En Route to Korriban
((SWTOR - Cyzen Daubain, a Pureblood Sith Marauder, before he becomes Sith. At the age of 17, on the way to Korriban, reflecting about his fellows and society at large. Brief cameo by another toon who goes on to have a major impact on his life.))
As another ripple of raucous laughter tore through the shuttle, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his already aching head, Cyzen briefly wondered if he’d be able to manage another six hours without murdering each and every person on board.
In the rows ahead of him and behind him, his peers stood, clustered around the seats of their friends, blocking the aisles and making a grand mess of things as they thoughtlessly chattered and boasted, told lewd jokes, stories, and laughed loud enough that for a brief moment he wondered if they weren’t all engaged in some sort of psychological warfare against each other, before deciding that was right out as it would involve the sort of forethought or strategic mindset that was severely lacking in the rowdy bunch. To think that any of them believed they would become Sith was enough to make his stomach churn. “-really, what did she expect? She was just a slave, it’s not as if anyone cared!” Cyzen tried his best to block out the story being told in the row ahead of him, as he shifted in his seat trying to get more comfortable to continue reading the novel on his datapad. It was a battle he’d been losing for some time - he’d started the same page over six or seven times. “My father just looked at me and said, ‘Well, at least you were smart about it, could you imagine the children!?’” “What would a human-twi’lek hybrid look like?” “Foul, I’d imagine - I still don’t know how you stomached it. Desperate times, eh?” “Hey now!” The face of the next generation of Imperial society. Cyzen sighed as he saved his place and turned off his datapad, rubbing at his temples for a moment in an effort to ease his headache before standing to stretch. It was an odd sight, really, to look over the occupants of the shuttle. Cyzen wondered for a moment if it was intended to impart some sort of life lesson on the upper-class students, that they were all equals once they reached the Academy, whether that was true or not remained to be seen of course. The vast majority were the Force-sensitive human or Pureblood children of the Empire’s social elite, well-dressed and stylish young men and women who radiated privilege. Physical perfection was the watchword amongst them, with the humans pleasingly tattooed and the Purebloods artistically pierced or simply left to their natural beauty with well-groomed hair and facial tentacles. They laughed and chattered away, occasionally snatching a drink or a piece of fruit for themselves from the serving droids or the tables near the shuttle’s galley through their rudimentary command of the Force. While he was one of them by birth-right, Cyzen knew well that he wasn’t welcome there - his family’s circumstances were an open secret, and he’d spent his life being reminded of his place, last amongst equals, lucky to be there, an eleventh-hour saving grace for a fading bloodline. Others still were the common-borns, those who were Force-sensitives by pure chance instead of breeding, who sat quietly talking amongst themselves or fearfully silent. They were at a disadvantage, Cyzen knew that well - their upper-class peers had received training for most of their early lives, while they largely had not. Some of the middle-class were lucky enough to have had parents willing to bankrupt themselves to pay for the expensive tutors, but even that was a rarity. Some of the youths had received no training, were simply collected by the Academy’s handlers once their talents were discovered and tested, and packed away without care for their protests. While they largely stuck to their own, a few had managed to begin working their way in with the groups of upper-class students, their simple attire a sharp contrast to the finery of the others - willingly play the role of the fool as the butt of jokes to begin forging alliances that could last a lifetime should they survive Academy training. The outgoing ones, the charismatic jokers, they knew well what was on the line, how the hopes and dreams of their families rested on their shoulders. One Force-sensitive who survived to become Sith would rocket their family up the social ladder, make even the poorest merchant or farmer family into the social elite on par with the Lords and Dukes of the Empire. And then there were the most interesting occupants... Cyzen allowed his gaze to trail towards the back of the shuttle, where silent young sentients, humans and aliens of a myriad of species, men and women who sat with their heads bowed submissively, some staring at the floor, others off into space, and others still occasionally daring to sneak a glance up as if to size up the threat of the privileged classes ahead of them. They weren’t well-kept, and certainly weren’t well-dressed, wearing simple shifts and slacks, thin-soled shoes. The marks most of them bore were enough to tell anyone what they were, and had earned them no small amount of jeering and derision from the others since they’d been herded aboard. But Cyzen understood the source of that jeering, the reasoning behind the insults and snide remarks. Fear. The silent, poorly dressed Acolytes were an unheard of exception to the year’s crop of students, culled from the lowest of the low - slaves one and all. Some were strong-framed labor slaves, others wiry house-servants, and others still the long-limbed, supple-bodied slaves used for pleasure and entertainment, exotics one and all. And it gave reason for every one of Cyzen’s peers to feel a ripple of fear run through their hearts at the realization that times were far more desperate than any of them had realized. That the ranks of the Sith Order had run so thin that Force-sensitivity meant more than racial purity or social status - that they were desperate enough to resort to similar recruiting tactics to those used by the hated Jedi Order. And why shouldn’t we resort to it? Cyzen wondered, as his bright yellow eyes traced over each of the slaves, lingering for a moment on a unusually multi-colored, beautifully tattooed Twi’lek female, who sat quietly and subtly observing the exchanges around her as if she were cataloguing every bit of conversation, every snippet of information, away for later use. Why shouldn’t we bring in every last bit of power, put it to use for the glory of the Empire? “Oi, Daubain! Are you listening!?” “Nah, Torre, he’s too busy oggling himself some slaves!” The taunts and laughter of his fellows tore him from his thoughts, and immediately Cyzen plastered a perfect imitation of a smile across his face as he joined the laughter, gave a mock shrug as if to say ‘maybe I was’. “I’m sorry, you just blather on so much, Torre, that I’ve learned to tune you out over the years.” Cyzen teased. “Yes, yes, being a Duke’s son lends itself to long-winded speeches, while you’ve inherited the quiet of your military father.” Torre laughed as he shook his head, his prominent facial tentacles twitching once or twice to both signify his amusement and draw attention to the differences in his heritage and Cyzen’s. Torre Voldaaresh was easily two heads taller than Cyzen despite the two men being the same age, hairless, broad shouldered and well-built with brilliant crimson skin and eyes, the bone ridges of his face and throat pronounced and well-developed. Cyzen himself was lithe and compact of build, yellow-eyed and black haired with dusky red skin. His facial and throat ridges were small, almost delicate, as were the four small vestigal facial tendrils that he tended not to use when expressing his emotions. Torre and Cyzen had played together often as young children, and Cyzen had never quite forgotten how Torre’s mother used to boast to his own that their heritage was Massassai while the Daubains were clearly Kissai, as if anyone could make such a distinction. “There he goes again, windbag.” Cyzen’s smile never faded. “What did you ask me?” “I said,” Torre gave a mock sigh of indulgence. “Since you were wandering instead of listening to the conversation, that you were obviously joining the ranks of the Inquisitors, but Nyda insists that’s not true. I thought to have you clarify.” “Nyda would be right,” Cyzen replied, inwardly uttering a thousand curses at his one-time friend for setting him up for a barrage of insults. “The path of a warrior suits my tastes more than the ways of the mystics.” “Give him a week, he’ll change his mind!” Another youth, a Human nobleman’s son, laughed. Cyzen briefly tried to place his name, knowing they’d attended social groups together as children, before reminding himself that it simply wasn’t worth the time. “Either that or enough tripping and falling over his own feet and they’ll change his mind for him!” Says the boy who managed to break half a china collection trying to fetch a glass. Cyzen laughed along with the rest, shaking his head to indicate that the comment meant nothing to him. “Cyzen, Cyzen,” Torre laughed, reaching out to pat the smaller man on the shoulder soothingly. “I know you’re all about breaking the trend with your heritage, but really there are limits.” Never miss a chance to shame me, do you Torre? “My great-grandfather was a Marauder,” Cyzen shrugged with a smile. “I’m trying to follow in his footsteps, Stars willing. If not, well, I’m certain the Overseers will have a sit down with me. And by sit-down I of course mean toss me around the room until they’ve knocked some sense into me.” “Yes, well, you’re lucky that they won’t simply make an example of you,” Torre mused, before casting a glance towards the back of the shuttle. “They’ll have ample fodder this go around. We really must remember to praise the captain when we disembark, his air filtration system works wonders at filtering out the smell of filth, does it not?” “Don’t get me started,” One of the middle-classed hopefuls rolled his eyes. “Here I am working my damndest, my parents working three jobs to pay for my lessons, and then those things get admitted? It’s a travesty, plain and simple.” “Ah, don’t think of it as an insult,” Nyda chided, patting the human who’d spoken on the shoulder reassuringly. Cyzen noticed, for a moment, that her nails were gilded in gold, striking against her red skin, and wondered if she was attending the Academy for actual training or simply for marriage prospects. “You’ll have more time to come up to the level of the rest of us, Carros dear. You may even get the chance to practice killing a few during the initiation trials, wouldn’t that be grand?” “True, it’s not as if they’re people.” Carro smiled, glancing back. “Say, I was wondering...” Cyzen slowly withdrew from the conversation, his noncommittal responses and occasional polite laughter enough to allow him to disappear. He sighed softly as he sank back into his seat, picking up his datapad again boredly before glancing back towards the rear of the shuttle once again through a gap in the rows. The multi-colored Twi’lek was still watching the others, and for just a moment, Cyzen thought he saw her lip curl in something akin to a sneer of disdain before her features once again resumed the pretty but empty expression it had worn throughout their trip. Of course you can wear a mask in plain sight, Cyzen thought, as her eyes moved, and for just a moment, it felt as if they locked with his before he turned his gaze away. His headache had only gotten worse. If I can do it so easily, of course you can. Your life must have been hellish - I hope the pain and hate make you strong, carry you through. Another burst of laughter filled the shuttle cabin, and Cyzen sighed heavily as he reached out and plucked a piece of fruit from the tray of a passing serving droid before opening the novel up once again, determined to finish it before they landed. Anything to ignore the throbbing pain in his head.
