The wind was blowing around her body and splaying her arms wide. If she closed her eyes against the wind, she felt as though she might be flying. She had to open them to help keep her balance and stay vertical. The rope at her waist to keep her within range of the group should she need help tugged slightly with the movement of the others as they made their way to the summit of this turn in their trail. The activity was light and she felt like air and the sun was shining again. It had felt Foggy for so long, ever since the day Rosie refused to give her the gun.
But she had it in her inner pocket now, heavy and comforting in its heft, and the sun was warm against the back of her black leather jacket. So too her nails were clean and coated with red enamel again, and her hair was bright like her smile as she picked up her end of the rope and tied it off around a pointed, mottled grey pyramid-shaped rock away from the cliff face on the shoulder of the road bend.
It was bristly and brown with the dust from the road, but it was heavy enough to not be moved when Sakura put her shoulder against it, so it might hold them all in a crisis.
She doubled back as far as her waisted hemp leash would let her, and xheckwd on their progress. Her smile was bright with her painted lips, the blue bandanna tied around her blonded curls ruffled in the wind and appeared as though a bow.
"Need a hand, Rosie?" She cheered to the girl below, holding out her walnut colored hand with the red nails to the drab brown girl below.
Rosie was upset. The gun was gone. It was in the stump she slept in front of last night, she was sure of it. She had put it under her satchel of the seeds and hips they needed for the ammunition. It didn't make sense to keep them separate. When she was packing her things after having braided her hair for the journey, she realized it was gone.
But nothing went off in the middle of the night. Nothing else had been rifled through or even seemed to be touched. She hadn't been moved that she had sensed, although it might have been possible during The Dream. There was nothing that could wake her from That Dream once it started, she had been sedated during it too often; it would have been soothing to sleep through for its predicitibility, if it didn't cause her so much pain during the process.
That pinch yourself trick was fucking useless. Fuck James-No, Thunder! Fuck THUNDER- for ever telling her that. You could feel pain in dreams, especially the ones you couldn't control. She'll tell Thunder that of she ever sees him again. Right after she pinches him for it.
But who would have the gun now? It had to be one of them. She played with her left braid end, braiding and rebraiding a section so the small shorter pieces wouldn't stick out so far, as she thought through her companions.
Cecilia would have been playing openly with it out of curiosity so Mads would have caught her with it and taken it away. Mads would have just asked for it back if she needed it, so it had to be Sakura. Who was reaching out to her now, offering a helpful hand and a pretty brittle smile.
She took the hand, and glared at Sakura. She couldn't accuse Sakura right now, Mads would be mad about having left camp without telling her it was missing or accusing Sakura then. Look at how wide her smile is, like a snake. No wonder she likes the color of blood at her nails and mouth, like them. Liar! Theif! But where is it? Her pack is light and small. It's not an easy recolver to hide.
Rosie's mouth is in a line as she helps Cecilia and Mads up the steeper part near the road bend with Sakura, and realizes a better plan would be to steal it back, when she could.
But when? Where was it? And if she got it back, would Sakura steal it back again? Would she tell Mads everything? Would Mads trust her with it again of she did?
Rosie puzzled over why Mads trusted her with the gun over Sakura at all. Sakura was older, prettier, and seemed to be friendly otherwise with Mads. Even now, during their break at the peak, the older two women were chatting and laughing, and enjoying The View together. It was just trees and rocks to Rosie, though since it was later in the afternoon, Rosie laid on the road and gazed at the deep blue of the center of the sky, barely making out the small points that would bloom into stars in two hours tops. Now, that's The View, to Rosie. Even laying on what amounted to gravel, breathing in dust, the deep blue called to her. It played across her eyesight, and if she stared, really stared, she would see the layer of grey before it, with the multicolored dots that would flicker in and out as she tried to imprint this Blue, darker than the ocean pictures, deep onto her mind. As the deep blue circle edged into being lighter for a moment, her memories released a lapping tide that showed a different story, albeit in slow and foaming waves.
Mads asked Rosie to take care of the revolver. Mads asked her to care for the seed stock & casings for Mads's shotgun. Even when it came to taking care of Cecilia while Mads scouted the area for Stragglers & Strangers, she asked Rosie. Not Sakura. Sakura stayed with her.
Rosie decided, on the descent down to the next campsite with the group, that she wasn't the only one to think that Sakura wasn't entirely trustworthy. As the tide of memory receded, and the blue of the sky crept into nightfall, she worked on an idea for earning the trust Mads gave her, along with the revolver, back.
i.
Family isn’t everything, but it is the majority of what drives him as a young man. Parakam has an older brother that was accepted into the temple as a Force Sensitive and is called Jedi. He has a younger sister that has tumbled into a bad crowd and is called Forger and Slicer. So when it’s his time, all eyes are on him and when he chooses the life a trooper, it is adequate. He’ll never be as good as his brother, but he’ll never be as bad as his sister, and the middle ground has it’s own understated appeal.
ii.
Balance is an important hallmark in the life of a Mirialan, or so he’d been told growing up, but it continues to elude him through his youth and into adulthood. It isn’t until he’s finished training as a soldier and is sent out into a battlefield that Parakam seems to understand it on a more instinctual level. Each depression of the trigger strikes him in a way that’s too deep to define. Feeling rounds impact and skip across his shields and armor, watching the enemy fall to his actions… he feels the galaxy shift beneath him, and shifts with it.
iii.
Giving his trust to his brothers in arms has never been difficult, and so he tells his fellows about all manner of things with a blind lack of hesitation. When one of them becomes a defector, he immediately knows that all that casual talk amongst friends will have unpredictable ramifications. They think he’s defected as well at first, slipping away from duty with a combat load in complete silence. When Parakam comes back it’s to a harsh welcome, but with the traitor’s bloody tags gripped in a large fist. It’s a tenuous balance to uphold, but uphold it he does.
iv.
They’ve taken his unique drive and skill set and made him important for it. His orders say ‘Project Ketch’, but he knows what he’s really being sent to do. Seek out and destroy the traitors and defectors that will bring immeasurable harm to the Republic war front if they’re allowed to follow through with intent. It’s cold and bloody work, bringing in people who were allies and fellow soldiers. But it maintains the balance, and no matter how it seems to rot him from the inside out, he does it with a single mindedness that leaves no room for regret.
v.
The reprimands and complaints start as a trickle but rapidly gain momentum as his reach extends. More often, he follows his targets into thicker territory and corrects the balance after they reach their contacts. The would-be defector is dead, the Imperial contacts are before him on their knees in pleading supplication; the enemy’s idea, not his. Stripped of weaponry and armor, they’re just people now. But the balance demands correction. Parakam pulls the trigger once, twice, moves to the third man and tells this one to run. They call him a war criminal and give him to the Dogs. Balance.
You've been twisted into pieces
By the hands of your emotions
How much longer are you gonna pay
For yesterday
I
This was Karcen's favorite house. He liked it enough that it made him sad sometimes because like all the other houses, he knew that they would say goodbye to this one and go to another one and he didn't think it would be as neat. Not when this one had the secret room under the stairs where there was still room for him to squeeze in next to Mommy's big metal box, the squishy looking part of the ceiling where water sometimes came dripping down into the buckets when it rained, the real tree outside his bedroom window, and the real birds that woke up before he did sometimes.
At this house, he was big enough that he even had his own bed that he could climb in and out of and there was enough room for Tuskers to sleep next to him. He'd asked Mommy if they could get a real bantha instead of his toy one, but she'd ruffled his hair and told him that the backyard wasn't that big. But they did have a backyard here and that was nice too and he liked the feel of grass tickling on the bottoms of his feet and against his cheek when he flopped down on the little square of green and watched clouds go by.
Yes, this was his favorite house and it made him happy, and it made him sad because he didn't want to leave it like the other houses. But it was okay. Because no matter where they went, he would have Tuskers and Mommy and maybe even a yard big enough for a real bantha.
And that was something to be happy about.
II
The door to Mom's room was open and the blankets thrown back from her bed so that he could see the pale white of her sheets in the dark. Her bed was empty. There was a faint bumping again and he turned to peer down the hall, walked quietly toward the hallway.
What he saw had him nearly giving himself away, voice escaping in a breathy squeak as he saw Mom and a Stranger in the living room, moving too fast for him to follow. Karcen dropped down and scuttled under the table, his instinct telling him it was the safest place to be. He watched as the Stranger and his Mom fought; there was no mistaking it. He almost didn't recognize her, the look on her face was one that was much much worse than the time she'd caught him trying to unlock her “arms locker”. And then she grabbed him around the throat, did something that brought her leaping back around him and in the quiet of the battle, he heard the muffled noise like dropping an egg. And the Stranger fell to the ground.
Dead. Like in the movies he sometimes watched when Mom was away, like in the games he played, like on the news when they outlined the body in white markings and...
Dead. Mom killed a person.
As she stood, she looked past the table where he was and down the hall and Karcen knew he needed to get back his room. Scrubbing a hand across her forehead, she looked away and her son waited until she was busy with the Dead Stranger before tiptoeing back to his bed and pulling the covers up over his head.
III
It had been a great birthday, one of the best yet. Mom had even seemed more human than droid, dropping her terminator act over birthday candles, cake and punch; enough to feed him and the couple of friends he'd made over the past few weeks. She'd seemed almost relaxed, and Karcen had enjoyed that almost as much as the presents. While company had been there, she'd given him a few things that a young man crossing the threshold into teenagerdom would appreciate. And when his friends had left, she'd given him a matched vibroblade and blaster set with a faint smile and a warning to behave himself, or he wouldn't get them back until he was legally an adult. Evening had drifted into night and eventually they had headed to their respective rooms for bed.
And now it was a nightmare.
Karcen was frozen in the hallway. The screams that were echoing from the kitchen were more chilling than the silent battles that had been a frequent part of his life, because even the next morning when they had moved and he'd seen his mother with bandaged cuts and black eyes; she'd never made the slightest of noise during the fights that never failed to wake him. And now she was screaming. Dying. And he was frozen in fear. When the latest rattling cry faded into nothing, he heard the hushed voices, the two-sided conversation in two voices that crawled up his spine; his mother's voice a pained rasp and the other a low and menacing growl with undertones of almost pure glee.
She'd saved his life too many times to count. Since before he was born if her stories were grounded in reality, and he had no reason to believe they weren't. It was his turn. Drawing in a deep breath, he steeled himself and raced into the room, blaster and vibroblade clutched in his hands as he let out a battle roar that hiccuped into a moan of distress.
“Karcen...” From the mask of blood that covered most of her face, his mother's eyes were intensely blue. “Run!”
“Oh no, no, no. Stay.” Unfolding himself from his crouch, the red-eyed monster that had been killing his mother rose to a stooped stand, his smile a razor-thin slash of white set in a face that was black-and-pale with a series of thick tattoos that he had seen before. The sith was back. The lightsaber clenched in his fist was unignited and dripped a steady, syrupy stream of blood. Karcen felt the blaster and blade hit the ground next to his feet. His fingertips tingled, his mind sparked with some terrible combination of horror and acceptance. Across the kitchen, looming over his mother's broken form, the Twi'lek sith's red-glow eyes widened in surprise. He was going to die...
And then his mother was there once more, as she'd always been, voice a wordless snarl and in the dark she did something that brought the robed sith crashing to the floor, her blood-streaked body contorting into motion in a series of jerky, painful movements. The sith's voice rose in an outraged howl and Karcen tried to shut out the noise as that wicked saber flashed into motion. There was a crackle of lightning and he yelped as it arced through the air, a stray tongue snap-fizzling across his skin to leave his face burning.
“I said run!”
Karcen ran.
IV
“You're Karcen, aren't you?”
Freezing in his tracks, the boy turned and looked up at the pair of people who had followed him down into the long, wide hallway. Behind them, he could see the hustle and bustle of the marketplace but it was too far for him to make a successful dash. And on the other side of them too; the slim woman dressed in white and the big-as-life-itself man standing at her side with a skull painted-tattoo'd over broad features.
“No.” Licking his lips, he jammed his hands back into his pockets and wrapped his fingers around the handful of credits he'd managed to sneak off a cafe table after the couple there had left and before the waiter could return to claim his tip. Survival wasn't difficult if you knew the tricks to it.
The woman smiled and he felt a keen ache at the way it seemed to soften her expression further. “There's no reason to be afraid of us. We've been looking for you.” Normally, he would have bolted at those particular words; knew the ins and outs of the city in ways that they would never find him. Never be able to do to him what that sith had done to his mother. But he wasn't afraid of either of them, no instincts telling him to run, to hide. His eyes narrowed in mild suspicion. No, there was nothing frightening about either of them despite the big man's size. People were probably afraid of him in other ways, but the faint halfway smile he wore was disarming. Pleasant. When the woman extended a hand in his direction, he took a half-step back out of reflex, but he didn't run.
“How do you know who I am?”
Pulling a holocom from the drape of her white clothing, the woman set a recorded message to play and Karcen's throat knotted up as his mother's voice came clearly over the speaker.
'Ysbrand, Alyrian. If you're receiving this, than I'm sorry to say I'm... gone. Which means this is that much more important. Vor entye, remember? ...Let me tell you about my son.'
“Ya c'n trust us, we gone do good by ya.” The large man finally spoke, hooking a large hand behind his neck in a somewhat hesitant gesture. “Reckon ya got one hell a story.” Beside him, the woman kept her hand outstretched and Karcen watched them both for a long, measuring moment. Listen to your gut, he'd been told. Swallowing hard, he moved toward the two of them and reached for that extended hand with a desperate sort of hope.
V
Karcen looked incredibly uncomfortably in the brown robes, though it was less a tactile sensation and more that he was yet again finding himself in a place and situation he didn't understand and couldn't fully anticipate. That and the sheer amount of people was a little overwhelming; all living, breathing, working, training and teaching in this one temple toward a common goal. It reminded him of a giant ant-hill.
Jedi. The word had a foreign taste to it. So many people running around, a good deal of them were his age but he still felt uncertain about approaching any of them. They all seemed to have a purpose, and so he stood back against the wall looking awkward and out of place.
“Hey, you're new.” It was the eyes he noticed first, a bright green set in a pale face with brown hair. Her expression was one of almost bored curiosity, but she was still the first person to talk to him since he'd slipped away from the Academy instructor assigned to show him around. He'd chafed at the slight condescending tone the cathar had used.
“Yeah. I was dropped off here yesterday.” He leaned a bit harder against the wall, shifting his shoulders nervously as if trying to scratch his spine against molded plaster and stonework. The look she gave him was brief, a bit measuring, but ultimately friendly and he felt himself relaxing a touch.
“Some people who are found to be force sensitive look a bit more happy than you do,” She commented lightly, moving out of the way of a few passing figures in similar robes. “And some look worse. A bit frightened. I'm Jatrinty.”
“I'm Karcen.” That was familiar enough, and he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. “How long have you been a Jedi?”
Jatrinty laughed faintly, her somewhat plain face lighting up for a moment. “I've lived at the Temple all my life, but I'm not a Jedi yet. I'll tell you what, let me show you around and tell you what it's like to be part of the Order.”
“I'd like that.”
VI
She was pale beneath the garish lights of Nar Shaddaa; an iced down beauty with her white hair, pale skin, rose toned lips, exotically angled eyes... and Karcen could tell even from a distance she was rotten beneath that pretty facade; something writhing and twisted and wrong. His jaw tightened. Sith. And she was watching him as well, too-bright eyes picking him out from across the crowded Cantina and pinning him there for the space between breaths.
Her passing glance felt like being turned briefly inside out and for a split second he hated her for it. And then remembered he was meant to be above such things, or at least the master of his often run-away emotions. Jaw tight, teeth aching at the minute pressure, he moved through the crowd in an enforced state of calm and seemed to feel people flow around him and his small envelope of force that simmered over the surface of his skin.
“Well aren't you a pretty one,” She sighed, angling her head so that those green eyes of her caught the light, pulled it in. “I See so much potential in you, all that power. Lost, lost, little boy.”
“You don't know me as well as you might think,” he countered, stepping up to look down at the smaller girl-woman. “You only see what you want to.”
“No,” Her voice was a breathy hiss as she got to her feet, shorter than he was and slight as well. She didn't seem like what a sith should be. “I See everything I want, silly Dreamer. Come with me.”
Karcen recoiled, hand sliding along the sticky surface of the bar without noticing it. Breaking eye contact, he looked off to the side and tried to find his equilibrium. “No.”
“Then another will.” Lips pursing, she gave her head a slight shake. “You'll learn. I'll make sure to teach you.” When she walked away, she left that feeling of foreboding behind, wrapped about his shoulders and neck like a scarf.
Or a noose.
VII
Jedi were occasionally tasked to accompany troops, Karcen had been looking forward to an opportunity like that for some time. A chance to see something new, to aid the other forces fighting for the Republic, to make a difference, to get into the action.
With blaster bolts flying overhead and artillery exploding near enough for the impact to reverberate through his bones and drag the breath from his lungs, he was beginning to realize he'd romanticized the entire thing in his head and that the gritty, bloody reality was something he was rapidly wanting no part of. Mentally at least, he was regretting that he'd told Master Alyrian that this was what he wanted.
“Get the hell down, Padawan!” The armored hand that landed on his shoulder pushed him roughly to the muddy ground, brown robes taking on a few more shades as mud and ash splattered across the front of him. But none of it registered, just the armored man diving down next to him with a rifle in his hand and the same mixture of blood, mud and ash smeared across his face that most of the small platoon was decorated with. “No time to get tunnel vision, we've already lost a few of your kind when they freeze up like that. Keep moving, come on.”
Karcen wasn't afforded an opportunity to respond but moved through the mud toward the Republic trenches, half-crawling and half-dragged along by the soldier. “Is it always like this?!” At least there was no tremor to his voice, pitched loudly enough to carry over the blasts that were falling around them.
“No.” Safely in the trenches, the man rubbed an arm across his face and Karcen noticed the metal patch over an eye, had the moment it took to register that they weren't that far apart in age, he and this soldier. “Sometimes it's worse.” The look on his face must have been fairly priceless because the man reached out to clap him on the shoulder with a grim sort of laugh. “Welcome to the front lines, Padawan. I'm Lieutenant Orsan Tor'vare. No worries, we'll get you seasoned yet.”
VIII
It was a quiet moment and Karcen wasn't afforded very many of them lately. Training, shuttling from one end of the galaxy to another, attempting to talk himself through his misgivings and problems to a sympathetic Alyrian or a crooked-smiling Grim, worrying to himself about the few lunatic Sith that kept appearing in his life and the innocents he couldn't have saved, wouldn't be able to save. He dimmed the lights, breathed in the recycled air of the transport ship and settled back onto the uncomfortable bunk to think for once, and not meditate.
He skimmed his fingers down the side of his face and dragged their tips tracing along the spiderwebbed and sensitive skin laced around one eye and across his cheekbone; the physical scars that Lord Laz'ab left him to go along with the mental ones, stealing his mother from him before he had a chance to learn about himself, his mother and their past. He wondered constantly about himself, about her, about the mystery that his father represented. It shouldn't have been so important to him to know, but having lost his mother made that one hazy portion of his past even more important somehow. If there was a link, he wanted to know. If he had family out there, he wanted to be part of that. Karcen was smart enough and realistic enough to know that it was a dream that would probably never be realized, but it made him no less hungry for that out-of-reach knowledge.
It was easy to dream of a reunion with a father who had been searching for him for years. It was easy to tell himself that reality was not usually so kind as that. The hard part was convincing himself not to want it anyway.
IX
Nar Shaddaa was becoming old, worn down, and he wondered why he'd never been able to see it that way before now. From where he stood on the lower promenade, the grit and grime and loss of the city was a little clearer and he sighed as he waited in line for the wrapped snacks he'd managed to convince Master Alyrian that they both needed desperately. Considering she seemed well aware that a young man his age ate like a blurrg, she'd been more than willing to hand over the credits so long as he brought one back for her as well.
In no time at all he had their treats, pausing to take a bite of his and tip his head back to stare at the upper level balcony where Alyrian was leaning against the railing and looking down toward him. He smiled, waved the still-whole snack he'd secured for her and watched her for a moment. Some days he had no trouble seeing the weight that was settled across her shoulders and he felt guilty for being part of that. Lately there had been a weighty sort of contemplation in her expression when he caught her watching him from the corner of his eye. From the bits of her past that Alyrian and Grim had divulged, hers hadn't exactly been an easy life either.
Karcen watched with growing worry as Alyrian straightened, her eyes focusing on something past him and expression turning to one of rigid horror. There was a split second before his instinct fired up, screamed a warning. A second too late. Somebody wrapped an arm around his throat from behind, dragged him back against hard armor and wrenched his other wrist up behind his back. Dimly aware of the sodden smack as the snacks hit the ground, he fought down the brief moment of shock and panic as the smell of blood and smoke and - mint? - hit him. Karcen growled a little in pain as his wrenched shoulder complained.
“Don't you dare!” Alyrian hollered from the upper balcony and he looked up, saw her blue eyes go wide in alarm as she stared at him and his unseen attacker. It set off a quick chain reaction. The lash of lightning, his mother's voice, blood atop scattered confetti. Run! “Let him go right now, Jack!”
Jack. Something in her tone seemed to suggest it was important enough for him to know.
“Don't think so. Got you now, Little Bird.” The rough growl near his ear startled him and Karcen let out a gurgled noise as he was spun around. “Let's get a look at your Padawan,” His attacker mocked, a low sneer evident in his words.
Heavy scarring marred the man's face, age lines picking out further wear and tear on a face that could have been handsome a long time ago if the owner hadn't gotten so ugly on the inside as well as the out. But the lines of the face were familiar, the angle of the nose, the set of the jaw, even a slight similarity to the shape of the eyes. Eyes that were a stark and terrible red, and widened in a surprise and shock that seemed to echo through Karcen.
It wasn't quite like looking into a mirror, but it was damn close.
