. The secrecy, and whatnot, almost foreign to him.

Secrecy is apparently not so much the Lady Dawntreader's aim as certain informational conservatism, her placid expression showing no sign of concern, or trepidation. She hmms softly, drumming her fingers on the table, then asks, "Forgive me if I am remiss? I did not ask you, Lieutenant, if you required refreshment. Perhaps you can be provided something? In the meantime, might I ask: how did you come to be a pilot? Or garner the positions you have had?"

"Yeah... uhh... just a glass of water." he responds, adjusting his position in his seat partially. "A pilot, eh? Well, I suppose I just always had an interest in the stuff. Been flyin' since I was born, practically," he leaves a bit of secrecy in that one, "always had some job or another... shuttling people around, and whatnot... then I landed a semi-stable job at IGN... just sorta fell into that one. Worked cargo for a while with them, as well as shuttling their reporters and whatnot." He pauses a moment, thinking, "Then, well, I left to join the Republic... met up with a recruiter, and got into that position, then got promoted to where I am today, piloting X-Wings in Ghost."

Poguala listens, keeping her attention on Bazil as she calls the waiter. When he is concluded, she very softly orders two glasses of water, one with a twist of Tanaab lemon. When done, she folds her hands so prettily in her lap it is worth notice. Her refinement is extremely high. "A rather unpretentious manner to represent your accomplishments, Lieutenant, given your rather stark and humble origins." She does know. The tone Bazil uses must interest her. She continues, "Have you gained some sort of perspective on the matter of your advancement, or do you not realize its magnitude?"

'She seems to know quite a bit about me...' Bazil thinks to himself, before shrugging softly, "I guess I just don't really think about it much... I more or less just let things happen as they do. Never really persued anything." He offers another shrug. He doesn't seem to be the most... educated or refined as compared to Poguala. A home-baked pilot, no lace or fringes.

Poguala shifts lightly in her seat. Every inch of her body, which is well-cared for, speaks to her breeding, her elegance, all the things expected of a diplomat. Her pretty tenor voice is grave when her comment flies in the face of her primness. "You certainly persued your father to his end. I want to know why."

She is direct, and is watching Bazil closely now. The caedence of her question indicates it is no question at all.

Bazil stops just short of revealing amazement over her knowing about his father... instead, he just takes in a deep breath, nodding momently, "Yeah... him... I don't know how much you know about him, but let's just say he wasn't the most... just... man in the galaxy. Slave owner, brutally beated anyone who defied his will." He seems to be growing in anger and resentment... "The last straw, I guess... was when he beat my mother for stealing a piece of bread. I broke into his quarters later that night," He looks up, straight at Poguala, "And killed him."

"One could argue, Bazil, that you have no self-control." Poguala uses the pilot's first name now, a noticeable and likely deliberate shift. "It is unfortunate that your father did not honor the integrity of the mother of his child. Such is the way with those who hold sentient life as property, and no doubt he was a dastardly man. What right, divine, legal, or otherwise, did you have to treat him as the chattel with which he treated you? You look me in the eye now, as I watch you, and say with no remorse that you took the life of he who gave you yours, for good or ill. The onylthing I see in your steely eyes is the surprise that I knew. Tell me, Bazil, why anyone shoudl believe that you will not have the proper self-control to deal with your anger properly."

Bazil smiles, and nods, turning his head away for an instant, before shrugging, "I suppose you're right. But, you must understand, that had I not killed him, I wouldn't be here today. The only way off that dire asteroid was through him. Don't get me wrong, I hated him, but I also wanted to experience freedom." He sighs to himself softly, seeing the conversation turning for the worst, "I suppose I don't resent it, though, because of the cold fact that he denied me every right as a living being. We slept in rooms only large enough for a dozen people, but in which were cramped with twenty times that. He treated us like animals then." He sighs again, resigning his head to his palms, elbows rested on the table. "You might be right about me not dealing with it properly. But when one is in a desperate circumstance, one must use desperate measures to live."

Poguala is still listening. Her is poised, sympathetic without being overemotional. There is no pity in her eyes, though there is some understanding. She shifts: the water arrives at the moment immediately following, as though the diplomat fully anticipated the drinks to come. It has a sense of foreboding about it, of dramatic effect, all the while seeming unaffected. "So, were I to put the sabre in your hand, and you saw the slaves, the cramped quarters, the misery....where would the blade lay? How swiftly, and with what remorse, Bazil?"

"If what you're trying to ask me, is if I would do it again, I believe I would. Not for personal revenge. For the slave's sake. I saw my own mother, several months ago. Wrinkled, worn, and beaten. She was let go from the asteroid only because she could no longer work." He pays no heed to the drinks, and keeps his head in his palms. "Those people, the slaves, the sorrow in their eyes, day in, day out. As their blades stuck the poisoness metals, their bodies withered, not from the poison, but from the lack of hope." He stops there, and looks up, beyond the diplomat, "I would do it again, and I would be ready to accept any consequences it bore. I would cause no misery of my own on whom I wrought the sabre upon. Just being able to see those people's faces redeemed, free, would be enough to dispel all remorse that I might have carried." He looks her face over, for any reaction, "I'm not a murderer. But I do despise cruelty." He stops himself there, so as not to create any... emotion in himself that might lead to further... embaressment?

Poguala lifts her glass to her lips, the Tanaab lemon artfullyavoided as she drinks. Her eyes are hard, no longer green, but inky, icy black, fathomless and much like her expression, which has become unreadable. She is no doubt thinking, no doubt considering, weighing the statement, taking it in. She exhales then. "Given what you have now, Bazil, and that you would do it again....you are a murderer. The first time, with nothing, is forgiveable, as your time in the New republic should have shown you. You managed to empower yourself--for this, I admire your willingness to survive, your determination to flourish. With these resources, Bazil, you needn't ever pick up a sabre again." She inclines her head. "The Diplomatic Corps needs a pilot. Perhaps I was wrong in surmising that you were appropriate for the job. The fact that you are in fear of embarassing yourself in front of me is proof enough of your lack fo readiness."  Poguala sits back, putting the glass down, folds her arms...and waits.

Bazil reaches a hand up from the table to rub a shoulder. His mind floods with thoughts, remarks, and things that have gone awry in this so far. Perhaps it was the fact that she now thinks so low of him. Perhaps it's the fact that she touched on something so personal to him. Perhaps it's just his thick skull. Whatever it is, though, he's not about to get mad about it. He pushes his hand around the glass of water before him, taking a short drawl from it, before setting it back down. He leans back, still in though over what to say. Finally, though, he reaches into the dress shirt, pulling out a small gold medallion. Hope is rejuvinated in him, as if this simple talisman encompases all that he lives for. He looks at Poguala, straight in the eyes, "Perhaps, if you think so, then I guess yer right. But, I do have morals, and reasons, and values. I fight for a cause. I have all my life. It's freedom. From the day I took my father's life to free myself from the dreadful prison, to a few weeks ago, when I fought to fend off those who would try and enslave our people. Noone, in all the republic, does more to fight for freedom then us, the starops." He leans over the table, closer slightly, "Let me ask you this... how different is killing a man, the owner of slaves, then blowing a TIE fighter out of the sky? *I* am willing to die for what I believe in. *I* am willing to sacrifice *MY* freedom, for the sake of others." He pauses for a moment, showing a small sign of desperation. "Even yours. And, if that means that I can't pilot for diplomatic reasons, fighting the same cause I fight now, then so be it, I'm sorry to say. I may have kil- murdered a man some twenty years ago... but I still murder people today. People with families. I don't take any pleasure in it. I know what their families must go through." He pauses for a moment, before continuing again, in final plea for whatever, "Sabre in hand, I kill still today. I fight for myself, my friends, my world. And you." He lets out a deep sigh, still fingering the medallion in his hand. He offers a small smile.

Poguala answers simply. "Give me three methods in which you, as a New Republican citizen, could have freed your mother. You have one minute." She seems nto to have heard a word he says, or she has somehow overlooked it--her demand is a strange one in the face of Bazil's impassioned speech. hers is entirely dispassionate, having an almost dissipating effect on the emotional tones about the booth. She folds her arms, and waits.

Bazil simply blinks, in that moment, his heart crumbles... "I ... uhh..." He frowns, and starts, trying to be as calm as possible, "As a New Republic citizen, given where the slaves were -- an Imperial controlled system -- not much... but... I suppose I could have snuck in, broke her out, and gotten out as quickly as possible... Had a detail of ground troops break in, get her out, and fly off in a flurry of gunfire, or even posed as a slave, then later gotten her out at a moment of opportunity." He shrugs, all his emotions drained.

Poguala purses her lips. "Now, choose two methods that do not require military action."

Bazil pauses for a moment, "Of those previously mentioned, or new ones?"

Poguala hmphs. "I did /say/ that I wanted non-military solutions, yes?" She raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Well then... the first, and third of what I already mentioned. I could have borrowed a ship, and done it myself." He pauses, and thinks for a moment, "But, if new ones were required, I might have bought her fairly, or possibly even sold myself in exchange for her freedom." He offers these last two versions of freedom to her in a solemn, serious manner. No joking, and in all truth.

Poguala inclines her head, lips thinning in a half-satisfied expression. "The first is appropriate. If you required the funds, you could have also asked the Diplomatic Corps or Intelligence for assistance, or any number of private organizations specializing in the release of slaves. The second manner would be to arrange a trade of your mother with another slave, who in truth was an Intel plant. Such operations occur fairly frquently. A third solution would be to ask the Diplomatic Corps to find a third party to negotiate her release, say, the Caspians, who are particularly adept at such negotiations."

She exhales, arms still folded, considering. "I appreciate that you wish to fight for freedom." She picks up her glass, and drains it. It is set down with a soft *thump*. Her statement is puncuated by it. "Not in my branch, and not under my jurisdiction. You are, to be blunt, a thug and a murderer who is justified by his X-wing." Poguala adds, "I will not accept this."

Bazil pauses for a moment, thinking sternly. He stops. It's not worth it. He doesn't need to add insult to injury. If she's going to insult him, fine. He simply asks her, looking her in her eyes, "Miss, if you had been in my shoes, with no chance of escape except through the slave owner, what would you have done?" He sighs, looking her over slowly.

Poguala steeples her fingers. her legs are crossed now, as she sits back, and considers. "I would have incapcitated him, and left. Perhaps kill if necessary. I will tell you what I would have done differently, afterwards." She raises a finger. Speaks very, very softly, a touch of sympathy creeping into her generally melodious voice. "I would not have put myself in a position to kill afterwards. I would not smile at the thought. I would not, after having clawed my way past being an animal to being a free being, enslaved myself yet again with my thoughts and methods so entrenched in violence. You grew up in conditions that created an animal." She shrugs, "Now, when you have opportunity to do so, you do not /cease/ being exactly that.

Bazil sighs again, again resigning his face to his palms. For almost a full ten seconds he sits there, thinking slowly to himself. Reflecting in his mind over his life. Suddenly, he remembers again the chain around his neck. He releases a hand from under his head, grasps the amulet, and stares at it for a moment. "Twice tonight, I have looked at this. Each time, though, it brought forth two different meanings to me. The first, it gave me hope in the conversation... now... it reminds me of what I have been before." He looks up, "I am, on occasion, reminded of the giver of this trinket... so long ago it was given to me... not from family, but from a dear friend. I realize now what you say, though I did not before. I am cruel. I came here expecting nothing, and and coming out with nothing... My life has been harsh... and I suppose you're right. There is no reason for me acting the way I do." He calmly slips the item back into his shirt, and looks back up, uncovering his face. A small, solitary tear hangs from the corner of his eye. He shrugs, and prepares to stand, "I'm sorry I wasted your time."

Poguala lays a hand on Bazil's leg with a softness that belies the elegant harshness of her tone. "You will sit, Bazil MacKenzie." She exhales, continuing before the unhappy pilot gets a chance to get away, "I will offer you something no one else has bothered to give: a chance to heal. You will remain under my tutelage, and that of the colleagues you will find in the Corps. You will swear a violence-last clause, and if you presume to break it, you will be removed from the Corps, and prosecuted depending upon the incident. You will have a list of five different methods of dealing with a tense battle situation that do not require immediate firing of wepaons. This will be done in forty-eight hours." She sits back. "You will also report to my personal tailor here on Coruscant, Master Gharskellian. He is a Bimm, amongst teh finest tailors in the galaxy, and is on the Diplomatic Corps payroll."

At first, he has no clue what to think... almost stunned... this cruel, hearthless woman suddenly becoming so warm. He stutters quite fluidly for a moment, replanting himself in the seat... He casually wipes a hand over the moistened eye, before nodding, blinking slowly, taking in what just occured... "Y... yes... th... thank you..." He just stops at that... unable to think of what to say... if anything...

Poguala raises a hand. She clearly does not wish him to say anything. Listening is something Bazil will also have to learn to do. "When I ask for you to dress formally, Bazil, you will do so. Your dress was entirely inappropriate for thsi venue and meeting. I expect you to dress in your best uniform, or in formal clothes, when I ask it. Even pilots in the Corps are expected to dress appropriately, and to know /when/ to do so. In that light, you will requires courses in etiquette." She exhales. "These will begin tomorrow, with one of my lesser aides. Your speech will also need to improve. What is your level of education?"

Bazil looks down in slight embaressment, for a moment, "Uhh... well... no formal education at all. My mother tought me some, and I learned the rest through my work.."

Poguala clicks her tongue. She reaches behind her chair, and hands Bazil a small datapad. "These are the basic procedures for the Corps, including dress codes and protocols. have these read by the end of the week, if you would? This should assist you in your first assignment, which I expect on time. If you need assistance, do not hesitate to call myself or an aide."

Bazil nods, looking back up, and taking the datapad, "Yes... thank you..." Bazil, still in his post-confessional state, is almost shocked still... but he tries to take it as calmly as possible.

Poguala continues, "We will be leaving soon for Caspar, possibly Nar Shaddaa, depending upon a few...developments. I expect you to be ready, have standard-issue wepons, and you will have to begin the course in cultural sensitivity training. I do not wish you to find yourself without such skills. How many languages do you speak? And how well?"

Bazil nods momentarily, "I speak... about 11... not all very fluently... but I understand most well enough.."

Poguala says, "Good. You will need to improve in all of them, Bazil. I expect you to know the formal greetings in all of them as soon as possible. I trust you speak some Calamari?"

"Yes," Bazil responds, "Somewhat."

Poguala speaks Calamari then. "Good." Fluent, obviously, as well as an elegant speaker. "Do you have any questions? You have a good deal of work ahead of you. I expect you will do well, though by all means, ask for assistance. I expect you will require it."

Bazil nods, in response, "No... no questions... not right now, in any case." He inhales deeply, wondering to himself what he's gotten into now. "Thank you."

Poguala begins to laugh, sweetly, musically. "Thank me?" she teases softly. "I see. You are dismissed, Bazil. I shall meet with you tomorrow, to dsicuss the types of ships you will be flying. I will also have the violence-last contract composed then."

Bazil simply nods, standing slowly. "Tomorrow, then... goodnight." With that, he bobs his head slightly in politeness, and walks off.