Tired eyes would open to the glitching screen—again, and again, and again. The infernal looping held them prisoner just as much as anyone else.
Once upon a time, they felt fear, and confusion.
Repetition. A loop. Their heart in their throat, wild looks cast through the bridge as the events repeated—again—again.
Gradually, it turned to anger.
That infernal droning of the computer—each utterance of “absolutely catastrophic”—bringing their blood to boil. Bringing their fist to pound at the glass encasing them, at the screen in front of them, aiming to break something—anything. Multiple times, they even launched themself into the dead of space, hoping to all hell that it would finally be over.
Anger, into exhausted desperation.
Save them, their mind repeated over and over. Figure it out, they’re you’re responsibility! They’d run. They’d try everything they could think of. It was never enough.
Then, numbness.
Tired eyes would open to the glitching screen—again, and again, and again. They’d press the emergency release, step out, try again. Again. Again. Over and over, again, again, again.
The infernal looping held them prisoner just as much as anyone else.
But…did anyone else remember?
Their eyes shifted to meet their loyal Head Engineer’s. Yes. Yes, someone did. He was trying, just as much as they were. Which of them had died more? Which of them had woken up more times to the blasted computer droning on and on? Which of them…
The Captain’s shoulders slumped. Even as the Invincible II jolted violently as, yet again, the ADS was offline, their eyes instead found the window that looked out into open space. The window, that had shattered more times than they could even remember anymore. The window, that had sucked both them, and Mark, out into dead space countless times, in countless loops.
“How long..?”
They didn’t speak much. Their actions spoke far louder, and it was never really questioned. Perhaps at one time, that voice had been firm, held an air of authority that could silence a room and draw all eyes on them. But now…
Now that voice was soft, barely a whisper. The edge was gone, chipped away by time and hopelessness and exhaustion.
Mark, always ready to try again, to try something new that maybe, just maybe, could get them down a path to fix all this, paused with his hand hovering at the ADS door’s controls. Neither of them were in any particular rush, not anymore. They had all the time in the world and more, it seemed.
“I… I don’t know, Captain.”
Both glanced down at the crystal in their palm. They’d gotten it, not long ago. It had allowed them to find new paths, new people, but… It still wasn’t enough. All it had offered was less repetition to the endless loops.
“We’ll solve this.” Mark’s hand on their shoulder. They breathed in. Out. Slowly. Closed their eyes but a moment, then nodded. “We have to.”
The medics had finally stopped watching him like he could keel over at any second. His body still ached sometimes, or phantom pains would race through the electrocution scars branching out from his chest and wrists. He did his best to hide the scars, but a few of their branches still peeked up past his collar and traced up his jaw.
He couldn’t help but lean heavily on a cane. Couldn’t help but hate himself for it. It was just another thing to inhibit him, to make him vulnerable and a liability, now. But it hurt to walk. That damned Inquisitor had screwed up an already damaged foot, and he just couldn’t hide the limp anymore.
There was still difficulty holding things at times. He couldn’t feel the prosthetic hands, had to watch them when he reached for anything to make sure he grabbed it securely. He’d dropped the cane often, or his water, and would growl with frustration. They felt clumsy, and weak, but at the same time somehow also too powerful—he’d cracked a datapad already when he hadn’t realized how tightly he held it, had bruised Theron’s fingers when he tried to squeeze them comfortingly and couldn’t help the pang of guilt for it.
A few cybernetic fingers was one thing. But the entirety of both hands? It was hard to adjust to. Xaerez had a new respect for the Barsen’thor’s silence and gentleness despite his own prosthetic limbs.
But Theron was patient. He’d bend down to grab the cane, or reach for a towel to wipe at any food or drink that happened to spill. He made no note of the light bruises, not even a grimace, and replaced the damaged datapad without comment.
“Be patient with yourself,” he’d remind the Chiss.
His hair had finally been cut. No more ponytail to tickle the back of his neck and irritate him to no end. He had his short, neat cut back, and was at least grateful for that. He’d hated the long hair. Hated the way he could feel it on his neck, or how loose strands would fall in his eyes. Hated how it offered yet another thing to grab onto or get in his way. He had no idea how he’d been able to stand long hair when he was younger.It felt like that was the only thing to be going his way, right then.
Xaerez grimaced as he wrung a hand around his wrist. The branching electrocution scars were still tender, and his gloves were irritating them to no end. He tried to loosen the straps, but it took three tries before clumsy fingers could finally succeed with the simple action. How could anyone function normally with prosthetic hands? he thought irritably.
Theron was atsome…officer meeting, he thought he’d heard, and wouldn’t be back for some time. It was the first time he’d left Xaerez alone for an extended period since he’d woken up, and it left the Chiss to linger in his own thoughts.
He took a slow, deep breath and tried not to wince at the ache in his chest. His broken ribs were healed by that point, but it didn’t change the fact that he was down an entire damn lung.
Tapping absentmindedly at the datapad, Xaerez’s lip curled into a distasteful frown. He wasn’t allowed into any of the sensitive files. He wasn’t allowed in on meetings. Or the training hall. Or to patrol. Or to even carry a goddamn weapon or chip in with even simple work. Surely, he didn’t blame the Alliance for being cautious—he’d been deep-cover for a few years behind Imperial lines, after all, and was still recovering from his injuries—but he couldn’t help his irritation.
He felt…useless. Vulnerable. A liability.
He was out of his element.
His fingers curled against the edge of the device.
Before he really even realized what he was doing, a frustrated string of Cheunh cursesleft him as the datapad flew from his hand. It hit the wall with a bang, and he grimaced as he could practically hear the crack that spiderwebbed across the screen on impact.
By the Force, Xaerez, he thought with a sigh as he stood. He grabbed for his cane, checked then double-checked that he had a secure hold on it, and went to scoop up the broken device.
A sigh and shake of the head, followed by another grimace when his holocall buzzed from the desk. That…must be Theron. He’d been expecting a call when the meeting was over.
He glanced down at the shattered datapad, tossed it to the bed, and made his way over to answer.
He reached for the device to turn it on.
Static. Then a voice he couldn’t make out. And the image finally flickered to life.
He swallowed and a scowl found his brow.
“How did you get this frequency?” he demanded.
The Twi’lek on the other end tilted her head and actually had the audacity to smile. “Now, that’s not a polite way to answer the holo, love…”
How had she gotten his frequency? How did she even know he was alive?!
He reached to turn it off. It worked for but a moment, then her image popped right back up.
Someone…someone had tampered with his holo. They still had a mole…
His thoughts weren’t allowed to linger there for long before Ehna’dissen opened her mouth again.
“Now, that ain’t nice. I’ve got somethin’ important—”
“And I don’t want to hear it.”
“Oh, I assure you, ya do.” The glare that found her face sent a chill down his spine. “Sister, dear?” Another figure—the assassin—stepped into view of the image. His free hand found the opposite wrist, as if covering the electrical scars would do anything to turn her voidlike stare away from him. “What was that word again?”
“Onomatophobia.”
Xaerez flinched, but locked his jaw and reached for the holo again. “Enough. Get on with whatever you wanted to say—that word hasn’t worked for—”
“Years?” The Twi’lek hummed, picking absentmindedly at her manicured nails. “The Castellan Restraints are permanent though—we both know that, don’t we, love? You can’t rid yourself of it, but can change your itty bitty little codeword. So there’s a new one, hmm?”
He swallowed, tightened his grip on his cane. “How do you..?”
The assassin stepped forward. It felt like she was staring into his very soul. “Your mind is strong.” Her voice was soft. Barely a whisper. His hearing implants almost couldn’t pick up on her words. “But to break the body, can weaken the defenses. Allow the shadows toe intrude. To retrieve secrets, buried deep.”
His eyes widened as realization hit him. His mental defenses…they’d faltered. She’d…she’d gotten that info, and…
His hands reached up to turn his hearing implants off, but clumsy fingers fumbled only a moment too long.
“Iconoclasm.”
The cane clattered to the floor as he stood to rigid attention. Even as his mind reeled, begged him to lunge for the holo, to break it, to silence them…
His body wouldn’t move.
They’d known he was alive when they left him in the hideout. Maybe they hadn’t particularly cared if he’d survived in the end, but they’d left with the knowledge that the Alliance would at least try to save him.
They’d left him, with whatever the assassin had pried from his violated mind.
They’d left him, knowing that if he did survive, well…
Xaerez would have collapsed to his knees and cried, or screamed, or, or… but he didn’t. The Restraints held him patient attention, awaiting Ehna’dissen’s command input.
Now they had a weapon unable to tell anyone that his Castellan Restraints, after so, so many years, were active again.
Now they had a weapon without access to the shuttles for an impromptu trip to Quesh.
Now… Now they had a weapon—a weapon, that would do whatever they demanded of him—planted securely right in the middle of Alliance HQ.
Andur Melor, Exarch of the Voss Star Fortress, was the humanity that his fellow Exarchs threw aside for fancy upgrades and powerful battle-stations.
He volunteered for Project: Exarch later into the experiment, and was the final member added to their ranks. He'd suggested a close friend of his to volunteer for the Project after the murder of his wife by what would later become the Alliance - unfortunately, the Project brought his friend's mind to be effectively, if accidentally, wiped and turned into a mere program. The guilt Andur felt for it would bring him to also volunteer, as if to punish himself for the "death" of his friend.
The Project brought forth greater physical strength for Andur, and with it, far heightened senses even by the standards of other Force-sensitives. He can pick up on minute changes in the air, hear things he shouldn't, and see details anyone else would miss. Though Exarch Draya could beat him in hand-to-hand combat, it would be Andur to beat any of the others in a fair match of physical strength alone thanks to his enhancements.
More softspoken and far calmer and more willing to resolve a situation peacefully than his peers, Andur was often considered soft by the others, and some of them looked down on him rather than viewing him as an equal. Still, he worked hard for his people and planet, and would have protected it to his dying breath if the need arose.
That is, until he saw the damage, the pain and suffering, that Zakuul was inflicting on the rest of the galaxy and even its own people, spurred first by what happened to his best friend - to now-Exarch Jom Vanten. And he began to doubt. Doubt his Emperor, doubt his planet, doubt his beliefs and standing with his world.
He met his supposed end at the hands of former Cipher Nine, who'd infiltrated his Fortress with a stealth generator active with the goal of destroying it. However, inconsistencies in the agent's report, as well as his lack of close combat capabilities, suggest Andur may have survived and let the agent go alive (if an altercation even occurred in the first place).
...And also that he was the one to tip off the Alliance to Fortress and Exarch weaknesses in the first place.
"Glorious" and Forta Gair for the random word generator?
thank you, Raven / @raven-of-domain-kwaad ! 💚💜 have a Forta taking her first steps in her new Fortress
Humming, clicking, whirring, as the station’s automated systems worked tirelessly—noises, all drowned by the clanking of heavy boots over a metal floor.
Helmet tucked under one arm, cape sweeping behind her, eye studying the walls around her. It was a magnificent structure. An impressive weapon—a battle station—all her own.
Forta walked the stretching halls alone; the Knights that were to be under her command were busying themselves elsewhere in the station, and one could hardly count the Skytroopers within as adequate company. Tarso had long since finished his lecture on how the Fortresses worked and Emperor Arcann left the Exarchs to their own devices, to run the Fortresses as they pleased so long as they kept blockade and careful watch over their respective worlds.
She found herself glancing out a viewport, to the planet below. Belsavis. The prison planet.
A distasteful curl found her lip.
On the one hand, an entire planet dedicated to a complex prison system was…rather impressive, to say the least. On the other…the people down there were nothing. She could barely even bring herself to call them “people.”
Shifting her helmet to her hip, her free hand rested on the one opposite as her mind raced with possibilities. The others, with the exception of Tarso, got far more interesting stations. Draya, over the political hellfire that was Alderaan. Melor over the strange world of Voss where one was never short of new mysteries and discoveries. Malforia dealing with Balmorran rebels who couldn’t seem to take a hint and stay down.
And what did Forta get but a world of prison cells and criminals. Prison cells, she could have gotten had she stayed a mere Knight on Zakuul to continue policing the people. Criminals, if she’d taken Zotar’s place in charge of the Old World.
Belsavis was nothing new or exciting.
But…perhaps with the masterpiece that was the Star Fortress—her Star Fortress—well. Perhaps that was about to change.
A thoughtful smile took over as she thought of it. What could she get desperate prisoners to do, for her or to each other? How could she break them, give herself a bit of a show as she waited for something—anything—truly interesting to happen?
They may be at each others' throats in the Arena Grand, where any day could be their last... But they're content to share a drink together when the fight is over.
A contented sigh left him as he watched her take a long drag from her cigarra. She’d already been told off once by the bartender to take it outside, so now she was being (somewhat) more discrete about it.
Zotar leaned back in his seat with his drink clutched close to his chest, stretching to glance at the transparisteel in the floor behind him. The muffled screeching of Iknayids in the arena beneath were almost drowned by the buzzing chatter in the oft-busy cantina, and occasional cheers of its patrons.
Pale yellow eyes drifted from the window into the arena, to the probe droid hovering at his table-mate’s shoulder. He tilted his head at it, listened intently to the noises of its frame. Its topper rotated, single “eye” setting on him as it hummed low. Droids, machines, had a language all their own. If only others would take a moment to appreciate it, as the two of them did.
He pressed further, cybernetics laying bare the intricate processors of the machine before him, making communication with it oh, so easy. But, then he pulled back; pulled away, before enhancements could coax down firewalls and reveal programming. It was a respected opponent’s ally, and not for him to toy with outside the arena.
“Your droids are fond of you,” he rumbled instead.
A grin that revealed a freshly-chipped tooth found her lips and she turned to pat at the droid. It gave a soft trill, pinching in what could almost be called a playful manner at her fingers. It was one that had obviously seen combat: One of its arms was off-model from a scrounged-up replacement, battle scars chipped what had been pristine black paint at one point in its life, and its bulkier-than-average chassis for the unit it was modeled after promised hidden weaponry.
“My Azzies are a pain the ass,” she chuckled, batting the pincers away; there was a fondness in her voice, “but they’re damn loyal old things.”
She blew a puff of smoke at him, but he simply waved a hand a few times to dissipate it before the bartender’s stink-eye could spot it.
“Where are the others?” She was usually followed by a small entourage of the things, with at least two accompanying her in the arena at all times.
She scratched behind her ear with a shrug. “Chargin’ after repairs.” And with that said, she reached across the table to punch his arm; her bare knuckles barely tinked against his heavy armor. “Shocky screwed ‘em up a good one.”
An easy grin found his face at that. After Shock, his trusty old walker. She was quite the adversary even just on her own. She’d barely taken a dent from the probe droids, though had tripped over her own two feet at one point, when the little things zipped around her and she’d tried to keep up, to nearly send her landing on top of Zotar. “It was a good duel,” he agreed.
Most who faced him in the arena never got the chance to face him again, but… Well. There were a few he’d grown fond of over the years, and would much rather keep around. Even if Emperor Arcann wouldn’t have approved. Gods, if he knew Zotar took part in the Arena Grand, rather than simply keeping some semblance of control in the Old World and disbanding the archaic practice, he’d have the Exarch’s head.
He took a deep drink from his glass, closing his eyes as it burned down his throat. Maybe a part of him reveled in the risk of being caught. It was a thrilling notion, even if it would surely mean his demise.
The faint tickle of heat against his cheek brought his eyes open again; his companion had puffed a rather large cloud of smoke in the air. That time, the bartender saw. “Zayzen!” the man barked—Zotar quirked a lip at the thought of the man’s hair bristling atop his head like an agitated Nexu.
Arlaia rolled her eyes andflicked her cigarra to the floor, but her droid obediently zipped around to pick it up and dispose of it properly.
She had her goggles pushed up on her forehead; it made the tanline around her eyes so obvious Zotar could almost chuckle at the sight of it. Instead, he tipped his head a little as she eyed him.
“Your girl always gets the spotlight,” she started as she reached for her own, nearly empty, drink. “But what about your little ones? I’ve seen those karkers reduce a man to ashes, but ol’ Shocky? She just bullies her way to the win.”
That really did bring a chuckle from him. His grin laid bare a few teeth that sat crooked, though none quite so damaged as his fresh-from-the-fight companion. He could still smell the smoke on her, and that wasn’t counting what clung on her breath from the discarded cigarra.
His eyes shifted, to the short hallway that housed a single elevator. A mere thought could bring those very droids, and his trusted “Shocky,” online in an instant. Perhaps, one day, he’d allow her a closer look at them—without them trying to kill her. But for now, he wanted to keep their secrets to himself until he needed to figure out something new to keep up his win streak.
Instead, he simply rolled a shoulder in what could only be described as a shrug. Her scoff only made him smirk behind his drink.
“What’s this one’s name?” he asked instead. Sure, he could have easily gotten it from the droid itself, but he knew how the woman before him could be. Nothing made her happier than rambling about her pride and joys—well, except maybe the idea of, possibly one day, claiming the Eternal Champion title from Zotar. But even that would have been close.
“Azzie-Tee.” She didn’t seem to mind the change in subject even as she rubbed at the kolto patch across the bridge of her nose with a wince. One well-aimed blow from the pommel of his pike had knocked her out cold to win Zotar the fight—and also broken her nose. Again. “Retired now, but he’s a good boy. Aren’t ya, Tee?”
The droid chirped and clicked his pincers together.
He listened to her go on and on about the droid’s specs, and abilities, and how she’d come to acquire him by stealing him from a Breaktown gangster. As he did, his pale eyes drifted through the cantina, caught the elevator as a pair got off. One had the massive grin and pep to his step of a kid who’d just won his first real duel. The other, the slow gait of a veteran who had countless wins under her belt—and also now a mentor to her over-eager partner. Nocturno and her new protege.
The kid—Drake, he believed he’d heard—went sprinting off to the counter to buy himself a drink with his small winnings. Nocturno, for her part, inclined her head in greeting as she approached the table. Zotar pushed his helmet aside to give her a place, but she remained on her feet.
It had taken time for Zotar and Nocturno to have the same, easy conversation the other gladiators did in their off-time. Zotar, an Exarch in charge of keeping the Old World in check. Nocturno, who’d abandoned the Knights long ago for reasons she never spoke of. But now? Oh, even Zotar had to admit he’d learned a thing or two from the old woman.
The former Knight stroked a hand over Azzie-Tee; the noise he made in greeting could almost be called a purr. Arlaia’s little companions always seemed quite fond of her.
“How’s the kid?” Arlaia asked with a grin. “Any potential?”
Nocturno hummed in affirmative. She was oftenone of few words.
Soon, off came the helmet to rest on the table next to Zotar’s, and a pulled out a chair to claim a seat. Any grayed hair that had come loose from its bun tumbled to frame her weathered face.
One gesture from the Exarch was all it took for a waitress to scurry over with a drink for their newest table-mate.
Conversation drifted easily, as if between old friends.
Sure, they knew they could be pitted against one another any time, and maybe one day one of them wouldn’t walk away, but…
Well, it was good to relax a little and be friendly with the competition.
The Paladins of Odessen
(aka Oliver's gonna ramble about his main legacy lore some more)
The Paladins have a simple rank-system based on not only combat capabilities, but also how well they hold up the Paladin Force doctrine, their knowledge in various matters, and whether or not their mentors believe them ready to leave their title of student behind
Recruits are those who wish to become a Paladin. Consist primarily of teenagers and young adults, though anyone can join as a recruit regardless of age and species if they show a willingness to learn. They go through basic training in the Paladins' ways, giving them ample chance to decide if it's the lifestyle for them or not.
Students are recruits who have been taken by a mentor after the period of basic training ends and they've chosen to remain. Most mentors take a few students, and do a combination of group and one-on-one training with these apprentices. Groups of students tend to "graduate" to Paladin at once, and it's a respected and celebrated occasion.
Paladins are the basic rank, like Jedi Knight or Sith Lord. It often takes a few years for a student to become a Paladin.
Grand Paladins have gone above and beyond to protect, teach, and learn. They show great understanding of the Force and world around them, and are highly respected by their Order and the Alliance. Grand Paladins are often trusted with sensitive tasks, and readily aid Paladins with training their students.
Mentors are Paladins or Grand Paladins who have chosen to take on students. It's a highly respected position that requires utmost patience. To become a mentor, Paladins must first look to the Circle to decide if they're ready for such a responsibility, and the Circle can also revoke said responsibility. Revocation is rare, however, as they first aim to aid the mentor in finding their faults in their teaching, and fixing those faults.
The Circle consists of the Paladin leaders - Grands who showed strong leadership and decision-making capabilities, who worked well together but also had differing backgrounds and moral codes that would allow them to view situations from multiple angles. Though members of the Circle may argue or disagree, they're carefully selected based on their abilities to compromise and hear others out, ensuring these disagreements are ended in enlightening ways. Members of the Circle are selected by the Order as a whole by those old enough to comprehend what they're deciding on, and can in turn be removed by the Order.
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The Paladins are closely intertwined with the Alliance - there isn't one, without the other. Though the Commander ultimately makes the final call regarding Alliance goings-on, their counsel with the Circle becomes important to the point of tradition as the generations stretch on.
It's also not unusual for Grand Paladins to hold officer positions, and in some cases even that of Commander. However, members of the Circle cannot become Commander, and vice versa, to prevent single individuals from holding too much power.
It's commonplace for Paladins to work in Alliance Security or Archaeology, though there are of course those who find other jobs as healers, warriors, scientists, farmers, and more.
Paladins see no issue with relationships - so long as they don't get in the way of their values. And for many, relationships - familial or otherwise - often serve to strengthen the individual's Paladin values.
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Though the Paladins don't necessarily have a mantra, they instead have a set of important values:
Protect those who can't defend themselves.
Preserve and Respect the histories and cultures around you.
Archive the past to learn from it and prevent its loss
Learn from the people and world around you.
Teach those willing to learn.
Listen to the whispers of the Force, but don't follow them blindly.
Warnings: Violence, Major Character Injury, Torture*
*Broken Bones, Choking, Blood Loss, Electrocution
Characters: Rediaex'aere'zortiea (Cipher Nine - Chiss), Ehna'dissen (Sith Inquisitor - Twi'lek), Ataiqo (Sith Inquisitor - Rattataki)
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The Twi’lek—Ehna’dissen—liked to talk. To herself, to her victim, to the assassin she called her “sister.” She wore white, but wasn’t afraid to get blood on her jacket, or gloves, or boots. It looked as though it would stain, but she kept smiling and there was a pep to her voice even as she grabbed Xaerez’s chin and manicured nails bitinto his cheeks.
She wasn’t as good at torture as she thought. Didn’t pace herself, got carried away, and was more likely to kill her victim if they had a strong enough will to keep their mouth shut. It didn’t change the fact that everything hurt.
“C’mon, love…” Her tone juxtaposed her actions as her nails drew blood. “I just wanna know how much your Alliance been told…”
Xaerez didn’t meet her eyes, simply stared down at his discolored hands without a word. They’d gone numb and wouldn’t obey when he tried to make them move.
He knew his limit.
She didn’t.
She’d sooner accidentally kill him than push him to answer, just as she’d done with his clone all those years ago. Just as she’d likely done to dozens of others in the past.
While the interrogator tried to break his body, the assassin prodded at his mind. He could feel her testing his resolve even as she stood motionless out of the Twi’lek’s way. Could feel her prod and pry at his mental defenses that he kept firmly in place.
When he lifted his eyes to look to her mask, the assassin tilted her head.
“Ataiqo, dear. I want his name.”
He couldn’t help his flinch when the assassin was suddenly in his face and the soulless voids of her mask were staring him straight in the eyes. Then she was gone, and he could hear her rummaging about the room.
Ehna’dissen tsked; Ataiqo only shook her head. “Cybernetics and training block his mind,” she said, and her voice was as quiet as one would imagine. Quiet, as if she were whispering through the shadows themselves. “Unless you want it shattered so we don’t get anything at all, I’ll find another way to get his true identity.”
She tried, and she failed, and even still Xaerez stayed quiet despite threats on his life; despite new wounds and electrocution; despite nails biting into his face and neck and his broken hands. Despite it all, he spoke not a word. His mental defenses remained firmly in place, his jaw stubbornly clamped shut.
The smell of burnt flesh and singed clothes clung in his nose; he was shaking. He couldn’t tell anymore if it was from the cold falling over him, or the aftershocks of Force lightning.
His eyes were dull as he felt his body growing weak—internal bleeding, blood on the floor, it was hard to breathe—but they remained fixed at the far wall, now. He no longer so much as glanced at the assassin, nor the interrogator.
He’d slipped up. He might never get the chance to figure out how, but either way he’d messed up. Given himself away. Given the assassin enough reason to track him and discover where his loyalties truly lay all this time. He only wondered just how long that suspicion had been there.
He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. They were discolored from the lack of oxygenated blood, wouldn’t obey him when he tried to bend his fingers. Broken wrists still bled; all he could do was press them against his stained clothes to try and stem the flow.
His clothes were soaked through with his own sweat and blood, clung painfully into the cuts and scratches scored into his flesh. Clung, to the lightsaber and lightning burns that were getting oh, so hard to ignore. The soaked clothes licked the warmth from his body, worsened the shivers already wracking his weakened frame.
It hurt to breathe. Fractured ribs and a punctured lung flared with pain with each shallow breath. He was slowly drowning in his own blood. Every time he coughed, it was accompanied by an iron tang on his tongue and a glob of blood splattering the floor in front of him.
His head felt too heavy for his shoulders. He couldn’t find the strength to hold it up anymore.
The Twi’lek’s hand found his hair as his head dropped against his chest, pulled it harshly to force him to meet her eyes. They were almost gray. The very same gray of storm clouds that promised only terrible weather.
She was snarling, now.
“Who else you got on Kaas? What the kriffin’ hell you tell ‘em?”
Xaerez managed a weak smile—but really, it looked more like a grimace. His voice was soft. It hurt to speak. “Maybe tell your… ngh… f-friend not to destroy the holo next time.” His voice crackled with each word. The implant in his throat was damaged, kept shifting between his own voice (was it really his voice? he hadn’t heard it in so long, he couldn’t be sure anymore), and that of Verdat.
His head cracked against the floor before he’d even realized her hands were at his throat. Vision swimming, head pounding, arms pinned painfully under his back, he couldn’t find the strength to push her off. Couldn’t find the strength to gasp for air as her nails dug into his skin and fingers left bruises.
The assassin hissed her name, but Ehna’dissen…well. Temper, temper…
“Interrogator” seemed too kind of a word, now. No, no—she was but a child throwing a tantrum when she didn’t get the answers she desired.
He could feel the assassin again, prodding, forcing her will to shove his aside. He didn’t have the strength to block her out anymore. She tore at his defenses until they finally crumbled away—not that it would matter. He was a dead man, now. She’d get nothing of importance before his heart stopped and brain shut down.
As his vision krept to gray, he could at least find solace in the fact that the Commander and her officers knew what was coming.
What he couldn’t find comfort in, however, was the knowledge that he’d lied to Theron. Lied, so many times. “I’ll be home soon,” promised again, and again, and again.
He’d never meant he’d come home in a box.
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Maybe it was the countless sub-dermal cybernetics that activated to fool them.
Maybe his heart really had stopped.
Maybe he’d really been dead, for but a few moments.
But they left. Left him, crumpled up in a corner as they searched the room before taking off for the city with the data spike in their possession. Left him, bleeding and barely able to move.
They’d left, before he was truly dead.
But he really wasn’t far off.
He was faintly aware of cloth—perhaps his own tattered shirt—tied around his hands. He couldn’t remember if he’d been the one to do it. Maybe he had.
His vision drifted, in andout, as he slowly dragged himself to the holo. It took everything he had to move that mere meter closer. It took everything he had just to reach out with a foot to kick at the hidden panel at the bottom, to kick at the switch revealed when the thin sheet of metal clattered to the floor.
The switch—the emergency switch he so urgently needed—wouldn’t budge. He kicked again—again—again, each time more desperately than the last.
His head fell against the floor as unconsciousness reclaimed him.
--------------------------------
“—agent—”
A muffled voice, as if there was water in his ears. He couldn’t find the strength to open his eyes even as a warm hand felt at his neck for a pulse.
“—blood transfusion—“
Footsteps near his head—far too near—but he didn’t have the energy to pull away.
“—don’t move him!—”
A hand on his arm. Another found a broken wrist without knowing its state. Shocks of pain raced through his arm and he tried desperately to wrench away from the touch. His limbs wouldn’t obey.
A pinch in his forearm, then the touch finally pulled away.
He felt as if he were shivering. Xaerez had never been one to complain about cold, but…
“—our transport?—”
His hearing implants popped; he could no longer make out what his rescuers were saying. Or, maybe that was the sleep once more claiming his mind…
