Of all the changes in her life obeying rules was one of those things she tended to do not-religiously.
Shay might be expecting too much for even five basic rules. Or it might be that Aran needed better control of herself. Just like she could see a cute animal and NOT find a flesh-eating version to adopt (though adorable balls of Force often seemed to belong to things with teeth), she was certain that if she put her mind to it she could do this right.
The title and moniker didn't rankle or even feel out of place. In fact being addressed by it was more likely to have her not pick up on being addressed but she figured that would pass with time. And while she couldn't quite settle down in to meditation, true and deep meditation, she could at least find solace and comfort in smaller tasks. Her blaster was disassembled under her hands, carefully oiling and checking the components for wear and tear as if the blaster were something her life depended on. Some people put the care to sabers but the blaster was now as close to her as a saber was for most Jedi or Sith.
Even the holster sat across her lap with a bottle of leather oil and a small rubbing cloth. Because like a weapon the holster needed the care as well to ensure a quick draw and clean motion. It did her no good to put the attention to her blaster and forget the entire picture. She couldn't help but think of the easy correlations between what she was doing and what she should have done in the larger scheme.
Especially when her mind leapt from one subject to the next with little pause. Her thoughts still were more scattered, trying to piece together events by logic instead of emotive gut instinct. That emotive gut had gotten her nothing but trouble.
She wanted to know about the dangers her friends were facing, to help them. She wanted to find her missing Iridonian employee K'raal. She wanted to tear off in her ship to the far ends of the galaxy where instinct told her she should be. She wanted to be on Nar, slugging back an ale and collecting the information that operated as the grease in hands credits couldn't provide. She wanted - she wanted a lot of things. To destroy the droid nests, to hare off to the arms filled with comfort and peace, to put everything behind her and hunt down her former prisoner. She knew that the things she wanted needed to be ordered in importance, acted on or not as logic and careful thoughts dictated instead of just giving in to the urge to act instead of pause.
Padawan meant learner. She was beyond the age when the Order tended to take in students. Barrel cleaned she set it aside, terry cloth in hand as she picked up the next piece and began to clean it. She was sitting in the converted cargo hold of the Rustbucket while it remained docked at the orbital station of Tython. Reassembling the blaster with what was now practiced ease Aran spun the blaster cartridge and pretended to aim the pistol before setting it aside, hands picking up the bottle of oil and the holster to work on that, pulling a knee up and leaning back against the hull strut.
She'd broken the promise she'd made to Zach, going back; she wondered how the man would take the news that she'd gone so far off the deep end that her own friends felt she was a monster to be put down. He probably would be disappointed - at what she'd done and how she'd decided to change it. Maybe he'd just laugh. She wasn't giving up the blasters and jackets, her underworld contacts but she was trying to keep her nose clean. Eliminate the chances of being asked to snoop on a friend, eliminate the chances that she would end up staring - briefly - down the barrel of a blaster before a quick shot ended the threat she'd grown in to.
She should really consider having a hat with Shay and tell her just what her 'boss' was up to. The gritty of running the company, changing it was... going to be something. But she felt like she owed Shay a talk, before she had to break rules that her friend had laid down.
How could she politely phrase she was being blackmailed? She pulled the knee closer while working on the holster with a small polishing cloth, starting to try out various ways of broaching the subject. Maybe just flat out "By the way, if I hare off randomly, I'm being blackmailed."
She had a feeling that was not going to be a fun talk.
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