Disappointment was a bitter feeling to swallow. And it gnawed the same way as guilt but without the possibility of resolution; it ate and it settled in the gut and clenched the throat. And it was hard to even understand - but then there were clear moments of comprehension, clear moments where recriminations were flung at herself. She had been bitter, had been petty. For little reason other than pricked vanity and pride. It had been humiliating to be found so lacking, that feeling coupled with the old and awoken feeling of failure.
Regression. Disappointing Ark, the Pureblood who had become a mentor. An ally. An inspiration for climbing to better, new heights; to aspire to grow to.
A petty drunkard wasting away, a sore and blight with no purpose or worthwhile accomplishments. That'd been what she'd been when Ark had found her - someone courting self-destruction who had found no purpose, no passion. Someone with no dreams left, holding broken shards in bloodied hands. Someone with no future, bleakly facing death and no longer fighting for a place in the galaxy. And she'd regressed, reverted back to that drunkard in a moment of concern; harshly judging Ark and his motives against the mistaken view of someone who'd seen him as not only an obstacle but a rallying point for destruction.
Her apology had been heartfelt, an almost bleak apology as the tone Ark had spoken to her in had set in. She remembered the people who had spoken to her in that tone, the way they'd all eventually thrown their hands up when she hadn't grown more wise, more controlled, more reserved. She remembered the first time Ark had spoken to her that way, when he'd rescinded his offer of solace and protection, pulled his hand back because she had been nothing but a disappointment.
And the dangerous edge in his voice, the growl. A warning, the reminder that although he had been kind he had been kind purely on his whim. A suddenly brutal reminder that crossing him would have consequences, the same way her rash and foolish actions trying to stop him from taking Sverdas had resulted in the death of her pet. The knowledge that she had hit a line, offended him, insulted him.
Ark had been kind. Accepting. Understanding. Encouraging. Inspiring. Protective.
He had given her shelter and resources and a place to study and work, as close to a home as she was likely to ever find again. The space to carve out her own place, find her footing. Become what she had the potential to become. And she'd risked it in a stupid and petty moment.
But how to show Ark she'd meant her apology? Actions, he said. Prove it, he demanded. But how? Offering objects wouldn't prove anything; placating gifts would be worthless to Ark because they were things, not actions. Things could be given without learning the lessons required - she knew that from her own past. Gifts were merely motions, meaningless objects that carried nothing in their acquisition other than the implication of time.
Time wasn't enough. Sinking time into something didn't show she'd really moved past the drunkard wasting away on a worthless moon.
Actions.
Her mind wandered, settling with every centering breath. She was in the little tucked ruins she had found when getting lost, legs folded under her as she'd dropped into a meditative seat.
The doubt and self-recrimination were powerful feelings - but they weakened her. They weren't helpful; they were the sort of dark emotions that crippled a person and destroyed the possibility of their use in furthering her connections to the darkside. She had to accept them though and use them to be stronger, use them to strengthen both her resolve and her dedication. Reject the weakness they invited and turn them around. She could - would - do it. She had to be more than she'd been a scant year ago.
How to prove it.
She let out a breath.
How to show she'd moved on.
Actions.
Doubt and recriminations and disappointment she turned to anger, let them fester. Loathing for herself began, for the weaknesses she clung to. She focused on those feelings, nurturing them the same way she'd once called up peace.
These were useful emotions, feelings that would drive her onwards and upwards and help her climb to new heights. These she could turn and spur herself with, could settle her mind in to and relax finally. Now she could call up the 'gift' Ark had given her, the chaotic images she could barely grasp, the gaping wounds and clawing panic and horrible pain and sudden, inescapable death and destruction. She pulled it up much the same way she'd have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, letting it rise up and enfold her thoughts.
The images pulled up the shattered and grasping memories of her first meeting with Xekseko and Venrirr, the itching and scraping of those horrific eyes. The unintelligible and incomprehensible, destabilizing agony. She still could not make sense of it all - the colors, the shapes, it had been beyond her comprehension. The jokes about colors had been nothing compared to the reality and inability to understand. Paired with the gift from Ark, the swirls of everything he had placed in her mind, she felt a slick sheen of sweat rise.
And yet she continued, feeling it help her find a new avenue of connection and understanding towards the darkside. She turned her mind and thoughts to the pure feelings of it, a sigh of breath as she gave herself over to it.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Ciphered Holos
What are they doing now?
It felt like the war was on the brink of something to the woman, the sixth sense of premonition that something moved, slipped in, and was growing. It was that precipice of feeling right before a major change in the landscape, that feeling that precipitated a clash on the battlefield.
She reached over, pulling out her datapad lying on the desk and with a flick starting to scan through the war reports.
She barely set foot on the Promenade now, excepting few occurrences to hang in the Slopes. But it wasn't even some feeling of 'too much to do' that kept her away, nor was it a feeling of 'evade your friends' but simply... it'd changed. Or she'd changed.
It was probably the latter.
Where are they now?
She didn't know. She occasionally kept in touch with Sriia but other than helping the woman they seemed to not exchange words. It was probably the 'opposite side of things' problem. Torlem had never shot a time to talk (and how long ago was that request and promise made?) and it'd been ages since she'd seen the 'old crowd' around. What was even left of it.
Maybe Torlem had gotten his Knighthood. Maybe the war was just too all-encompassing, too devouring, to allow for shenanigans. Or maybe she'd just stopped looking for them, stopped seeking out the thrill and adventure and - finally? - settling down.
She raised a hand, reaching up to stroke the muzzle of the small hound she'd picked up at the market. She wasn't attached to it, not like she'd been with Sparks, wasn't sentimental. Which meant she could pet it, croon to it, and not feel more than a flicker when it started to cry in pain as the blood and Force worked. But she had an idea and it hadn't shaken from her mind so she was sitting in the lab watching the Force move and twist and buckle as it bent to her will.
It was a battle of will though, watching the shifts and catching them as they started to unknit and return to normal - but no she wanted them this way. She tuned out the screams, the panicked cries of pain from the beast before they started to sound... more like screams. But still she didn't mind, fingers running down the barrier as she waited.
When it was done she could feel the Force shifting, the tug of emotions brought out unnaturally and wafting in her mind like an undercurrent of a scent, barely registered but there. Weak but that was the moment, the crux, the same feeling she'd felt when studying Ark's creation.
It bleated. It cried. And it died in the span of a few breaths.
Aran deactivated the cage, reaching inside and pulling out the mutilated corpse her experiment had left.
It'd worked.
Now she just needed to make the carrier live longer. And then... her mind turned over the possibilities. What was her goal? She knew the goal. Small, unobstrusive carrier tugging emotions into patterns. Weariness was a mindset that could be evoked, she figured, worming it into ranks slowly. Tired people were defeated people.
..defeat. Defeat. Weariness could be fought off. But weariness edged a battle to its end, a trudge of mistakes and fumbles leading to the inevitable conclusion of conflict.
Weariness, like sleep, was a natural state and something every species experienced. She could tease it out easily, worm it past defenses. Little plagues of weariness, pockets scurrying about - it was a little insidious way to migrate her experiments with emotions.
Would you enjoy the life...
She could almost hear the Pureblood's voice in her ear while absently brushing strands of hair from her face, the blood on her fingers tacky and copper-scented. Aran found she missed their company, missed the intricate debate and lessoning, the odd camaraderie, the odd and twisted friendship.
She missed the press to continue, too, so imposed it on herself now more than ever. There was no battlefield to test on nearby but she fancied if she needed to she could find another little skirmish zone and see her plans wrought large. Stop and think of what you're doing a little voice whispered and she ignore it, recalling instead the rush, the rightness, the comfort she found.
With a hand she reached down, picking up the corpse.
The pain was a small price to pay.
It felt like the war was on the brink of something to the woman, the sixth sense of premonition that something moved, slipped in, and was growing. It was that precipice of feeling right before a major change in the landscape, that feeling that precipitated a clash on the battlefield.
She reached over, pulling out her datapad lying on the desk and with a flick starting to scan through the war reports.
She barely set foot on the Promenade now, excepting few occurrences to hang in the Slopes. But it wasn't even some feeling of 'too much to do' that kept her away, nor was it a feeling of 'evade your friends' but simply... it'd changed. Or she'd changed.
It was probably the latter.
Where are they now?
She didn't know. She occasionally kept in touch with Sriia but other than helping the woman they seemed to not exchange words. It was probably the 'opposite side of things' problem. Torlem had never shot a time to talk (and how long ago was that request and promise made?) and it'd been ages since she'd seen the 'old crowd' around. What was even left of it.
Maybe Torlem had gotten his Knighthood. Maybe the war was just too all-encompassing, too devouring, to allow for shenanigans. Or maybe she'd just stopped looking for them, stopped seeking out the thrill and adventure and - finally? - settling down.
She raised a hand, reaching up to stroke the muzzle of the small hound she'd picked up at the market. She wasn't attached to it, not like she'd been with Sparks, wasn't sentimental. Which meant she could pet it, croon to it, and not feel more than a flicker when it started to cry in pain as the blood and Force worked. But she had an idea and it hadn't shaken from her mind so she was sitting in the lab watching the Force move and twist and buckle as it bent to her will.
It was a battle of will though, watching the shifts and catching them as they started to unknit and return to normal - but no she wanted them this way. She tuned out the screams, the panicked cries of pain from the beast before they started to sound... more like screams. But still she didn't mind, fingers running down the barrier as she waited.
When it was done she could feel the Force shifting, the tug of emotions brought out unnaturally and wafting in her mind like an undercurrent of a scent, barely registered but there. Weak but that was the moment, the crux, the same feeling she'd felt when studying Ark's creation.
It bleated. It cried. And it died in the span of a few breaths.
Aran deactivated the cage, reaching inside and pulling out the mutilated corpse her experiment had left.
It'd worked.
Now she just needed to make the carrier live longer. And then... her mind turned over the possibilities. What was her goal? She knew the goal. Small, unobstrusive carrier tugging emotions into patterns. Weariness was a mindset that could be evoked, she figured, worming it into ranks slowly. Tired people were defeated people.
..defeat. Defeat. Weariness could be fought off. But weariness edged a battle to its end, a trudge of mistakes and fumbles leading to the inevitable conclusion of conflict.
Weariness, like sleep, was a natural state and something every species experienced. She could tease it out easily, worm it past defenses. Little plagues of weariness, pockets scurrying about - it was a little insidious way to migrate her experiments with emotions.
Would you enjoy the life...
She could almost hear the Pureblood's voice in her ear while absently brushing strands of hair from her face, the blood on her fingers tacky and copper-scented. Aran found she missed their company, missed the intricate debate and lessoning, the odd camaraderie, the odd and twisted friendship.
She missed the press to continue, too, so imposed it on herself now more than ever. There was no battlefield to test on nearby but she fancied if she needed to she could find another little skirmish zone and see her plans wrought large. Stop and think of what you're doing a little voice whispered and she ignore it, recalling instead the rush, the rightness, the comfort she found.
With a hand she reached down, picking up the corpse.
The pain was a small price to pay.
Ciphered Holos
She turned the saber over in her hand, shifting its weight against her fingers and palm before setting the hilt down.
Life had become a blur of activity again, an endless cycle of too little sleep and too many lies and too many gaps and breaks of conscience. The enforced rest and break had turned into a slightly extended one, the woman floundering on what to do after the advice she'd offered her master.
Why had she made that suggestion? It'd bring further condemnation, further distance, but in the end she could see why.
The same reason she had done despicable things to get in with the Barge. The same reason she'd hired Rax-tex, hired the thugs and murderers of the underworld, the same reason she still did. The same echoing statement that she'd agreed with long ago, so long ago, when she and Zachiry had spoken.
The same thing she'd discussed with Akkai.
Someone had to - someone had to get the blood on their hands so the idealists could live in a better world. Someone had to make the choices a better person would never accept, because they were capable of making them. Because someone had to make them. Because sacrifices were worth protecting the people she still cared about. Even when she knew they wouldn't understand. They were people of conscience, people who would do the upright thing when pressed, because they believed so much in it that they would never bow.
They'll think you're truly gone, though, a voice whispered, the Miralukan running a hand through her hair at the thought. They would. She knew they would. If they found out, if they learned what she'd counseled - they wouldnever understand this time.
She suspected not even her master knew why she'd really suggested what she had. Or if he did, he didn't care - did he, maybe, glean the reason? But it'd tempered the rage, tempered the risk, until he had been able to see the reason. Now it was a matter of waiting, watching, continuing her work.
It will cost you everything, and she accepted that. She would do the despicable things no one else would and maybe be able to offer information it'd be otherwise impossible to get.
She picked up the saber, hearing the siren call of it and the way it yearned for battle and blood, and shifted it in her hand again.
The confusion over her friendships had faded, settling uneasily into a pattern of ignoring the fragments. If she ignored them long enough perhaps her friends would ignore the division, stop asking questions, and let her pretend. She had faded again, trying to edge away from study but at the back of her thoughts there was the itch and call and desire and she clipped the saber to her belt, standing up abruptly.
She'd been so long from her work. So long from her research, her studies, her practice. So long from the life of Sith, of her place, that she wondered what and why she'd been allowed to for so long. Perhaps the focus of the House had shifted so much to counter the threat that her subtle shading had gone without comment, as long as she did her work at some point.
She picked up her datapad, tapping out a message on it then closing the screen. Ark had contacted her last night, admitted his infection and taken advantage of the dispensation of the anti-fungal she had set up at her offices. Said the Rose had a possible leak of information.
What had the Aristocra promised her, if he found out she had crossed him?
She'd remember at some point. For now it was time to get back to work.
Life had become a blur of activity again, an endless cycle of too little sleep and too many lies and too many gaps and breaks of conscience. The enforced rest and break had turned into a slightly extended one, the woman floundering on what to do after the advice she'd offered her master.
Why had she made that suggestion? It'd bring further condemnation, further distance, but in the end she could see why.
The same reason she had done despicable things to get in with the Barge. The same reason she'd hired Rax-tex, hired the thugs and murderers of the underworld, the same reason she still did. The same echoing statement that she'd agreed with long ago, so long ago, when she and Zachiry had spoken.
The same thing she'd discussed with Akkai.
Someone had to - someone had to get the blood on their hands so the idealists could live in a better world. Someone had to make the choices a better person would never accept, because they were capable of making them. Because someone had to make them. Because sacrifices were worth protecting the people she still cared about. Even when she knew they wouldn't understand. They were people of conscience, people who would do the upright thing when pressed, because they believed so much in it that they would never bow.
They'll think you're truly gone, though, a voice whispered, the Miralukan running a hand through her hair at the thought. They would. She knew they would. If they found out, if they learned what she'd counseled - they wouldnever understand this time.
She suspected not even her master knew why she'd really suggested what she had. Or if he did, he didn't care - did he, maybe, glean the reason? But it'd tempered the rage, tempered the risk, until he had been able to see the reason. Now it was a matter of waiting, watching, continuing her work.
It will cost you everything, and she accepted that. She would do the despicable things no one else would and maybe be able to offer information it'd be otherwise impossible to get.
She picked up the saber, hearing the siren call of it and the way it yearned for battle and blood, and shifted it in her hand again.
The confusion over her friendships had faded, settling uneasily into a pattern of ignoring the fragments. If she ignored them long enough perhaps her friends would ignore the division, stop asking questions, and let her pretend. She had faded again, trying to edge away from study but at the back of her thoughts there was the itch and call and desire and she clipped the saber to her belt, standing up abruptly.
She'd been so long from her work. So long from her research, her studies, her practice. So long from the life of Sith, of her place, that she wondered what and why she'd been allowed to for so long. Perhaps the focus of the House had shifted so much to counter the threat that her subtle shading had gone without comment, as long as she did her work at some point.
She picked up her datapad, tapping out a message on it then closing the screen. Ark had contacted her last night, admitted his infection and taken advantage of the dispensation of the anti-fungal she had set up at her offices. Said the Rose had a possible leak of information.
What had the Aristocra promised her, if he found out she had crossed him?
She'd remember at some point. For now it was time to get back to work.
Ciphered Holos
"I'll never take that path."
Aran didn't care that Kailest was somewhere nearby, watching. She could even not care that the night would assuredly get back to Krassk's ears right now, stripping off the jacket and folding it, setting it aside in favor of grabbing something - anything - else. And the saber... Her head turned, reaching for the hilt, fingers curling around it.
She felt the hum, the chaos. It'd once been a beacon of peace, calm, rememberance and that was worn away by the sing-song hum that now accompanied it. She turned the hilt over in her hand, digging digits into the facets of the crystal embedded in the hilt, before she turned, stalking back and setting the hilt down. Away.
The night had...gone.
Play the information and contract broker - that role had been easy. As promised she's secured The Hive to the Chiss' agenda for the upcoming Dheroveer problems, as rumors had begun building. As promised she'd reached out and chatted with Rax, Rax had agreed to drag Birdy along, and with Ark. She had a few more messages to send out, but she'd bring the collective of the shady underbelly together for a meeting and let the credits fall where they would. She'd even gone that step further and reached out to the other side of the fence for help, trying to get that crucial throw-in from the others.
She'd discussed getting Penumbra as well, but for that she'd need to get a message to Rexarn, and that was a barrel of trouble to consider doing. She'd still do it, approach them through Rex, but it'd be a song and a dance to find a good way.
There were soft noises in the Bucket, little sounds of life moving and ticking and shuffling. It'd been something she hadn't heard for a long time. It felt alien, strange in a way that set her on guard, watching her tongue again. Softly she muttered to herself, the Force working in unspoken frustration before she put her head in her hands, curling up.
Torlem hurt. She couldn't play him, didn't want to maybe was the better way of stating it. She'd spent too much time being too honest with the padawan to lie to him the way she could do with Sriia. Sriia she could nurse an anger against, but Torlem - he'd done nothing. Nothing but be an honest friend.
Her head turned, listening to see where Kailest was, checking to see how the Force told her the 'pilot' was moving. The talk with the Jedi had been as tense as she'd expected. "They're going to have a harder time trusting you, now."
No kark. She hadn't expected it to be a walk in the Senate gardens but she'd clung to the hope that a greater threat would give everyone a chance to set aside differences to knit up just long enough to take it down. They could fight later, be enemies later.
Illusions were precious things.
"How will you get away with picking and choosing?" Yes, Torlem was right - it was still war. Even a temporary alliance to face a threat like the Dheroveer would end and it'd be war. What was she supposed to say, tell him that she'd go after the people she'd bled for if she were ordered to? She knew she was expected to, but she was having enough problems stepping aside when it was merely a name and Force she knew - if one of her friends was opposing her Master... Aran paced, unable to wrench herself back to the calm again.
Ark had left her with illusions, letting them exist in favor of slowly wearing away and indulging. He'd threatened to remove the illusions but hadn't. He'd made her make choices but had left her with her friendships and views on them intact. Little whispers and sound arguments showing they were going to be transitory but breaking them hadn't been something he had opted to do. They'd break on their own.
So she'd started to let them go. And then she'd been confronted with how much she valued them. They made her pull up, stop, and try, damnably, to be better. To be worthy of them. In the end Ark was right - if she called someone a friend, a superior, the lengths she went to bordered on utterly insane. And now she had given Torlem a promise that'd be hard to keep.
"Why Sith, Book?"
Her head turned, running a hand raggedly through her hair before she pulled it down, pulling long strands back to re-tie the tail. When Torlem asked she didn't fob him off the way she'd fobbed off Akkai and Sriia, telling him 'it'd gotten complicated' because for some unknown reason she didn't want to lie to Torlem. So she'd made a promise instead, to tell him why. Everything, if he wanted, so at least someone would stop offering judgement without the full grounding of facts.
And then Torlem had turned back, returning to his Master, the Jedi, and friends - and she'd turned on her heels and stalked away. And she was left with a cold and almost horrifying realization that she wasn't going to get to keep her precious illusions because they were so obvious a weakness even she could see it. She'd fall into - at best - inaction. At worst? She let out a breath.
She still wasn't strong enough. The tie that'd been Krenthor's saber was shattered, twisted, changed - but she now stood facing a greater one. "...the Force shall free me," she murmured into the silence.
She'd tell Torlem the whole truth. When he wanted her to. In the meantime she picked up her datapad, tapping out a very short and very basic message, hitting 'send' on it before she could change her mind.
"My friendships compromise my resolve and conviction, Master. --Aran"
Aran didn't care that Kailest was somewhere nearby, watching. She could even not care that the night would assuredly get back to Krassk's ears right now, stripping off the jacket and folding it, setting it aside in favor of grabbing something - anything - else. And the saber... Her head turned, reaching for the hilt, fingers curling around it.
She felt the hum, the chaos. It'd once been a beacon of peace, calm, rememberance and that was worn away by the sing-song hum that now accompanied it. She turned the hilt over in her hand, digging digits into the facets of the crystal embedded in the hilt, before she turned, stalking back and setting the hilt down. Away.
The night had...gone.
Play the information and contract broker - that role had been easy. As promised she's secured The Hive to the Chiss' agenda for the upcoming Dheroveer problems, as rumors had begun building. As promised she'd reached out and chatted with Rax, Rax had agreed to drag Birdy along, and with Ark. She had a few more messages to send out, but she'd bring the collective of the shady underbelly together for a meeting and let the credits fall where they would. She'd even gone that step further and reached out to the other side of the fence for help, trying to get that crucial throw-in from the others.
She'd discussed getting Penumbra as well, but for that she'd need to get a message to Rexarn, and that was a barrel of trouble to consider doing. She'd still do it, approach them through Rex, but it'd be a song and a dance to find a good way.
There were soft noises in the Bucket, little sounds of life moving and ticking and shuffling. It'd been something she hadn't heard for a long time. It felt alien, strange in a way that set her on guard, watching her tongue again. Softly she muttered to herself, the Force working in unspoken frustration before she put her head in her hands, curling up.
Torlem hurt. She couldn't play him, didn't want to maybe was the better way of stating it. She'd spent too much time being too honest with the padawan to lie to him the way she could do with Sriia. Sriia she could nurse an anger against, but Torlem - he'd done nothing. Nothing but be an honest friend.
Her head turned, listening to see where Kailest was, checking to see how the Force told her the 'pilot' was moving. The talk with the Jedi had been as tense as she'd expected. "They're going to have a harder time trusting you, now."
No kark. She hadn't expected it to be a walk in the Senate gardens but she'd clung to the hope that a greater threat would give everyone a chance to set aside differences to knit up just long enough to take it down. They could fight later, be enemies later.
Illusions were precious things.
"How will you get away with picking and choosing?" Yes, Torlem was right - it was still war. Even a temporary alliance to face a threat like the Dheroveer would end and it'd be war. What was she supposed to say, tell him that she'd go after the people she'd bled for if she were ordered to? She knew she was expected to, but she was having enough problems stepping aside when it was merely a name and Force she knew - if one of her friends was opposing her Master... Aran paced, unable to wrench herself back to the calm again.
Ark had left her with illusions, letting them exist in favor of slowly wearing away and indulging. He'd threatened to remove the illusions but hadn't. He'd made her make choices but had left her with her friendships and views on them intact. Little whispers and sound arguments showing they were going to be transitory but breaking them hadn't been something he had opted to do. They'd break on their own.
So she'd started to let them go. And then she'd been confronted with how much she valued them. They made her pull up, stop, and try, damnably, to be better. To be worthy of them. In the end Ark was right - if she called someone a friend, a superior, the lengths she went to bordered on utterly insane. And now she had given Torlem a promise that'd be hard to keep.
"Why Sith, Book?"
Her head turned, running a hand raggedly through her hair before she pulled it down, pulling long strands back to re-tie the tail. When Torlem asked she didn't fob him off the way she'd fobbed off Akkai and Sriia, telling him 'it'd gotten complicated' because for some unknown reason she didn't want to lie to Torlem. So she'd made a promise instead, to tell him why. Everything, if he wanted, so at least someone would stop offering judgement without the full grounding of facts.
And then Torlem had turned back, returning to his Master, the Jedi, and friends - and she'd turned on her heels and stalked away. And she was left with a cold and almost horrifying realization that she wasn't going to get to keep her precious illusions because they were so obvious a weakness even she could see it. She'd fall into - at best - inaction. At worst? She let out a breath.
She still wasn't strong enough. The tie that'd been Krenthor's saber was shattered, twisted, changed - but she now stood facing a greater one. "...the Force shall free me," she murmured into the silence.
She'd tell Torlem the whole truth. When he wanted her to. In the meantime she picked up her datapad, tapping out a very short and very basic message, hitting 'send' on it before she could change her mind.
"My friendships compromise my resolve and conviction, Master. --Aran"
Ciphered Holos
Rolling out of the bed Aran gingerly touched her aching jaw. It was better than taking a boot to the face but the swift hit from the training weight had put her out as surely as a knock on the temples would've done. Her jaw hurt, feeling the bone almost assuredly cracked - it had a kolto wrap on it and another few on the little dents she'd taken from the spinning weights, but she knew she was in medical. It smelled like it, crisp and clean and horrifying, every memory and association woken up by the place. Too many days spent in medbay 'for her own safety' came to mind, too many times she'd been bottled up.
Swinging legs over the edge of the bed Aran put her fingers to her jaw, shakily calling on the Force to knit the weakened bone back together. The pounding in her temples lessened as she knitted the damage away, breath caught in the pain healing with the Dark Side meant. It was far, far easier to call upon the Dark Side of the Force than to try to knit herself back up with the distant Light Side. Even though it hurt - the Dark Side hurt to use, pain-riddled but soothing at the same time, a dichotomy she had stopped questioning - she worked, hand pressed against the cool wall of the medical room.
There were droids bustling nearby. She could feel the bruising leave her jaw and she gave her head a shake as if clearing it. Her skin crawled at the droids but she had accepted them. The staff - slaves? - were just as easily accepted now. "Mistress-" one of them began and Aran lifted her hand to silence them, patting her belt before cursing as she headed for the door.
No saber. Or at least, her hand patting her jacket again, not the right one. She still had the cool, small and sleek hilt that had been a gift what, two years ago? But she was missing his hilt. The one she'd just gotten back.
She didn't particularly care if Krassk was alerted that she'd left medical with a grabbed pack of kolto and a blistering oath at the person who'd tried to get her to remain. She didn't head to the training arena though, swearing again as she turned and slammed a fist into the nearby wall. Anger simmered just below the surface of her thoughts, swirling, rolling and crashing. She'd been in the trancelike state of working on forms, smooth as water over a rock, when Krassk had yelled for her. She'd spent more time in combat practice over the past few days than she'd openly logged in years. Ever since Krassk had pressed pure anger into her mind and she'd snapped from it...
She wrenched her thoughts back. Krassk had realized one of her hidden little secrets. Same as Xan had noticed that one time, noting how she'd moved her feet. Clandestine. She'd devoted ten years to the study of niman's form, ten years putting her makashi and juyo roots behind her. And in one moment Krassk had snapped that line of control and one of the small lines she'd clung to had blurred. She inhaled sharply, shaking her hand out and rubbing the heel of her palm, feeling the scrape of skin and raw cut in flesh. She was still easy to manipulate, sway - the constant broil of emotions frayed her control. And her own knotted emotions - the constant practice of forms that pressed her control - and she let out a shaken breath.
She was unbalanced. Her inclination was to pull back, to hunker down and settle herself again, center herself, regain the fragile control. But - there was a fragment of a scowl tinging her lips - she had... asked for this. Logically she knew that. She knew this was what she had approached Krassk for. And she'd already been lectured like a greenie, grilled and tested for her knowledge of the Code - he'd clarified before she could flippantly ask which one he wanted - and although some of her answers had been accepted, the majority had been found... lacking. The back of her neck burned at the recollection.
Two desires warred in the woman and eventually she rubbed the heel of her hand again before turning towards the training arena. She could center herself with a little bit of physical activity at least and maybe she could shake the itch in her shoulders before she turned to another round of hurting her liver.
Swinging legs over the edge of the bed Aran put her fingers to her jaw, shakily calling on the Force to knit the weakened bone back together. The pounding in her temples lessened as she knitted the damage away, breath caught in the pain healing with the Dark Side meant. It was far, far easier to call upon the Dark Side of the Force than to try to knit herself back up with the distant Light Side. Even though it hurt - the Dark Side hurt to use, pain-riddled but soothing at the same time, a dichotomy she had stopped questioning - she worked, hand pressed against the cool wall of the medical room.
There were droids bustling nearby. She could feel the bruising leave her jaw and she gave her head a shake as if clearing it. Her skin crawled at the droids but she had accepted them. The staff - slaves? - were just as easily accepted now. "Mistress-" one of them began and Aran lifted her hand to silence them, patting her belt before cursing as she headed for the door.
No saber. Or at least, her hand patting her jacket again, not the right one. She still had the cool, small and sleek hilt that had been a gift what, two years ago? But she was missing his hilt. The one she'd just gotten back.
She didn't particularly care if Krassk was alerted that she'd left medical with a grabbed pack of kolto and a blistering oath at the person who'd tried to get her to remain. She didn't head to the training arena though, swearing again as she turned and slammed a fist into the nearby wall. Anger simmered just below the surface of her thoughts, swirling, rolling and crashing. She'd been in the trancelike state of working on forms, smooth as water over a rock, when Krassk had yelled for her. She'd spent more time in combat practice over the past few days than she'd openly logged in years. Ever since Krassk had pressed pure anger into her mind and she'd snapped from it...
She wrenched her thoughts back. Krassk had realized one of her hidden little secrets. Same as Xan had noticed that one time, noting how she'd moved her feet. Clandestine. She'd devoted ten years to the study of niman's form, ten years putting her makashi and juyo roots behind her. And in one moment Krassk had snapped that line of control and one of the small lines she'd clung to had blurred. She inhaled sharply, shaking her hand out and rubbing the heel of her palm, feeling the scrape of skin and raw cut in flesh. She was still easy to manipulate, sway - the constant broil of emotions frayed her control. And her own knotted emotions - the constant practice of forms that pressed her control - and she let out a shaken breath.
She was unbalanced. Her inclination was to pull back, to hunker down and settle herself again, center herself, regain the fragile control. But - there was a fragment of a scowl tinging her lips - she had... asked for this. Logically she knew that. She knew this was what she had approached Krassk for. And she'd already been lectured like a greenie, grilled and tested for her knowledge of the Code - he'd clarified before she could flippantly ask which one he wanted - and although some of her answers had been accepted, the majority had been found... lacking. The back of her neck burned at the recollection.
Two desires warred in the woman and eventually she rubbed the heel of her hand again before turning towards the training arena. She could center herself with a little bit of physical activity at least and maybe she could shake the itch in her shoulders before she turned to another round of hurting her liver.
Ciphered Holos
It was frightening how much her friends still meant to her. It had to be a secret too, something hidden and locked away, because it meant her friends were a weakness still and something she hadn't - couldn't - excise from herself. And if that weakness was known then it wouldn't be ignored, would it? It was a sizable one, and she'd almost managed to convince herself that her friends, her old friends, didn't matter. Because they'd hate her. They'd hate what she'd done, what she'd become, what she did in returning to the arms of the Empire.
And then there'd been Akkai.
He'd said he understood, that he'd done the same. And something had broken, some support she'd built up had faltered and fractured, because he'd still cared even though she'd vanished from them for months on end without a word. When he'd put clawed fingers around her throat and whispered into her ear, his threat-that-was-a-promise, it'd been hard to not tell him what she'd done because he would eventually find out and when he did the uneasy, broken thing would be gone again. But until that moment she'd treasure what she'd regained. She'd treasure the soft offer to get away, the escape she could take when everything became too much again, when she needed to think, to gather her head. It wouldn't last, it'd eventually go away like her few friendships would as the war dragged on, but until it was gone it was something she'd claw to keep.
She couldn't exactly go camping in the desert. Well she reasoned she could but it wouldn't be the same. She supposed she could head into the jungles of Kaas but even then it wouldn't be the same - the constant rain would depress she felt and the seclusion on that planet wouldn't be the comfort she recalled from her other trips.
The almost comforting dark presence of the Force felt alien now, felt like it grated against her skin as the same time as it lapped at it like sun-warmed water against skin. She'd been absent from the Estate for nearly two weeks while she'd begun rebuilding the company up, networking and wheeling and dealing again, letting her mind fall away from her Force related work. It ate her dreams though, when she slept, ate them and nagged them, dogged her footsteps while she'd tried to be a fish out of water. Maybe that was why she felt torn.
Lost.
She was still lost, and the offer, the hint of help - that hand again, outstretched like a lifeline in a raging storm - and she was beaten down again. She'd taken the hand when offered and she knew what it meant wasn't something to dismiss easily. It wasn't something she could afford to dismiss, not really - her precarious position in the Empire was at stake.
Her precarious position in the House was at stake too. She shivered, hand turning the shower on and letting the water run, warming over her outstretched fingers. She could still feel the pulse, the pounding beat of music from the dark cantina from a few days ago humming in her blood, the release and games it'd been. She'd had to go back after it, because hiding in the underworld had still brought her face-first with someone who could report on her absence. Better to go back on her own, show up.
Her fingers slid over the tiled wall dragging water droplets with her digits, streaking the surface like claws rending, nails catching in the grooves. She could immerse herself in her work again, let the work eat away her inhibitions and destroy the last fragments of her old self, or she could cling to her friends and to their precious hopes. She knew what she should do, as a Sith - the voice whispered in her thoughts. She could lie to them, use them, confuse them, hide her work, have both worlds again. For just a moment, for a few weeks or months, she could have it back.
Not everything though. She doubted Shukla would forgive the lie, the protecting of Raxino'vel versus a shaky friendship - she could explain it but it'd require the woman to give her a chance and she doubted that chance would ever come up. She felt a slice at the fact Sriia had warned Jean about associating with her. Sriia who'd maybe started this all, been the folcrum for everything crashing down, the tip that had changed it all.
If it hadn't been for her she'd never had run into Xekseko. Never run in to Venrrir. Never come to Arkatorn's attention perhaps, never met Hadzuka. All the maybes ran in her mind as the water washed around, the Miralukan knowing it was useless to look at the past and the what-if's. But there was a boil of anger now, worming into her thoughts like a poisonous trickle.
If she hadn't cared so much for her friends...
And then there'd been Akkai.
He'd said he understood, that he'd done the same. And something had broken, some support she'd built up had faltered and fractured, because he'd still cared even though she'd vanished from them for months on end without a word. When he'd put clawed fingers around her throat and whispered into her ear, his threat-that-was-a-promise, it'd been hard to not tell him what she'd done because he would eventually find out and when he did the uneasy, broken thing would be gone again. But until that moment she'd treasure what she'd regained. She'd treasure the soft offer to get away, the escape she could take when everything became too much again, when she needed to think, to gather her head. It wouldn't last, it'd eventually go away like her few friendships would as the war dragged on, but until it was gone it was something she'd claw to keep.
She couldn't exactly go camping in the desert. Well she reasoned she could but it wouldn't be the same. She supposed she could head into the jungles of Kaas but even then it wouldn't be the same - the constant rain would depress she felt and the seclusion on that planet wouldn't be the comfort she recalled from her other trips.
The almost comforting dark presence of the Force felt alien now, felt like it grated against her skin as the same time as it lapped at it like sun-warmed water against skin. She'd been absent from the Estate for nearly two weeks while she'd begun rebuilding the company up, networking and wheeling and dealing again, letting her mind fall away from her Force related work. It ate her dreams though, when she slept, ate them and nagged them, dogged her footsteps while she'd tried to be a fish out of water. Maybe that was why she felt torn.
Lost.
She was still lost, and the offer, the hint of help - that hand again, outstretched like a lifeline in a raging storm - and she was beaten down again. She'd taken the hand when offered and she knew what it meant wasn't something to dismiss easily. It wasn't something she could afford to dismiss, not really - her precarious position in the Empire was at stake.
Her precarious position in the House was at stake too. She shivered, hand turning the shower on and letting the water run, warming over her outstretched fingers. She could still feel the pulse, the pounding beat of music from the dark cantina from a few days ago humming in her blood, the release and games it'd been. She'd had to go back after it, because hiding in the underworld had still brought her face-first with someone who could report on her absence. Better to go back on her own, show up.
Her fingers slid over the tiled wall dragging water droplets with her digits, streaking the surface like claws rending, nails catching in the grooves. She could immerse herself in her work again, let the work eat away her inhibitions and destroy the last fragments of her old self, or she could cling to her friends and to their precious hopes. She knew what she should do, as a Sith - the voice whispered in her thoughts. She could lie to them, use them, confuse them, hide her work, have both worlds again. For just a moment, for a few weeks or months, she could have it back.
Not everything though. She doubted Shukla would forgive the lie, the protecting of Raxino'vel versus a shaky friendship - she could explain it but it'd require the woman to give her a chance and she doubted that chance would ever come up. She felt a slice at the fact Sriia had warned Jean about associating with her. Sriia who'd maybe started this all, been the folcrum for everything crashing down, the tip that had changed it all.
If it hadn't been for her she'd never had run into Xekseko. Never run in to Venrrir. Never come to Arkatorn's attention perhaps, never met Hadzuka. All the maybes ran in her mind as the water washed around, the Miralukan knowing it was useless to look at the past and the what-if's. But there was a boil of anger now, worming into her thoughts like a poisonous trickle.
If she hadn't cared so much for her friends...
Ciphered Holos
The singer's voice was a soft croon, the Miralukan absently flicking her fingers, the volume raising in the workroom. The song was sad and melancholy, mournful, and the woman moved through the lab with a sway of hips, almost dancing to the beat. The skirt was split and she wore a pair of lose pants underneath, twisting her heel and rolling her neck, fingers fanning out as her arms spread in the arm, graceful. She discounted the possibility of surveillance and simply lived in the moment as she worked, humming along with the song.
She'd done a variety of projects while at the Estate but had returned to her medical work, rekindled with a new passion from her talks with Lord A'sinder. Their work dovetailed well and it made her want to stretch out to new heights, new horizons, and new symptoms.
Aran had always been a student of sorcery as much as alchemy, and her years of medical training - Force and mundane - meant she knew the ways to twist and tweak just enough. Knitting Runna's mind together had brought a whole new possibility to her work - was it possible to induce that fragmenting? Quickly, easily, with the Force?
Segmenting emotions by manipulating the limbic system was one thing, exacerbating one emotion so that it overwrought the target but was it possible to make someone entirely consumed by an emotion without her virus as the medium? Was it possible to quickly induce that fragmented personality Runna evidenced?
And if the answer was yes, what could she do with it? She frowned as the song ended, another twisting of fingers shutting the music down so that she could hum on her own, soft but pitch perfect. She was already weaving knitted commands into Runna's fragmented mind in order to put her to sleep - could she put commands in to trigger one emotional response?
She wanted a trained mind to try it on now. Her work on her second virus now seemed to have halted but she muttered in frustration before turning back to it. She couldn't stop working on it now that she had a new avenue to look forward to - she needed to continue to show results.
Otherwise she'd risk losing patronage, power, and she'd be right back where she started. You just traded one set of chains- but that thought she stopped. No, she was free through her own actions. Her determination would claw her back the rank she needed to act and operate freely.
Setting onto her stool she hooked her feet on the bar running around the circumference of the legs and tapped her fingers against the desk. A dragging of fingers into the air brought up the molecular structure of the latest virus she had been working on, turning it with a twist of her hand. Something was missing every time she ran it through the creation phase. Something that left it breaking down into an inert form too easily. It barely had time to spread before the host was useless. It burned through its victim - well, projected victim, she was keeping this one in simulator until it was operating correctly - and ran them out but was too... well, the listed effects were reputedly gruesome.
She poked and prodded the proteins, the twisted strands until she started to work in another modification based on her first work and then it clicked. "Yes..." she breathed, leaning forward as she worked. Link that there and allow that to bleed over... durable, spreading, but still with her required need to burn out if it moved too far from the battlefield.
Now the challenge was to make it a small enough particle to get through filtration systems. She dragged the stool closer, leaning over the terminal while she worked.
She'd done a variety of projects while at the Estate but had returned to her medical work, rekindled with a new passion from her talks with Lord A'sinder. Their work dovetailed well and it made her want to stretch out to new heights, new horizons, and new symptoms.
Aran had always been a student of sorcery as much as alchemy, and her years of medical training - Force and mundane - meant she knew the ways to twist and tweak just enough. Knitting Runna's mind together had brought a whole new possibility to her work - was it possible to induce that fragmenting? Quickly, easily, with the Force?
Segmenting emotions by manipulating the limbic system was one thing, exacerbating one emotion so that it overwrought the target but was it possible to make someone entirely consumed by an emotion without her virus as the medium? Was it possible to quickly induce that fragmented personality Runna evidenced?
And if the answer was yes, what could she do with it? She frowned as the song ended, another twisting of fingers shutting the music down so that she could hum on her own, soft but pitch perfect. She was already weaving knitted commands into Runna's fragmented mind in order to put her to sleep - could she put commands in to trigger one emotional response?
She wanted a trained mind to try it on now. Her work on her second virus now seemed to have halted but she muttered in frustration before turning back to it. She couldn't stop working on it now that she had a new avenue to look forward to - she needed to continue to show results.
Otherwise she'd risk losing patronage, power, and she'd be right back where she started. You just traded one set of chains- but that thought she stopped. No, she was free through her own actions. Her determination would claw her back the rank she needed to act and operate freely.
Setting onto her stool she hooked her feet on the bar running around the circumference of the legs and tapped her fingers against the desk. A dragging of fingers into the air brought up the molecular structure of the latest virus she had been working on, turning it with a twist of her hand. Something was missing every time she ran it through the creation phase. Something that left it breaking down into an inert form too easily. It barely had time to spread before the host was useless. It burned through its victim - well, projected victim, she was keeping this one in simulator until it was operating correctly - and ran them out but was too... well, the listed effects were reputedly gruesome.
She poked and prodded the proteins, the twisted strands until she started to work in another modification based on her first work and then it clicked. "Yes..." she breathed, leaning forward as she worked. Link that there and allow that to bleed over... durable, spreading, but still with her required need to burn out if it moved too far from the battlefield.
Now the challenge was to make it a small enough particle to get through filtration systems. She dragged the stool closer, leaning over the terminal while she worked.
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