Ciphered Holos

Short hair was easy to run a hand through, the Miralukan feeling something still missing every time she hit the end of her hair, still expecting to have the long trademarked locs that made her so easy to find. She was largely left alone, study materials helpfully provided and left for her, the servants of the ship at her relative beck and call for practise, giving Aran nothing but time and solitude. She had always been able to occupy herself with work, with troubles she and her friends got into, but with nothing she found her attention shifting back more and more to the left-out resources.

What would they think of you now? she taunted herself, catching herself before she sighed. Emotions ebbed and steadied as she set the material aside, hands curling into balled-up fists and arms wrapped around her torso.

She gave her promise that she would stop trying to leave. Isn’t this what friendship is? Friendship was... more than pain, but what amount was she just being used? What part of her alliances and friendships were limited to how useful she was to them versus how dangerous she was? Was she valued for her worth, or was she valued for being information and a resource?

Did they care? And what did they care about - was it the lie she told them or would they care about who she was, who she’d become? Would they still care if they knew about Doc’s blackmailers and what she’d done to them? Would they see it as justified or would they see it as too far.

Was it too far? For a Jedi - yes. But she wasn’t a Jedi - she was... something else. She wasn’t willing to call herself sith but it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? And what was she, if not acting like and studying as if she were a sith in truth - was telling herself she wasn’t a sith just a lie?

Had she really done it, given up on the last of her promises? The big final ones that she’d made years ago, saying she’d never go back, never again become a Sith, were important. They’d been given to Krenthor, to the first Jedi she’d met and respected; he’d been so thrilled at the promise she’d made, offering her a hand in friendship. Her expression fell with confusion seeping into her frame, showing on her face, in her shoulders, in the lines and motions of her hands. Fingers curled and clenched, mind racing.

Aran knew she was past the ‘what are you doing’ stage. She was well past the stage where she could hand-wave, say it was just a phase, and go back to her life. She could still go back to her life, the business, but then her hands curled again. No, she couldn’t, not really. She’d found the joy in experimentation, in pushing the limitations and expanding an idea again, the pure pleasure when it succeeded. She’d always want to play now, with the taste of it on her lips - she could see herself running Sanguine again, splitting her profits by percentage to Venrirr per their arrangement, and splitting her time with experimentation.

“Would you enjoy the life, were you to allow yourself the pleasure of it?” Aran remembered Arkatorn’s honest question, and the slow music, low and steady in her ears. She remembered the feel of skin under her hand, the heat warming the gloves she’d been wearing. Hands ran through her hair again, gripping the strands and tugging as if that would gather her wandering wits.

It was a question Aran didn’t even need to answer. She’d been so far into self-denial, focusing on protecting others and only learning to help them, that she knew the answer - what had she done since standing back from her attempt to flee? The woman had slowly thrown herself into research for the sake of it, research for no reason but that it intrigued her, letting curiosity guide her as she went through and mapped out possibilities. She wanted to have someone to share her ideas with, someone to bounce them off of who’d point out the flaws in her reasoning; Aran had already found herself talking aloud again, muttering notions as she directed the servants.

She’d found their presence comfortable, dismissible. She took them for granted, slowly falling back into the pattern of giving them fewer requests and more orders. Patterns she’d thought were erased were back as if she’d never spent time as a Jedi, revelling in emotions and finding them, again, as natural to use as breathing.

Her hands uncurled, fingers lacing together and resting her forehead against the digits. Arkatorn had picked up the acolytes she had asked for, because she knew if she wanted to protect herself and others she needed to be able to get past the defenses of a force sensitives. But- she stopped.

It wasn’t really for someone else anymore was it? She could be honest in her solitude, even if the realization wouldn’t be told to anyone else. She wasn’t doing this - this study, this control attempt - for someone else. Of course it could be used to protect someone, but she was doing this for the sake of it, wasn’t she? She was studying and practicing for herself, because she wanted to and because it intrigued her.

What was she doing then? Aran stood up, hiding the shaking in her hands by balling them into fists. She was choosing. She was living. She was living for herself though, shifting the focus of her actions so that they weren’t always on behalf of someone else. She wasn’t studying to save someone, protect someone, or help someone, she was studying because she wanted to and because she was bored - and the woman couldn’t find it in herself to feel doing something selfish was inherently wrong.

You have to do this, Aran. For yourself. You have to stop lying and accept who and what you really are. Haunting her mind was the soft question of what she would do when she was finally let go, because the decision was outside of her hands. Or maybe- she thudded her head once against the wall of the room she was coming to think of as her own, little tensions starting to build in her mind again.

Everything used to center around the attempts to help people, however poorly those attempts ended up going - and her track record was horrendous. Sverdas was merely the last in a long line of failed attempts to save someone, someone who didn’t always want the help. Was it worth helping someone when they didn’t need to be saved? Was Arkatorn right, was her desire to help merely protecting the value she placed on a relationship?

Was it a weakness she needed to change?

Another thud, head against the wall, and she sighed.



You suggested this, Aran recalled.. And she had, the almost musing comment one she meant to remind herself. If this was going to work against a Jedi, a shadow, as a method of defense then she needed to be able to control a sensitive. If she was going to protect herself and try to fight against the vulnerability that she had, get a jump on a Jedi before they reached for her mind and its absent defenses, then she needed to do this.

For herself.

The small troupe of acolytes Arkatorn had picked up were in a line in front of the woman, staring defiantly or fearfully at her. She knew she looked nothing like the part she was starting to play, the rugged vest still there, the knife removed from her boot; she looked like a ruffian and nothing that the acolytes should fear.

But some of them did. Some of them could feel her presence in the Force and Aran didn’t know if she was relieved they were fearful or worried, knowing that it meant she’d crossed those lines. But what good is holding the shaky ground between light and dark when it gets you killed? What good is holding back from being able to defend myself? Aran shook her head, gesturing for one of the acolytes to step forward.

Once the Miralukan would’ve wanted to know their names. She would’ve asked them if they objected to helping her. She would’ve been kind and polite, setting them at ease with pleasant words and inviting them to sit. She would’ve worked with them and helped them defend against her. She would’ve been fair.

What about this is fair? Frustration rose and she stood, stalking towards what looked to be the youngest of the acolytes - the most recent failure. She didn’t know the stories of the people the pureblood had gathered at her request only that he had. They were from Korriban. She shouldn’t care for them, they were training tools. Useful, necessary, but ultimately unimportant to her beyond their immediate purpose.

Think of them as a means, not as people she told herself sternly, feeling the hesitation to act in herself. Hands ran through her hair and she shook the short bangs out, jaw tightening, anger rising - not at the acolytes but at herself. She couldn’t bring herself to act. But it’d be in defense... She fought mentally, hesitation warring with desire.

The weakness was obvious, even to the poorly trained acolytes and one of them got over his fear of her affinity. Maybe he figured that if he defeated or broke her he’d get taken in, trained, raised up. Maybe he figured he could win because she hesitated but the sudden movement was caught, head almost snapping up to study the boy.

Her hand lifted, a bolt of lightning leaving her fingertips and catching the boy in the chest. He screamed, the other acolytes pulling back. There’d been no time for camaraderie and alliances to form so there was no one to try to help him, going to his knees with a scream. She knew what he thought of her, it was written on her face. The servants - or were they slaves? She’d never asked or thought to ask Arkatorn what they were.

Scream for me she taunted the boy, watching him give in to the pain and cry out. But it was easy to do that and it meant nothing for her experiment. She stopped the pain and lighting, letting him get back to his feet, watching him shake from the tremors. Had she over-done it?

No. He would’ve done more than try to run past me. She knew acolytes. She used to use them as fodder for her experiments and fighting, she knew how they would swarm weakness. And she’d displayed weakness.

You know better she chided herself. “Let’s play, child.” And the boy bristled, as she knew he would. She didn’t need to tell them what to do. They were swirling emotions and determination, uncertainty, fear, apprehension, and she could taste it. She gave a wiggle of fingers before her hand outstretched again, catching the acolyte in the chest again. And this time he fought her control, raw power rising to resist her pain, untrained but still enough. He had been sent to Korriban, after all - he had the potential. He was flawed, but he’d had the potential.

She didn’t move but her own attention sharpened in response, bringing her focus to bear. Will fought power, Aran wanting to break his untrained power, forcing her will over his body. He jerked in pain but the movements were uncontrolled, unrefined, resistive. And then she felt herself grow angry as it didn’t work properly and she channeled that anger into her attack, feeding the emotions and knitting them in until it was enough.

The moment when his jerking stopped was heralded by a shrill feeling of fear from his mind, fear she reached out and added to her arsenal. The moment when he stopped moving and barely jerked under the lighting, screaming his agony for the room to hear and their fear grew, was a glorious one. It was like a break in the clouds as she felt the change, the difference between making the servants move and stopping his motions. It was an order of magnitude of control between the servants and the acolyte, feeling the subversion of his muscles as a victory. She wondered if this level of effort would grow easier, but now...

...she let her control break, the acolyte sagging. He almost sobbed but her expression was uncaring. He’s a tool, a training implement and nothing more. That’s what they all are. Tools. She took a step forward, motioning for the acolyte to stand. There was a slow but growing sense of glee as she studied the group, feeling their strengths.

She made the male scream again. Then she forced him to his knees, feeling the strength of his mind as he rebelled and tried to break her control over his own body. It was a struggle, a constant battle, a challenge that she rose and slowly started to meet. Sweat soaked her jacket and her hand shook before she finally had to stop.

They were sobbing when she released them, Aran putting her back to a wall. No weakness now. She refused to show them weakness after making them cry.

The defiant male kept his head lowered now, the lesson temporarily driven home. She could read the roil of his emotions though and knew she’d need to do it again. He’d be the challenge to keep controlled, the Miralukan giving the acolytes a dark grin, teeth bared in the expression.

In a few hours she’d come back and repeat the process. Now that they knew what she was doing she expected resistance. She wanted them to have the time to formulate tricks and traps. She wanted them to think, to react, and to resist.

Aran wanted, no needed them to prove a challenge.