Jaune: Don't you recognize me, Cinder? It's me... Jaune Arc...
Cinder: NOOO, no, no no! No, you are not! You're not Jaune Arc, you're Jaune BOLT! What in the Brothers happened to you?! You look like you ATE HAZEL!
Jaune: I've been hitting the gym.
Cinder: You've been hitting the fucking HOUND is what you've been hitting! What- What the fuck do you even say now?! "The name's Jaune Rainart; tall, thick, and fucking chokes you out; The ladies can't handle me?!" I mean, what- What the hell?! You're the size of six refrigerators, THE FOOTBALL PLAYER, and your quads are twice the size of my canon torso!
Jaune: I'm gonna stop you, Cinder.
Cinder: Stop me?! I haven't even done anythi- Is that a battle axe?
This can be done for Work-in-Progress Wednesday, Six -Sentence Sunday, Stuck-in-Limbo Saturday, “This is Crap” Thursday -- whenever you feel like posting it!
Tagged by: @sullustangin (thank you for the tag!!! I love these)
Have another 'Crescent Moon Rising' snippet! No context needed.
--
Temporarily banned from a return trip to Kaleth on Ranna’s orders, Corrain spent the morning practicing lightsaber forms with his training sabers in a little clearing just outside Kalikori village, gliding easily through the motions of a jar kai variant of his favorite Ataru form, the energetic motions and explosive leaps burning off quite a bit of the nervous energy always crackling under his skin like a little live wire. Ranna, Moorint, and a few of the other curious Twi’leks even came to watch for a bit, murmuring to themselves. And then, just as he was clipping his sabers to his back again, wiping sweat from his forehead, a young girl with bright red lekku and a soft yellow tunic approached him, her jaw set. Bemused, he turned to face her, humming softly- and then blinked as the little girl quite gravely handed him a stick, gazing up at him with an impressively stern expression for a child of no more than six years old.
“I chal- challenge you to a dool, Mister Jedi,” she bubbled excitedly, brandishing her own stick at him in what he was sure was the most threatening manner she could muster. He fought to hide a smile, and took the stick from her with a very serious nod. This sort of thing he was more than familiar with. He had done this many times before, for the younglings back in the small enclave he’d grown up in on Alderaan.
“Why of course, fair lady,” he replied, biting his tongue on the grin fighting to escape him even as the adults watching all began to laugh softly. “But please, go easy on me, okay? I’m only a Padawan, after all.”
The little girl giggled, and then charged him, smiling widely.
“No!” she chirped, already swinging at him with the stick. He yelped, feigning surprise, and blocked the wide swing, the soft clack of their sticks echoing along the mountainside. He followed this same pattern for several more minutes, careful to gasp appropriately whenever her stick came “too close,” and to occasionally hit back, the movement exaggeratedly slow so that the little girl could cackle with glee and run away. But before long he could see that she was beginning to get tired out, small hands loose on the makeshift stick-sword in her hands and so when she next swung at him, he let the stick fly out of his hands and tumble away on the grass. She squeaked in surprise.
“Oh my, it seems you’ve knocked my lightsaber away!” he told her, still trying to appear perfectly serious, but as she burst into giggling laughter, cheering her win, the smile sprang to his face anyway. “That was very rude, don’t you know you’re supposed to go easy on Padawans?”
Her laughter only grew, and without warning she turned, tackling him in a hug, still giggling. The Force fluttered around her, little ripples vibrating gently off her laughter, and- with sudden shock, he realized that the little girl had a presence in the Force, more so than her fellow villagers.
“No!” she chirped again. “I wanna win, Mister Jedi! You’re just gonna have to get better.”
He laughed, only a touch ruefully, and with little more than a thought scooped her up and started heading back into the village. Ranna and the few other adults who had come out to watch followed them in, smiling at the little girl currently tugging curiously on his long hair. Out of the mouths of babes indeed - she was right and she didn’t even know it. He would indeed have to improve - for the rest of his life. Such was the path of a Jedi - to keep the innocent safe, he could never settle for good enough.
“I suppose you’re right, little one. What’s your name?”
“I’m Aola’rar! But you can call me Aola, Mister Jedi.”
“Aola it is. My name is Corrain.”
--
And yes this is the darling Padawan i made up at 2am. she's adorable and will drive Kalvonut insane. (she's a young teenager at the time of Ossus)
And now- Tagging @fenrisprime2003 @voiceofthetraveler @sithwarblade @sith-shenanigans @tarrevizsla and @cursedbeasts if any of you have WIPs that you'd like to share!
in scriptober, I write a short thing between 500-1k words long every day! they come off various lists, because i’m just like that!
today’s prompt “can you feel this” comes from the fictober18 list! it’s for Aola and Bree, the starring characters of Runeless!
feel free to ask questions about the setting or characters!
“Can you feel this?” Aola digs his fingers harder into the thick rope of scar tissue on Bree’s shoulder. The skin is white with cold, mottled in a way that speaks of old bruises and new pains.
Bree makes a vague sound that doesn’t really give away anything.
“Come on, don’t be a dick about it.” Aola runs his thumb over the ridge where the cold metal of the port connects with skin. The fur here is short and stiff and a little paler than elsewhere, like it never grew back in quite right. “Can you feel this or what?”
“Aye, lad. I can feel it. Nothin’ you need to get all worked up over, Lannie.” Bree rolls his shoulder, leaning into the touch. His ears are pinned back flat, curled against the side of his head. “Somethin’ small as this ain’t gonna kill me, I can tell you that.”
Aola flattens out his palm, pressing it over chilled skin. He pushes his other hand against the back of Bree’s shoulder blade, just at the outer edge of the twisting scars. “That’s not the point. We’re trying to stop you from getting even more fucked over than this. Those parts are supposed to be here soon, but who fucking knows with this military.”
There’s a huff of air, but it’s more soft than anything else. Bree tilts his head, angling it so he can look at Aola with his organic eye. “And I’m not gonna keel over between then and now. The fact yer plannin’ on trying to fix up these hunks of junk is good enough, Lannie. All I need ‘tween then and now’s a good rest.”
“Dumbass,” says Aola, because a good rest isn’t going to stop frost bite from setting in. He runs his palms over the wiry fur, trying to soothe away some of the numbness. Even an ache, deep rooted and stifling, is better than losing what’s left of an arm.
Right?
Right. Of course it is.
Aola shifts, draping himself over Bree’s back. “You’re stupid.” And then, because he can, “pretty sure I’m the one that’s supposed to make stupid decisions around here.”
“Thought I’d give ye a break on that front,” says Bree. He chuckles, makes absolutely no effort to shrug away from Aola. “Since ye’ve been working so hard and all.”
“You know, most people wouldn’t be a dick to the guy about to shove his hands into their arms.” Aola lingers for a moment longer before pulling away. He makes sure to knock a knee against the small of Bree’s back on his way to the head of the bed. The mattress creaks under them, just as old as the rest of the base. “Stop being stupid and come get under the covers with me.”
It’s the middle of the day. Bree glances towards the set of maps and parchment rolled up on the desk, but only briefly. Then he sighs, long suffering, like the action’s being forced out of him, and pushes himself more firmly onto the bed. “Aye, lad. Now that’s something ye won’t see me arguing about.”
Hey!!! Will Feemor appear in T&K? If so, what would his relationship to Ashoka and Obi wan be???
Good evening Nony! (or Morning if you are on the other side of the world and if so, please enjoy a hearty breakfast!)
I don’t know if Feemor will appear or not. Ahsoka doesn’t know who he is so she has no real reason to seek him out. I might have him in the background or get mentioned in passing, in relation to Qui-Gon, but I don’t have a natural way to bring him into the story. Ahsoka knows so little about Master Obi-Wan’s youth at the Temple, no doubt because Anakin never thought to pass it on and she never had a reason or a chance to ask Obi-Wan herself.
It’s not like she could go up to him and say, “Master Obi-Wan? I’m going to travel back in time and take you as my padawan learner after a horrible future where Anakin falls and becomes Darth Vader and murders a metric %$*%-ton of Jedi. Could you give me a detailed autobiography of your life and also tell me WTH is wrong with Qui-Gon?”
Master Obi-Wan: *blink blink* Ahsoka? Have you come down with the Telladorian flu again?
But if you’re a Feemor fan, Elfpen’s Reprise has a lovely Feemor and his adorable padawan Aola.
Aww happy valentine everyone! I wanted to make a little “crossover” between Oceanflowershipping (I love this ship) and the song “Love Like You” by Rebecca Sugar!
So this is the result. I hope you like it!
Please just reblog and don’t repost! Or if you really want to, please ASK ME and put CREDITS!
((Ooooooooooold log from last year I meant to upload forever ago. Following his recovery from exile, Laz’ab seeks out renowned doctor and cyberneticist, Dr. Bujare, on Nar Shaddaa. Image by @artofdel))
Lower District C, or as it was more commonly referred to: the Market Sector, was one of Nar Shaddaa’s most prominent and popular trade hubs. Buildings piled high on top of each other, piercing through the smog in several distinct layers of activity all built around a power core that serviced whole sections of the city-moon. Like a beehive constantly swarming with activity, this hive boasted everything from illegal fights and dodgy clubs, to the more mundane--speeder vendors, droid mechanics, shophouses and kiosks, butchers, a florist, a herbalist, tailors, general stores, even Jawa peddlers attempting to hawk their junk on street corners.
It had also become a popular haunt for bounty hunters and wannabe-hardasses thanks to the BBA office and firearms vendors nearby. So it was perhaps for that reason that the doctor’s clinic had been established on the upper levels.
As night fell and the relative safety and comfort of sunlight gave way to bruised skies of purple and red, the denizens of the streets flocked back into the safety of their houses. Some shops closed with dignity, others had long been left in states of disarray, home now to spice dealers and junkies passed out in their own piss and vomit. Despite these difficulties two neon signs remained resolute in the dark--one a glaring, cyan-coloured syringe that flickered frantically but stubbornly refused to go out. The other a noodle bar.
This was the landscape Chief Sorvik stepped into, broken gravel and shards of glass crunching underfoot. Behind him a cloaked figure followed, hood pulled up over his head and one hand never straying far from the lightsaber at his side. Despite the shadows cast across the poorly illuminated streets and over his face, the Sith Lord’s corrupted eyes seemed to glow in the dark.
“You’re sure this is the place?” the figure croaked as they rounded another corner and disrupted several homeless junkies attempting to sleep. They grunted and hollered some insults but neither paid them any mind. “Sure looks like a piss-poor place to find a doctor, especially one supposedly so well regarded.”
There was more sarcasm in his voice than malice, but Sorvik would rather keep his Lord in an agreeable mood. “She’s one of the best in the business for what you’re looking for, my Lord Laz’ab,” he assured him. “Nar Shaddaa has never been much to look at, but it’s good business for the medical profession.”
If anyone could understand that sentiment it was Laz. His previous doctor had owned a clinic on the Hutt moon as well. Now he was back, after so many years, and in critical condition. As well as missing his right arm at the shoulder, the twi’lek walked with a bad limp and complained constantly of shooting pains in his back. He had spent the better part of the last five years fighting for survival in the tombs of Korriban, defending himself from creatures on a good night, and against the ghosts in his head on the bad. It was only by some miracle he had escaped with his sanity at all, he thought, though there were days when Laz’ab wasn’t entirely sure he was all there.
Sorvik seemed aware of what the pregnant silent meant, and quickly filled it with more chatter. “She’s one of the pioneers of medical engineering, specializing in cybernetics and prosthesis. If anyone can synthesize your design it’s Dr. Bujare. Her clinic should be just around the corner.”
As if on cue the pair topped the path to the upper levels and a brilliant cyan syringe cut through the night, it’s point aimed at the door beneath as if in invitation. Unlike the rest of the squalid streets this one seemed better maintained, and the pair didn’t encounter another homeless alien or spot another mound of rubble or garbage on their way to the door. A moment later they had left the silence and suffering of Nar Shaddaa behind them and set foot inside the clinic.
The room was illuminated briefly by a red light as a security droid flickered to life, scanning them from head to toe. With its partially faded green-yellow paint and scratched surface, it appeared to have seen its fair share of action, but managed to greet them formally despite the damage. He stood guard before the door to the clinic proper, his optics trained on the two strangers. Glitched, digitized speech crackled through his voice modulator.
"Welcome to-to Clinic Buja-A-are. Please dispose of your-r-r weaponry to the se-se-secure lockers, for the safety of clinic staff and sensitive m-m-medical equipment inside, a-and to a-a-avoid any accidents. Thank y-y-you for your cooperation." He pointed to a set of lockers on the wall.
Laz’ab turned and shot Sorvik a dry look, tattoos stretching as he raised a brow, hardly impressed. His remaining hand grasping the saber at his waist, the twi’lek turned back with an irritated thrash of his lekku.
“I don’t think so,” he grated in an unpleasant voice. “The lightsaber stays with me. Now stop wasting my time and let me through to see the doctor.”
Behind him Creden Sorvik paused in the middle of unholstering his blaster, blinking owlishly before discreetly clipping it back to his hip. He lapsed into silence instead, shooting the droid an apologetic look. As though this defective model was still capable of facial recognition.
The droid, who went by B7, paused for a moment as though calculating the odds. Meanwhile his scanners cast another red wave over the two.
"I am a-a-afraid I must insist, Sir," the droid repeated. "The clinic stands as a sanctuary for-r-r those in need. Doctor Buja-A-are is very specific on her rules. No weapons a-a-and no discriminations," B7 stated, then added as though aware of Sorvik's actions:
"If you wish you are free-e-e to scan and secure the pa-pa-parameters. Your company seems mo-o-ore than ca-a-apable enough to ha-andle the locals, according to my cal-cal-calculations, but this u-u-unit cannot allow you inside without coopera-a-ation."
Sorvik held the droids optics. “We intend to co-operate fully, but ah …” he glanced at his Lord’s vice grip on his saber hilt; he wasn’t letting go of that any time soon. “Perhaps I could speak to Doctor Bujare over a holocall? We spoke before, perhaps she could diffuse the situation. My name is Creden Sorvik, she should remember me.”
He bowed slightly at the hip. Laz’ab’s eyes were still fixed on the droid in a deadpan glare, but otherwise he made no attempt to decapitate it. Fortunate, really, since he had become rather the expert during Caspira’s small stint at the compound.
"A moment, p-p-please." B7's red lights flickered again as he processed data. "A-a-appointment confirmed. This u-u-unit urges you to be mindful of your-r-r bearings. This u-u-unit will not hesitate to use necessary force to protect the clinic staff if the ne-ne-need arises."
His statement concluded, he turned and switched a panel on the wall. The doors didn’t budge. He jammed it repeatedly but apart from a static blip there was no sign of life from the other side. A noise, almost like a grunt, emitted from his voice modulator as he attempted to wedge his fingers between the closed doors, pulling them open with the sound of exertion. Eventually he managed to slip between the crack, pushing with his full body.
"Clinic Buja-A-are is currently experiencing a shortage of power-r-r," he stated with some difficulty, barely managing to hold the door open for one person at a time. "We a-a-apologize for the inconvenience. Re-re-rest assured the back-up genera-a-ators a-are perfectly capable of providing n-n-necessary power f-for services inside the clinic. P-p-please proceed."
Laz’ab was unimpressed before, but this just cemented his low opinion of the place.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he spat, jabbing a bony finger at Sorvik. “You promised a genius surgeon and synthetic engineer, not some quack doctor in some shit corner of Nar Shaddaa.”
His security chief managed to restrain the Sith from marching straight back out the door, laying a gentle hand on his arm. He was one of the few people in existence who could touch the twi’lek and walk away unscathed.
“My Lord, I understand this may not be what you were expecting, but if you leave now you will be turning your back on one of the best experts out there. Power surges happen all the time, we even had a few of them back on Dromund Kaas. It shouldn’t affect your opinion on the doctor at all.” He was thinking on his feet, but that was what he was best at, and why he had survived so long in Laz’ab’s company.
The twi’lek gnawed his lip, glaring first at his consort and then back at the droid, still wedged in the door and struggling keep it open. Finally he released his grip on his weapon to the sound of a relieved sigh. “Fine. But if this doctor turns out to be some nutjob working with rusted tools in a back alley, I’m out of here.”
“Of course not, my Lord. It’s you who works with rusted tools.”
That actually earned a dry laugh as the twi’lek snaked his way towards the droid. With a wave of his remaining hand the doors rolled open with a heavy crunching noise, temporarily relieving the stress on the poor B7 unit with the Force. He sauntered on by with a look on his face like ‘you’re welcome’, followed closely behind by Sorvik with a look of ‘I’m so sorry’.
"A-a-appreciated, Sir," B7 responded, and stepped inside before the door slammed shut behind him.
Inside the clinic was barely lit. A few industrial lanterns emitted warm, dim light from several points throughout the room, but they were hardly effective. They could hardly make out the furniture until their eyes adjusted to the gloom, and the smell of sterilized equipment and kolto permeated the air. It was mixed with something sweet, fruity almost, like a baked cake or pie. An odd scent to be found in a clinic, for sure. Somewhere in the back of the room heavy equipment chattered to themselves in a low hum.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t seek out a professional for that?” A woman’s voice abruptly cut through the gloom from the far corner, and a twi’lek stepped into view. She held one of those industrial lanterns in her hand as she bent to examine something.
“I am a professional,” another voice replied from somewhere, chuckling. Her Basic carried a hint of a Coruscanti accent.
“You are a doctor, Doctor,” the twi’lek replied in a farceur tone. “That’s an entirely different profession.”
“You can’t deny I am good with machines,” the Coruscanti continued, “and I’ve lived here long enough to pick up a few tricks along the way.” Following her words the power in the clinic fluctuated, buzzing briefly and flooding the room with light before going dark again. The assistant glimpsed their visitors in that second, raising her lantern to survey them up and down.
“You got visitors, Doc,” she called.
“Just a moment!” The doctor sounded cheery. “Almost done here!”
With another surge of electricity the clinic’s power hummed back on, and this time it stayed on. The room was small, stocked with kolto barrels piled along the walls and a simple set of sofas and chairs in the centre of the room. There was an old crate she used as a coffee table, and two doors on either wall. One read ‘Office / Lab & Workshop’, the other ‘Operation Room’.
The tolian twi’lek looked fairly young, though she moved with a cane. She appeared neither slave nor servant, crossing the room to put out the lanterns.There was a commotion from below the floorboards, and a moment later a bundle of white lab coat and wild, frizzy brown hair pulled itself out from an opened panel.
A stout Mirialan woman got to her feet, dusting herself off. Her right sleeve pulled back to reveal a crude cybernetic prosthesis, hardly the most elegant design, and it ran the risk of doing her work a disservice. But she had her reasons for using it. Dr. Odolys pulled her welding goggles up onto her forehead and smiled warmly to the visitors as she rolled her sleeves back down.
“Creden Sorvik, I presume?” she inquired, stepping forward and holding out her left hand--her biological one--for a shake. “I am Doctor Bujare.”
Sorvik nodded and extended a hand to shake hers. “It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance at last,” he said. “Sorry to see you’ve been having some electrical issues, I hope that doesn’t happen too often around here.” He laughed nervously, turning to introduce the Sith that had fallen in behind him. Laz’ab prefered lurking in the shadows, and the sudden flash of light saw him twitching visibly. He didn’t even attempt to force a smile, red eyes staring down the Mirialan from a distance.
“May I introduce Darth Arachis, my Lord who we discussed over holo. As you can see, we suffered tremendous injury at the hands of the Eternal Empire. I’m told you can help us with that.”
Even with his long cloak bunched around his shoulders, the severed stump where Laz’ab’s right arm used to be was clear as day. His sleeve was pinned awkwardly so it wouldn’t flap about, and the stump wiggled pathetically: ‘Hello.’
“Unfortunately, Mr. Sorvik, we have been experiencing them fairly often as of late.” She chuckled softly. “Pest infestation of the lower levels, it’s making it hard on the rest of the sector.
Odolys’s green eyes surveyed the Sith from a distance, stepping back to a control panel and dimming the lights accordingly. Perhaps that would ease his discomfort. “Better, I hope?” she asked kindly with a polite nod to acknowledge him. She stayed where she was out of respect for her patient’s personal space rather than from fear of him .... yet.
“This way, please.” She gestured towards the door at her right, the one labeled ‘Office’. “I believe you mentioned a design?”
They followed her into the room. It was a little cramped but very well organized and clean. It was divided by a large workbench for cybernetics and paravans that separated office from workshop and laboratuvar. She waved her hands towards the workshop and ushered them inside. “I’ll be with you in a second. Aola, can you--”
“Already on it, Doctor,” the tolian twi’lek replied, handing Odolys a sterilized white suit. The Mirialan stepped out of sight while she changed and washed her arms after her stint with the repair panel. Aola turned to Sorvik and the Sith.
“Would you like something to drink? Tea? Caff? Water maybe?”
The two took the opportunity to observe their surroundings as the doctor fussed with her clothes. At the very least the subject of their weapons seemed to be dropped, and the presence of his sabre at his hip seemed to relax the Sith enough. He straightened up to his full height as he began wandering around the room, taking in the equipment with a critical eye.
“Tea for him,” he muttered with a sharp jab of his chin in Sorvik’s direction. “Just water for me. I have the designs with me,” he added. “I hear you’re the best in the sector and can handle more than basic, rudimentary replacements.”
He had wandered around to behind the workbench and there was a pronounced clanking as he idly toyed with some metallic objects on a tray. Behind him Creden Sorvik produced his holocommunicator and projected the prototype into the centre of the room. It deconstructed into several parts so the doctors could see the hydraulics within.
Beginning at the shoulders, a prosthetic for a full-arm reconstruction rotated slowly on its axis. At the top protruded several moveable spikes, with the intention of raising or lowering them for dramatic effect, etched with an elaborate design. This motif snaked down and continued on the lower arm, no doubt a design that had some meaning to the Sith. The complicated hydraulics of the hand and fingers were protected by synthetic mesh from the wrist down, with pads on the fingertips providing some semblance of grip. The fingernails extended into fine, lethal claws that couldn’t be intended for anything good.
What Odolys didn’t know was that Laz’ab never intended to share the full design with her. His original schematics included additional components for even more nefarious deeds. He had separate files for the inner workings of the lower arm, which he intended to house needles, knives, drills, and spikes to rival the arsenal of any good interrogation droid. But the doctor didn’t need to know his true intentions; once he had a proper prosthetic his engineers could handle the rest.
Aola nodded and left to fetch their drinks as the Mirialan stepped out from behind the panel in fresh robes. Her welding goggles were gone, face cleansed of dust, and her curly, unruly hair was pulled back in a loose bun.
“I do hope I can live up to those rumours,” she chuckled.
The hologram caught her eye, and she put on a pair of reading glasses to examine it in more detail. Meanwhile her assistant returned with a tray between hand and hip, somehow not spilling a drop despite her cane: two cups of tea and a glass of water, for Sorvik, the doctor, and the Sith Lord respectively.
She glanced at the design, then shot a wary look towards Odolys, who took in a deep breath. She flicked through the holo, taking mental notes
“Are those retractable?” she asked, pointing to the fingers on the design with her own claw-like cybernetic. “If not, such a design would run the risk of causing harm to yourself or others during casual use. Even things like grabbing or holding objects might prove troublesome.” Her eyes flicked between them both, cheery demeanor replaced by a professional seriousness.
Laz’ab left the tools alone with an abrupt clatter and slithered closer to the projection, following the doctor’s gaze. The diagram had enhanced the area so the intricacies of the hydraulics were clear, the outer casing of the hand falling away to reveal structures beneath. It resembled regular tarsals in most respects, but the nails were admittedly much too sharp and long.
“A little bit,” the twi’lek confirmed. He failed to mention his intention of installing additional blades later, that would swap out for torture or maiming. Laz’ab was nothing if not an unfair fighter. “Down to what would be perhaps more acceptable, but still prominent.”
Sorvik pointed at the flexible outer cover of the palm, and then at little pads fastened to the bottom of each finger. “These will be constructed from a flexible mesh, and provide grip when grasping or climbing on the pads of the fingers. It should mitigate the length of the nails when they are retracted.”
“Hmm.”
Odolys reached over her desk and pulled out a cable, plugging the holo into one of her terminals. Sorvik followed the doctor to her desk, offering the holocommunicator should she want to download the design. Meanwhile the Sith trailing close behind to peer curiously at the data flashing on the terminal.
“It should be sufficient then, considering twi’lek anatomy and the potential for sharp claws already.” She looked straight at the Darth. “But it might take some time to get used to it, you’ll need practice or else risk injuring yourself.”
She entered some notes onto her keypad, watching the Sith with a soft smile on her face. When she explained her procedures her tone took on a gentle, soothing voice, trying not to scare him off but at the same time informing him quite matter-of-factly.
“I would like to run a few scans on you to build a detailed map of your musculature and bone structure. It will help me determine if your body is ready for the strain of this design, and which materials would be favorable for your needs. We may need to make a few alternations, within reason and with your permission, of course.” She gestured to the medical seat behind her. “And a routine blood test to see if you should require any supplements before we proceed with necessary operations. Do you have any questions, my Lord?”
He hesitated only a moment before following through with her offer, climbing into the seat as though he’d done it a dozen times before and smoothed out the folds of his robes delicately. He did not seem relaxed, however, back stiff and eyes flitting from person to person around the room.
“I am aware how these procedures work,” he explained tersely, picking up on her gentle--but wary--tone. “I’ve had my fair share of experience with physicians and surgeons in the past; we have some medical files on hand if they will help.” It seemed he was less apprehensive of the procedure so much as just being in unfamiliar territory.
“From another clinic on Nar Shaddaa, where he was treated for his wounds,” Sorvik explained, giving Odolys access to that data also. “We are prepared to cooperate with anything you may need.”
“Thank you, it is most appreciated. If you would lean back, I will arrange the system for scanning.” She slipped into the next room while Aola approached to prepare him.
“I will take these,” she said, accepting the holocommunicator and datafiles from the Sith’s assistant. She leaned her cane against the wall and took a chair to work on the computer. “Uploading files now, Doctor.”
Odolys returned carrying a clean tray and an injector with an empty tube. She nodded approvingly at the back of her assistant’s head, setting down the equipment beside the patient. “May I?”
She indicated the Sith Lord’s arm, asking permission before touching him for the blood test. The action came naturally to her, as though she treated all patients with the same respect, but despite her effort’s Laz’ab’s lips remained pursed in a thin, purple line. At his side his stump wiggled.
“Sorry,” his teeth flashed through a disingenuous smile. “I’d roll up my sleeve, but …”
Sorvik had wandered away towards the back of the room, giving his Lord and the doctor some time to themselves. Now he leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms over his chest.
It had been several weeks since his Lord’s major surgery, but Laz’ab still hadn’t acclimatized to his missing limb. He snapped at his subordinates frequently, flew into rages followed by breakdowns, and was easily more frustrated by the simplest tasks. If anyone could understand him in this moment, it was Dr. Odolys. The agent had read her confidential files, knew about her past and her own accident resulting in her rudimentary cybernetics. He only hoped finally realizing his design would set the twi’lek back on track.
“Perhaps when the prototype is ready you will be able to,” the doctor responded brightly, rolling up his sleeve for him.
She brushed her fingers lightly over his arm. It didn’t take any effort at all to find his veins, prominent as they were over almost his entire body. She turned back to her tray, pulled on a glove, and prepared a piece of cotton soaked in sterilizer. “This might be a little cold,” she warned before rubbing the area, then took the small syringe with its empty tube.
“Your design looks very peculiar.” She continued to speak as though they were just having a casual chat, distracting him from the task at hand. “It has a ferocious appeal, feels like more than just an arm.” She smiled and shook the vial in her hands, mixing the components with the blood now. “Perhaps you’re sending a message?” She pressed a plaster into his arm and placed the blood sampling away for testing.
The distraction worked like a charm and Laz’ab hardly paid any mind until she was shaking the contents of his blood in front of her. Then again, compared to the abuse he received at the hands of his former Master, or his struggle to survive the last few years, needles were the least of his concerns anymore.
“It’s not meant to be pleasant,” he replied flatly, watching with sharp eyes as she pressed the swab to his arm. “An unpleasant arm for an unpleasant man.” He lapsed into silence again, choosing not to answer her prying questions and instead demonstrated a keen interest in watching her work. He’d spent a lot of time with doctors, one in particular, and always found it equal parts fascinating and familiar to study them.
Odolys caught herself staring at her own crude arm at his words, the claw-like fingers clicking over the metal surface. Her mind flashed to the past, the incident leading up to her loss … her own cybernetics were not the most state of the art, worn down over the years, repaired many times, and slowly improved. But it worked. And it meant something more to her.
She returned to the Sith’s side, the biosample processor humming quietly in the background, and flicked a few buttons and switches as blue lights scanned his body. Laz’ab stiffened slightly but lay still. She replaced her surgical gloves with a new pair, but these were made of thin fabric and not latex, with pads on the fingertips and strings and cables attached to a microchip.
“Everything’s been uploaded, Doc,” Aola called from the desk.
“Initiate sequence with ThoBu,” Odolys called, now attaching something to her own cybernetic limb and some sort of tech-monocle over her left eye.
Aola had a short debate with her keyboard. “This thing is … in Cheun again.”
“Ah, right. Mirri uploaded a new patch, send it to my screen.”
In moments a hologram of Laz’ab’s body flickered in front of them. The muscles were visible beneath a thin film of skin, the bones beneath that, and maps of various other systems showed the full extent of the damage to his body. With her enhanced glove the Mirialan was able to interact with the hologram and split the layers apart. Her expression changed, visibly upset by what she was seeing. Flesh and bone would heal over time, but scars would always remain. And as an experienced doctor, it wasn’t hard for her to spot every deformation left over from a lifetime of abuse.
Odolys took a deep breath. Feeling sorry wasn’t going to build the cybernetic arm, nor would it benefit anyone here tonight. With a wave of her hand she uploaded the design to the holographic sequence and attached it to the model. Various signals and alerts immediately began flashing across the board, indicating the spine, shoulder blades, shoulder, and torso muscles. She picked through these carefully, editing information, trying new materials, and swapping out components.
Laz’ab had risen silently from his seat and taken up position lurking behind her. His eyes tracked upward to the image of himself, projected in three-dimensions and interactive. It was strange to see himself in this way. He knew doctors had of course taken full scans of him before, but as each layer was peeled back he could see every story his body had ever told. The broken bones, healed after so long, deep gashes that deformed the muscles beneath, the thin slivers where he had been whipped as a slave, and then cut again as an Apprentice.
Though he stood in complete silence, his breath hitched with each new reveal and his eyes twitched as memories flooded back. His fresh wounds were clearer, outlined in a bright blue so his surgeons could address the most severe. These were still healing, and would incapacitate his ability to carry heavy mechanics.
He startled the doctor when she turned around, and she only barely managed to hold back a yelp. It took her a few moments to pull herself back together, hand on her chest to calm her rushing heart, before she smirked at how the situation must look. This time when she turned back to the holoterminal she kept a mindful eye on where Laz’ab decided to stand.
“I’m sure you are well aware your body isn’t exactly …” she paused, searching for a more delicate term, “in the best shape. Regardless of the materials we choose, you will need enchanters here, and here.” She pointed at the twi’lek’s skeletal model, marking spots along the spine and shoulders, “and in these muscle groups.” She pulled up the second model and placed them side-by-side, tapping and indicating new areas.
“But first we need you to recover fully from your previous surgeries,” she added, turning to him. “In the meantime I will prepare a prototype and vest to stimulate these points, so you can adapt to carrying the extra and weight and get used to the design. This way we can test its efficiency before the final cybernetics are built.”
Laz’ab’s lips pursed but there was no protest, he was all too aware of his emaciated condition. Even before his ordeal it had been a problem. “I understand,” he nodded, though there was no mistaking his disappointment. He had hoped to have his arms back much sooner. “I imagine you’ll need time to construct the prototype in the meantime. How long do you think it will be until I’ve recovered enough to wear a proper replacement?”
His hand, previously crossed across his chest, absently traced the spots she’d indicated on the diagram, or as close as he could. Without the glove his fingers waved right through his ribs, and he imagined the sensation of reinforcements beneath his skin. What must it feel like?
“I can wear a vest while training,” he mused, voice still a mile away and his eyes glued to the projection. “It may help me get my strength back.”
“It will only take a couple of months, if everything goes well,” Dr. Odolys said, but her hesitation suggested she didn’t have complete faith in her prediction. “Looking at the condition of your body, all told … we may require multiple surgeries. Those are my initial thoughts, looking at your scans now.”
She tapped on the model and some parts lit up red. “These are the primary muscle groups I will be enhancing with rybcoarse-based materials. This will provide additional support and allow you to lift your arm will less effort.” She continued to colour-code different areas accompanied by explanations.
“Every operation will target a new area, bones, muscles, nerves. You will need rest and recovery between each, and will have to keep up an exercise regime to get used to them. I will give you an upgraded prototype with each. While you can use the vest with daily activities and training, don’t forget it is not the final result. It will have its limitations, and I don’t recommend wearing it more than five hours a day.”
That news was met with a more grievous expression and the twi’lek took a step forward to properly observe. The doctor stepped back and allowed the Sith to examine the models, Sorvik also ventured closer to watch his master warily.
“That long.” This time he sounded downright forlorn. “When I was--” He hesitated a moment, jagged teeth gnawing on his bottom lip, then shrugged. If he was going to get any results from this doctor he could at least trust her with some basic information. “When I was trapped in the tombs where I lost my arm, I fashioned makeshift replacements from debris and animal parts. I had no mechanics so I manipulated it using the Force alone. It was tiring, but ...” he gestured with his remaining arm at the hologram, “I may not require as many reinforcements as you think.”
“We don’t want you tiring yourself out,” Sorvik cautioned, carefully choosing his own words. “The galaxy has become a much more unpredictable place, it would be beneficial to avoid over-exerting yourself in a fight.”
“That is an impressive feat, I admit,” Odolys echoed. “But while I am not gifted with the Force, as a doctor allow me to ask: would you prefer an arm that is functional and does not run the risk of wearing down your body in the long run, and will only require maintenance once a year or so …” She paused, letting her words sink in before adding carefully, “or would you prefer a hunk of junk that requires constant attention and willpower just to keep functional, tiring out not just the limb, but your entire body, both physically and mentally?”
Laz’ab’s gaze became steel for a moment, peering through her with those dead, red eyes. He held the uncomfortable silence for a long, tense moment, before finally muttering through tight lips.
“Hopefully yours will not be a hunk of junk, as you put it.” His gaze averted, he straightened up but never lost the steely edge to his voice. “I can wait. Make it as functional as possible with minimum strain.”
“I will order the materials as soon as possible, and begin building the prototype the minute they arrive,” she announced, turning to the hologram and ending the sequence. “In the meantime I will prescribe supplements for you. Aola, do we still have those blue boxes?”
“Yes, Doc. They’re in the med-cabinet at the other door, top shelf. The one with the purple stains.”
“Excuse me.” The doctor excused herself and left the room.
The twi’lek watched her go, pose unmoving, every inch coiled like a spring. A tense silence settled in the room, broken only by the Sith’s now laboured breathing. Finally his head snapped towards Sorvik, and he mouthed the word ‘stains?’ incredulously.
Sorvik let out a little sigh as he crossed the room. “Do be careful, my Lord. She is one of the best, otherwise I would not have brought you here. Your designs were quite specific and very detailed, but I’m sure she can pull it off entirely with your co-operation.”
When Dr. Odolys returned she was carrying a square shaped plasti-glass blue box, and wrote some notes for its use. She handed it to Sorvik instead, a pair of small purple stickers in the shape of spots on it.
“Orange ones twice a day, one in the morning and one in the evening. The blue one is before sleep. Box contains enough for now,” she said. “I will inform you when the materials arrive and I start my work. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”
Sorvik took them after a moment’s hesitation, feeling the Sith’s malevolent eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. “Just supplements, correct? No side effects, drowsiness, anything that might compromise the effects of … other medication?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Just supplements. I picked them according to the patient’s current medication to avoid any unwanted effects.” She smiled softly.
Laz’ab looked unconvinced, but then maybe that was just his default expression. An awkward moment ticked by during which time he begrudgingly took the box from his aide.
“And what else doctor?” He finally asked, doing quite possibly the worst impression of polite. “Any exercises routines I should do between now and our next little visit?” There was a slight mocking lilt to his tone, but the question posed was serious. He was not going to be stuck in this position forever.
“Here,” Aola responded from the desk, snatching up her cane and limping towards them with a data chip. “I uploaded some basic exercise routines and nourishment suggestions, but don’t over-exert yourself until you’ve fully recovered. Feel free to contact this office if you have any additional questions.”
The twi’lek took it from her with less spite this time. “I’ve been through a lot already, nothing I can’t handle.” It was hard to tell if he was trying to convince himself, or just stating the facts. Whatever the case he stored the chip in the same blue box for now, using the Force to manipulate the vehicles in lieu of his second hand. He tucked it under his arm.
“If that is all, we will take our leave. Until next time, Doctor Odolys.” Laz’ab offered only a small inclination of his head, while behind him Creden Sorvik bid a polite goodbye, his flourish visibly practised.
Both Odolys and Aola walked them through the clinic and sent them off, B7 returning to his post behind the closed doors as the two women stood side by side. Only once the Sith and his aide were safely out of earshot did they dare utter a sound.
“Wow.” The twi’lek let out an unimpressed huff. “I thought he was going to crumble to pieces.”
“I’ve seen worse,” the doctor replied thoughtfully. Her mind was already running over the details of future operations. “Aola … did you say stains instead of spots?” she suddenly asked.
“I … might have? I have been thinking of the kitchen upstairs all day.”
“Why is that?”
“Have you forgot who cooked last night?”
“Oh no …”
“Oh, yes.”
“Oh noooo!” Odolys covered her forehead with her hand.
“Let that sink in nicely, Doctor Bujare,” Aola snickered, and started to limp away. At that moment the lights inside flickered and the generator made a most pathetic noise, before burying the clinic in darkness once again.
