That's CAPTAIN Vyen'a to you, kid.

The woman sighed as she flipped through a stack of flimsi, looking for a shipping manifest.  ”The hell’d I put that thing,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head with a sigh.

A rush of warmth made her gasp, then smile, tilting her head to speak through her mind to the Jedi who had sent it.  ‘Ey, Ihl.  Wha’s new in your life?  Ain’t talked t’ ya in a bit.

She paused, frowning. The warmth faded as quickly as it came, leaving an achingly cold hollow in its place.  That wasn’t right, nor was it familiar; Ihlrath’s mind brushes always left her feeling like she’d been wrapped up in blankets and left in front of a fireplace.  This sensation was one of an icy solitude.

Farewell…

The flimsi stack fell from Vyen’a’s hand, scattering across the floor of the common area of her ship as she fell to her knees, clutching her stomach as the wave of realization hit her.  That icy solitude was a feeling that had only touched her once before: as her parents were wrapped in their traditional burial shrouds and took their place in the mossy green hills of Mirial.

“No.  No, Ihl, no,” she sobbed, curling her knees to her chest, the cold durasteel plates of the floor pressing patterns into the flesh of her arms as she reached out again and again, searching for him the way he had taught her.

Only the silent solitude of space responded.

The quiet, constant hum of the kolto tank buzzed soft and low against the back of Vyen’a’s consciousness, creating an almost comforting blanket of sound.

Except the sound wasn’t comforting.  And she was so cold.

She stared down at her legs, her boots still speckled with bits of a mix of sand and blood.  How long had she sat here?  She lifted a datapad from the floor by her foot, tapping the display to life.

By Galactic Standard Time: four days, sixteen hours, four minutes.

That is how long it had been since she nearly broke flight speed records, cursing and biting back tears the whole way from Tatooine to Coruscant, precious cargo stable and asleep in her med bay’s kolto tank.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them.  Sotori and Rikur were fine medics.  But the man in the tank was still unconscious when they left the planet.  And he still hadn’t woken up, even after a steady stream of doctors and specialists had poked, prodded, checked and rechecked his vitals, his bioscans, and everything else they could think of.

Jerax still did not stir when they moved him from the kolto tank after day three, laying him in a fresh layer of sheets on a narrow hospital bed.

He didn’t move when his mother and father came, sitting a while with Vyen’a, urging her to take a room in the wing designated for family members.

He didn’t move.  So she didn’t move.

Vyen’a sighed, lowering her head to rest on the pillow next to Jerax, fingertips turning the thick platinum band around and around his ring finger.

All she could do was wait, they had said.  He could wake up in a day, or he could wake up in a decade.  So she waited.

She would always wait.

The datapad bleeped an alert on her lap, making her sit up with a slight start to look at the readout.  She couldn’t help but choke back a strangled sob of a laugh.  The calendar was displayed, a small mark on the day.  

She set the datapad down on the floor again with a small sigh, running fingers through her unkempt hair, and leaned forward, kissing the man’s brow softly and whispering almost inaudibly.

“It’s been a year since Ord Mantell.”  She paused, then sighed, resting her forehead against his.  ”Happy anniversary, Jerax.”

The man did not stir.

HOLO 44.2.248://

TEXT READOUT

DISPLAY? Y/N

I’m getting real sick of the attitude of a lot of Jedi.  Just because me and mine aren’t force sensitive doesn’t mean we aren’t worth a little bit of common decency.  We’re more than just meat shields for their reindeer games, or targets to mind fuck when they get irritated.

And unfortunately, it’s starting to feel like some of our allies in the Marran don’t see it that way.  That just because we’re not special snowflake force sensitive darlings, we don’t deserve the basic respect that jedi practically demand just by their presence.

I’m getting really sick of people idly throwing around references to “mindkriffing” people like they’re talking about picking up a cup of caf.  Getting really sick of patching up my boys in blue because they took a force blast to the chest and took to the air like a bird in an Alderaan spring, just to make some space for a jedi to run in and start swinging with their glowbat and get all the credit and glory.  

Sith bleed just as good from blaster fire as the next fucker, and I don’t care how all powerful they are, one Sith can’t deflect sustained fire from a dozen blasters at once.

And I know I ain’t the only one who feels this way.

Bald nearly went to blows with Ihlrath on the Hyperion last night.  Because one of Ihlrath’s people told Oz to go home… and Oz tried to walk out the airlock on their hangars.  Put that idea right in his head.  I might not like Oz - shit, that’s the understatement of the year - but I’ve saved his ass enough to know how he bleeds. They tried to say it was “just a suggestion”, but with everything Bald’s going through, dealing with Red…

It was nasty.

And the thing is, I don’t think any of the forcers get why he was so angry.  They don’t - or refuse to - see the ramifications of being able to just look at someone and make them think “Oh, I should go” but not have any control over how they’re going to do it.  To just idly affect someone’s actions like that, to take away their control?  It makes them no better than Sith.  Absolutely no better than those fucks who screwed up Red’s brain so badly.

And it didn’t help that Bald and I were in a little tiff not thirty seconds before Oz came wandering by, brain all scrambled.  About Red.  Because I guess I don’t know when to stop poking the bear when it comes to her.

And Nia’s probably mad at me now, too.  I told her I was trying to track down where Dhen fucked off to when he transferred out.  I want to drag his ass back by that busted nose of his so Nia can properly kick it for treating her like shit.  For fucking off without even saying so much as goodbye.  I deserved a goodbye, and she deserved a whole lot more than a shitty letter.

Fuck, man.  Last night just sucked.

HOLO 234.23.7://

!!!ALERT!!!

Visual Feed attached.  Commence playback?: Y/N

The video flickers and fades into focus, Vy’s fresh-scrubbed face looking happier than it has in months.  She looks over her shoulder, grinning, and looks back to the camera.  The form of a man sitting at a desk can be seen through the open door behind her.

I asked ‘im.

An’ ‘e said yes.

He’s gonna marry me.

Her grin grows even bigger.

I can’t even remember what I said.  I jus’… I had t’ ask ‘im.  An’ he looked so, so shocked.  An’ for a minute, lookin’ up at ‘im, I thought he was gonna say no again, an’ leave me sittin’ there wit’ a ring in my hand an’…

She looks over her shoulder, voice muffled slightly.

I tol’ him I couldn’ promise nothin’.  Tha’ I was no good an’ couldn’ be tha’ perfect little one who only had eyes for him forever an’ always, pretty much.  But I did tell ‘im tha’ I loved him number one, an’ always would.

She looks back, still smiling.

An’ he still said yes.

So shi’, universe.  Bring on th’ imps.  Bring on th’ gian’ bug people, th’ pissy Hutts wit’ grudges, the asshole ex-lovers wit’ chips on their shoulders.

Ain’ nothin’ can hurt me now.

!!!VIDEO FEED ENDED!!!

The thin line of smoke curled against the bluish light of a datapad readout screen, tendrils illuminated against the darkness of the room.  Vyen’a sat, legs tucked under, the cigarette dangling from her fingertips as she absently read the datapad, lost in thought.

Been a helluva year, ain’t it?

The woman smiled, lavender eyes glancing to the half-open doorway.  A figure could be seen curled on its side, blankets wrapped around the masculine frame half-exposed by the empty spot on the bed where she’d been shortly before.

Yeah.  A helluva year.

Memories tumbled around her as she tightened the blanket around her shoulders; that first chance meeting on Ord Mantell seeming absolutely innocuous until Jerax took off his helmet.  Vyen’a had seen hundreds of faces in the years before that, taken plenty of the prettier ones to bed, but something in his eyes struck her down to her very core like no one else.  It’s why she’d stuck around after getting him in bed, rather than sending him on his way.  She wanted to know more.  

Even with that jealous streak.

Vyen’a smirked slightly.  They hadn’t been without their problems.  The whatever it was with Dhen.  The fights.  The breakup and break.  It was simple enough to fall back into old patterns while they were split.  Tal was easy to fall into bed with; the twi’lek had the same drive, the same spirit between the sheets as she did.  The fact that he’d seemed to be almost infatuated with her was fun, too.

Wonder where he got off to.  Trouble, knowing him.

Her smile faded slightly.

And then there’s Ihlrath.

The smile dissolved into a scowl, slender fingers stubbing out the cigarette as she glanced at the necklace resting on her table.  She’d stopped wearing it a few days after she was pulled out of the kolto tank, its slender gold chain replaced by the carefully wrought platinum one from Jerax.  Vyen’a kicked herself for having fallen for Ihl’s words.

Of course he told you he loved you, dumbass.  You were gonna stop sleeping with him.

It still didn’t take the prideful sting away.  When he’d stopped talking to her, slowly at first, then just not responding at all.  When Alasha grabbed him at the trials like she had a claim others didn’t.   

Bet she thought I told her I’d look out for him for her.  Bet she hasn’t a clue about me and him.

The few times after the trials when she’d tried to reach out to Ihl and got nothing didn’t sting as bad as the knowledge that she’d actually believed it.  She’d known better; she had her boundaries that only one or two others had gotten past before.

And he never even thanked you for rewiring his ship, or the Hyperion.  Eh, you’re a dumb slua, girl.  Live and learn.

She lit another cigarette, burning ember glowing red hot against the dark of the room, and glanced over her shoulder toward Jerax’s sleeping form again.  He was the one that mattered the most.  The trick was to get him to understand it.

The good lieutenant doesn’t need to know about what happened.  Any of it.  All he needs to know is that whatever happens, whoever shows up, I’ll always come back to him.  I’ll always be his girl first.

She’d kept people at arm’s length for so long; Jerax had finally given her a reason - and the want - to open up and truly feel.  Vyen’a glanced back down at the datapad on her lap, the small smile creeping back across her face at the display of elegantly wrought, delicate yet somehow still masculine rings listed.

Always his girl first.

0322, Galactic Standard time.

A med bay.

A row of kolto tanks, each filled with bodies, some two to a tank, the healing properties of the liquid silently working, the only noise the beep of machinery and droids.

It was late.  Or early.  All the other living souls on board the Hyperion were asleep.

Except her.

The chill of the glass seeped through her fingertips and crept up her arms, causing Vyen’a to shiver slightly in place.  Still, she stood, hands pressed flat against the outside of the tank, forehead resting against the thick glass.  She hated med bays.  She hated being tanked.  Right now, though, she would trade everything she’d ever had to be inside, floating unconscious.  Instead of him.  The cot she’d made up lay untouched; the blankets, unfolded.  

She shivered again but didn’t recognize the motion, eyes squeezed tightly shut as she silently mouthed the almost forgotten words from her childhood.  The prayers she had learned, drawing figures with the edge of a stick in the hard-packed dirt of the grotto’s floor, carved from the thick rock halfway up the mountain.  A place to meditate and become a part of the life force with the goddesses, the gentle old priest had told her.  

And she had. 

The memory of the warmth that came with prayer never left her; how after she felt as though she glowed brighter than any star in the night sky.  How she felt so peaceful - so right.  Like her face turned toward a warm spring sun after months of rain.  When she was removed from training after her parents were gone, the feeling was gone.  Lost forever to time, she’d assumed.

Until she met Jerax.

And then the warmth came back.

She took a shuddering breath, tear slipping out from the corner of her eye to creep down the bridge of her nose, hanging from its tip until it broke free and fell, splashing against her boot.  A droid rolled near, beeping, and she shook her head.  

“No.  Still stable.  I’m watching this one.”

The droid beeped in acknowledgement, moving to the next tank.  Vyen’a let out a shaky breath.  She’d not let Jerax know how bad his injuries really were.  She may have even tried to play them off, urging him to have a drink with the rest of the less-injured.  But now her eyes opened to stare down at the readout, the scan results flashing across the screens.  She knew how close he’d come.

Her eyes raised to look at his face through the thick glass and greenish liquid, still somehow peaceful in artificial unconsciousness, and her breath caught slightly in her throat.  The prayers started up again, haltingly, before trailing off into a shuddering sigh as she pressed her forehead against the glass again.

The droids beeped their readouts.

The kolto tanks hummed.

A minute clicked on the chrono hanging on the wall.

0323, Galactic Standard time.

Vyen’a stared up at the ceiling of the Hyperion’s med bay, listening to the quiet thrum of activity around her: the sickly cough of a soldier, the gentle hum of the kolto tank behind her, whir-beeps of attendant droids as they checked patient after patient.

Fuckin’ hate these places.

She struggled to sit up, propping herself on her elbows shakily and looking around the bay.  She had to promise to come back for them to let her get out of the tank in the first place.  The kolto tank, where she had floated, unconscious and oblivious, for well over a full galactic standard day until Ihlrath had nudged her mind.  

Do you plan on sleeping all day?

The question had curled around the edges of her consciousness, shaking her awake mentally even as the heavy sedation kept her body asleep.  It was through that conversation she had learned of the end of the battle, how the walker she and Book and a dozen soldiers were moving in took a direct hit.  How it was sheer luck that she wasn’t killed outright; the soldier to her left took a piece of shrapnel through the throat, cutting apart his heavy armor like it was the most delicately woven synthweave.  

That was the last thing she remembered seeing; the shock in the man’s eyes fading to the flat emptiness of death.  Apparently one of the Marran - Soterius? - turned back to find the walker and pulled the survivors free, one by one.

More lives than a manka cat, hon.  You’re gonna run out of luck soon enough.

Vyen’a flexed the toes on her broken leg, frowning.  Between the kolto and the force powers that had been used, her right leg was quickly stitching itself back together.  Crushed under an armor box this time, she thought wryly.  Shot.  Stabbed.  Shot again. Infected.  Might as well hack it off at the knee and get cybernetic replacement at this point. She flexed her toes again.  Like hell.

Her thoughts drifted back to the night before.  Waking up mentally, if not physically, to speak with Ihlrath.  Waking up again to stare through the thick liquid and thicker glass, the blurry figures staring back.  Laughing.  Her mouth drew down slightly at the memory.

Tlau, the lot.  Let’s see how -they’d- like being stuck in that thing.

But coming out, finally.  The first breath of fresh air - as fresh as recirculated air could get - felt like heaven.  And Jerax.  The look of relief, of love on his face as he helped her down and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.  Niatara’s grin, turning almost sheepish as Vyen’a had looked between the diminutive Zabrak and the hulking soldier next to her.

Good on ya, Ansten.  Y’contacted her.  Don’t fuck it up, eh?

And the way she felt, cradled in Jerax’s arms as he carried her around.  Like a tiny baby, somehow.  Reborn.  Maybe it was the look of actual, honest relief and…  happiness, maybe? On the face of everyone who saw her out of the tank, alive. Cursing as the pain crept back into her chest, her leg.  And - when they all suddenly found themselves face to face with the oldest, ugliest, most insect-looking fuck she’d ever seen - the sharp edge of pain glistening just under the numbing of the med stim the droid had shot her full of before they went planetside  made everything far funnier than they should have been.  

Niatara and Alasha didn’t seem happy about what the creature had said to them.  Jerax seemed tense at the words directed toward him. Only she had laughed.  Whether she was delirious from pain or kolto, or the irony of the situation hit her before it truly sunk in, she had laughed.

He don’ know what he’s talkin’ about.

She rubbed her eyes, her own words echoing in her head.  He had known what he was talking about, that was the problem.  The years spent carefully crafting her identity, running from place to place, seemed so foreign to her even now, barely a week from when she was considering disappearing again.

I don’t regret it.  Not any more.

She looked up, smiling, as a familiar voice echoed from outside the bay; the low, masculine rumble echoing against the durasteel walls the same way it had echoed off the inside of his helmet on their first meeting, way back on Ord Mantell.

It brought me here.

Tomorrow.  One more day.

The woman looked over her shoulder at the man, deep in his sated sleep, and smiled softly.

I love him.

She slipped from under the blankets, hissing softly as her bare feet hit the cold durasteel of the floor, and padded naked across the room to his desk, sitting and carefully pulling a loose sheet of flimsiplast free from a sheaf of papers.  A few drawers open and close until a pen is found.

She took a deep breath, glancing over her shoulder again, and began to write.  Lists of bank accounts, access codes, hundreds of thousands of credits scattered in bunches across the galaxy.  The codes to pilot her ship; the ones that need to be entered every time to ensure it’s not being stolen again - and therefore preventing the engine from frying itself.  All her worldly goods, listed onto a single piece of flimsi.

She looked over her shoulder again, writing the man’s name at the top of the page.

He’s first.  I’ll take care of him, no matter what happens to me.

Her hand faltered.

And if he falls too?

She wrote the woman’s name next; the shy shell who’s already recovered more than Vyen’a ever thought possible.

She’s gone through so much, and now Red’s the only one that’s guaranteed to see the next sunrise.  I could fall.  Jer’ax could fall.  Bald?  Shit, Jerhal’s goin’ front lines with Ihlrath.  I need to make sure Red’s taken care of, too.

She blinked, startled, vision suddenly blurred by tears before they slid down the sides of her nose, splashing against the back of her hand.

The hell’s wrong wit’ you?

She took a deep breath, looking back down at the desk.  Her whole life, twenty five galactic standard years, reduced to a list scribbled out on a piece of flimsiplast.  

Oh.  That’d explain it, yeh?

She shivered in the cool air of the ship, small bumps rising along her bare arms, and looked over her shoulder to the inviting sight of the bed, full of Jer’ax and covered in warm blankets.

Finish this first, Anaria.

She sighed, looking back to the task at hand.  The memory of her parents graves, slowly being filled side by side in the cold drizzle of rain that morning so long ago, filtered through her mind; she shook her head to remove the image, then jotted a final line.

If I die, take me to Mirial.  Wrap me in satin and bury me next to my mother.

She tapped the pen thoughtfully.

If Jer’ax and I both die, bury me near him.

She scratched the line out, looking over her shoulder at the sleeping man again.

Maybe I should ask him to marry me again.  Maybe…

She shook her head again, looking back at the list.

It’s up to him, the next time.  If there’s a next time.

She picked up her datapad from his desk, resting where she’d left it as they came in, and tapped in the codes.  Lists of troop positioning, ship counts, faction numbers all blinked awake to shine softly in the darkness of the room, illuminating her face with an eerie blue glow.  

Please let there be a next time.

For the first time in a very long time, Vyen’a felt her heart flutter in her chest.  She was truly frightened.   

She sat quietly, studying the information, memorizing the lines, the names, the way the terrain rose up and fell away, all the information gathered by the reconnaissance mission the day before.

The war was here.  Worse than anything else they’d ever faced.  And it would all be decided tomorrow.

Tomorrow we’ll discover what the maker has in store.  

One by one.

She sighed, setting the datapad down, and blinks back the threat of rising tears.

One more day.

Silently, she padded back to the bed, slipping back between the covers and wrapping around the sleeping man, murmuring soft words as she nuzzled the back of his neck, closing her eyes and willing sleep to come quickly.

One day more.

The low crackle-buzz of automated lights clicking on filtered through Vyen’a’s subconscious, her eyes opening slowly.  Unfamiliar walls, an unfamiliar ceiling, an unfamiliar bed gently became known as she woke, turning her head to glance back toward the sleeping man curled around her.

A familiar face.

Jerax.

She hadn’t expected to see him there.  She hadn’t expected to be there; it took some careful slicing and flying to get within range, spending way too much on a half-junked personal shuttle only to abandon it if necessary, holding her breath more than once doing things that should have gotten her killed, her head smashed like an overripe berry from the pressure of space; whispering thankful prayers when they worked, wondering when her luck would run out.

And then while she was working; expecting a quick slice in and slip away, the Marran, the Seventh, all of them arriving for the real work.  The hard work.  And her blending back in with them seamlessly.

And their insistence that she return with them to the Hyperion.  

Up until then, she was still uncertain if she would return, or if she did, if she would stay.  Then they started.  Ihlrath’s warm smile as she walked onto the bridge.  Jerhal’s words echoed in her head,  ”Dumb cunt, don’t you ever do that again!”, whispered as he crushed her into a hug.  The crudeness of the statement belying the very deep emotion beneath.  Even then, though, she wasn’t sure.  It would have been easy, so easy to just slip away again.  To make her own way again.

Like the sent holo, though, Jerax’s emotion at seeing her had broke her will to be alone again.  Through the stoicism of his face, his eyes gave it all away.  The hands on her waist and in her hair as he had pressed his mouth to hers, the surprising amount of fear that tinged the kiss sealed it.

She couldn’t leave that.

She couldn’t leave him.

Vyen’a shifted, rolling carefully to face Jerax and resting her forehead against his as he slept.  A small smile passed across his face at the movement; she smiled back softly.  She knew, now.  She could stop running, for the first time since she left Mirial.  She could stop looking.  No matter what happened - with the Nemesis, with this idiot Colonel trying to take them out, with the Sith, with the Seventh, with anyone anywhere.

Right here is where she wanted to be.

She was home.

The incessant beep of the comm echoed off the walls of the cargo bay; a high-pitched trill no creature found in nature could imitate.  She had chosen that particular alert for that very reason: she never knew where she would be when a message came in, so she wanted to be sure to hear it.  Wherever.  Whenever.

Now, though her head was buried under pillows three rooms down her ship’s corridors, she quietly cursed herself for choosing such a recognizable sound.  It had started up again a few hours earlier and had repeated every half hour.  Without fail.  For the past day and a half.

Fuckin’ Bald.

Read More →

HOLO 246.2.221://

Unlike the entries previous, chattered out in rapid-fire Basic with the occasional curse or exclamation in Huttese or Ul’Zabrak, this entry was recorded in a soft, lyrical tongue.  Any translator would recognize it immediately as Mirialan.

I can’t do this any more.

I don’t even know who I am any more.

I’m tired of keeping up the act.  I keep breaking, or almost breaking.  I miswired my own damn hyperdrive.  Something I could do drunk and half-asleep.  Hell, something I *have* done drunk and half-asleep.  Nearly ended up bantha burger on the side of some no-name moon behind some no-name planet on the outer edge of the outer rim.

Everything is just… wrong.  

Maybe it’s time I took off the mask.  Find someone else to be.

Vyen’a doesn’t fail.

I failed.  

The one thing I wanted - the only thing, the thing I didn’t even know I really and truly wanted - I failed at.

Taking a break.  Yeah, right.

Everyone knows what that means.

I failed.

He came over the other night.  We spent some time at the cantina, and he came home with me.  And it was like it always should have been, and he was still there in the morning.

And then he had to go.  

And I know there’s other girls who have their eyes on him.  The ones that are better for him.  Pretty little blonde humans.  Ones who will blend in when Corellia is rebuilt.  Ones who won’t fall into bottles of whiskey.  Ones who can give him everything he ever wanted in a family.

That can give him a family.

I buried Anaria Rex when I ran from Mirial.  

Maybe it’s time to bury Vyen’a, too.

I can reinvent myself again.  I can disappear into deep space again.  Sell everything that made me Vyen’a and buy a new name.  A new face.  A new identity.

A new life.

And hope that everyone just… forgets about me.  

Jer’ax will find someone new; someone better for him.  Jerhal and Ty’nea will get married and have lots of babies and be happy.  Ihlrath will… go on being Ihlrath.  With the Marran and his Sith.  Niatara will be fine; Ansten will fall in line if he takes her on that date.

I can just be a little happy greenie memory for everyone who knows me.  Knew me.

I can disappear into the galaxy.

And…

*She chokes a tiny sob*

And just hope everyone forgets about me.

Whoever they think I am.

They only knew a lie.

HOLO 13.132.1://

TEXT ONLY, NO OVERRIDE AVAILABLE

CONTINUE? Y/N

So spending time with Red while Bald was gone made me realize that maybe I should be writing things down, rather than just recording them.  It might help me better organize my thoughts and figure out what went wrong later.

Since I haven’t done anything in well over a month, she may be right.

Bald is back, by the way.  He got down on one knee and asked Red to marry him, too.  Cute.  They’re happy.  That’s good.

I’ve been hard at work rewiring half of the Marran’s security systems, both on the Hyperion and their own personal ships.  Teaching Ihlrath to flash wire has been an… adventure, to say the least.  He’s getting it, though.  Which is good; if this Nemesis mess goes as deep as I think it does, he’ll want to know how to spot repair mid-flight.

We all do.

Rogue SIS and Imperial agents teaming together with those nasty Nemesis fucks to take out force users?  It’s like a bad holodrama, except it’s really happening.  I’ve had potshots taken at me.  Nia and Ihl have, too.  Some poor kid padawan got grabbed and tortured a few days after there was this mass fucking execution of Jedi and Sith both.  Master Nyomi was arrested and thrown in jail.  All of the Marran were falsely accused of… shit, I don’t even know what.

Last night on Thanos III was supposed to be a smile pretty for the camera joint mission between the Marran and the 7th, since my boys in blue have a new designation of HIST from command.  Not a fucking ambush.  Not getting giant fucking rocks blasted down on us.  Not putting the Marran in the crossfire between us and the traitor snipers on a shitty ridge.

I’m proud of Jerax though.  Told the Colonel in charge that there was no way in any sort of hell that he would fire with them in range.  Turns out that Colonel was some shitty turncoat traitor, too.  He got away.

Bitch better run.  I hotwired an imp shuttle to get us out of there, he better not even start to think he can outrun my ass.

Everything’s in flux, though.  The galaxy conspires to keep us on our toes.  All of us.  And some things…

Some things, no matter how much you want them, just can’t happen.  Not now.

Which is why Jerax and I are taking a break.  Officially.  He loves me.  I love him.  But right now we just…

We can’t.

He doesn’t need to be worrying about me when he’s got so much other shit on his plate.  Still burns like a blaster shot, though.  Right through my core.

Anyway.

I’ve been on comms with Nea almost every day; she’s changed so much, just since Bald came back.  She’s turning into a neat sort of person.  They’ll be happy together, I think.  Their personalities compliment each other.

…fuck, I want what they have.

Anyway.

So I have this list of potential runs to take.  I think I may just load up my schedule for a bit.  The 7th is off Corellia; took too many casualties out of the gate to hold any sort of presence, so they’re back on Carrick.  Which means I’m back to spinning my wheels.

And the galaxy can conspire all it wants, but it can’t keep me from being in control when I’m helming my ship.

I think I need to go find some new horizons.

drip…  drip…  drip…

Vyen’a’s eyes flicked along the outline of the ceiling, trailing her gaze across the durasteel plates welded together above her bed.  She stretched, fingers reaching out to grasp empty air, and her ears strained to hear anything beyond the quiet drip of the faucet in the ‘fresher room.  

High in orbit above Dantooine, she had slept.  For the first time in a long time, she was truly alone.  Even the droids had powered down for the night.  

She hated it.

She had moved Red into a flat on Carrick last week.  Before the 7th had officially moved to Corellia; to fight the war there.  No use in Bald surviving the fight wherever he was, only to come back to a dead girlfriend.  So the two women had searched out a safe spot for Ty’nea on Carrick.  A small studio.  Near a security hub.  Extra security measures installed.  When Vyen’a had left, handing a secure comm and stack of sketchpads over with a smile, the younger woman had looked so scared, but downright determined.

Vyen’a’s face flickered into a smile at the memory.  ”Tha’ girl’s got a fightin’ spirit,” she muttered quietly.

But that left her alone.  Utterly, completely alone with her thoughts.  Again, her ears strained, longing for the beep of a comm or the rumble of a droid powering up.  And again, nothing but the harsh echo of silence came from beyond the steady drip.

drip… drip… drip…

She rolled over, pulling a spiced cigarette and small lighter from a bedside drawer, lighting up and staring at the ceiling again, letting the events from the previous weeks flip through her mind.

The rave.  Tal.  The ambush. Jer’ax. The battle against the Nemesis.  The encounter with Ihlrath.  Dhen leaving.  Moving to Corellia.  Being stranded on Coruscant with a broken ship.  The Marran being declared enemies of the Republic.  Her dreams, growing increasingly more dangerous.

She takes a long drag off the cigarette, holding her breath before slowly exhaling a thin stream of smoke. And last night, she thought.  Findin’ Ihlrath.  Jer’ax threatenin’ to arrest him.  Followin’ him and findin’ Nia and all th’ Marran.  Volunteerin’ to slice int’ Imp feeds like it was nothin’.

On her empty ship, Vyen’a shivered, the gravity of the situation slowly settling around her consciousness like a shroud.  She wished for what seemed the hundredth time since she’d left Nar Shaddaa that Jer’ax was there, strong arms around her.  They’d decided to try again; he’d apologized for leaving her like he did, they’d had strained conversations and a few evenings of curling up and watching holodramas.  No sex yet; it seemed… forbidden, somehow, until things were more stable.  But his arms always made her feel safer.

And here, in the middle of empty space, Vyen’a felt unsafe for the first time: a wholly unfamiliar sensation for her, here in her element, on her ship.

Her ears strained for sound again.  

drip… drip… drip…

She let out a shaky sigh, fingers brushing the pendant at her throat.  Just a simple gift from a friend, she thought, eyes closing.  But the perceived implications are astounding.

She sighed again, unfastening the clasp behind her neck and staring at the curled chain and stone in her palm. The most dangerous things always start out that way, don’t they?  She set the necklace on the table, next to the stubbed out cigarette, and looked back up to the ceiling.  Already, her throat felt naked and exposed without the pendant resting between her collarbones. It’s amazing how quickly familiarity comes, even with something so unusual.  Her eyes flick toward the box on her desk: Jer’ax’s things, brought back in from the cargo bay.  And how fragile that familiarity really is.

She sits up, letting her breath out with a whoosh of air as her hair falls around her bare shoulders, voice seemingly booming out against the silence of the room.

“No more hidin’.  It’s time t’ tell him th’ truth. All th’ truth.”

She takes a deep breath, listening for some sound of approval from somewhere in the room, in the ship, in that quadrant of the galaxy; something telling her she was going to be okay, they were all going to be okay.

All that was returned was the steady drip of the faucet, and beyond that, the sound of silence.

((I don’t have the energy to write a VyJournal, so have a dream instead.))

***

The hills slowly blur their way into focus; not the lush green of Alderaan or the autumnal touch of Voss, but a green that permeates the very air around them, adding a sickly hue to the somber tone that stretches before her. Two graves, side by side, freshly dug and slowly being filled. A group of people surrounding her, offering murmured words of regret in a lyrical tongue.

A heavy hand on her left shoulder causes her to look up into a kindly, yet sad man’s face. Anaria, child. They’ve agreed to take you in. A slight shudder of… relief? Fear? and a small nod. I understand. What did they say about my training…?

The man shook his head. They would need you to help, my dear. I am so sorry. Her shoulders slumped as the words registered. Of… of course. As the Maker chooses, so my path shall be.

Can I still come study? If I have time?

The man looked past her; she turns her head to see a group of people. Two adults, hard faces, surrounded by several children of varying ages. She looks back at the man, who offers a tiny nod. If you can get away. You know how much they do for the village. You would be expected to help in any way.

Of course. I just… the temple is like a second home. I’ve been training for so long.

Another comforting squeeze on her shoulder. The goddess knows your heart, Anaria. Even if you can’t serve her as a priestess in flesh, she will know your love in spirit. Another small nod comes, her eyes looking back toward the graves.

Stop, dear. It was spice and misery that caused it. Nothing you did. They will live through you. Remember the love they had for you, not how you saw them last. The sensation of fighting tears, squeezing her eyes shut to keep them from falling. Yes. I know.

The hand falls away, circling around her shoulders to pull her into a hug. You are strong, Anaria. The Rex line has always been strong. Take your place with your new family now. Come see me when you can. She takes deep breath and turns to face the group, a final look over her shoulder at the graves before taking her first step.

The children are mostly oblivious, the adults looking down as though they were sizing her up. We’ve spent too much time here. A small nod comes; the feeling of an arm wrapping around her shoulder: the boy closest to her age. Her friend. Words murmured next to her ear. It’ll be okay, Ani. A small nod.

I’m glad you’re here, Jai. I’m scared.

The man’s voice snaps out an order of rush. Things to do. Important.

Go.

Vyen’a blinked awake, staring up at the quietly humming runner lights edging the corners of her ceiling, before turning her head to watch the man in her bed.  Lekku curled against his back and around her arm, his shoulders rising and falling in the pattern of heavy, sated sleep.  She gently untangled herself from the twi’lek and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and padding naked toward the ‘fresher room.  Almost unconsciously, she picked up a piece of flimsiplast, carefully folded and tucked into a corner, from her desk as she passed. The location had kept it safe, it seems, from the night before.  

A press of a button slid the door behind her shut, a soft hiss from the hydraulics as the seal set.  Fingers automatically found the durasteel faucets; turning them to a heavy spray.  Enough noise to keep him from searching her out should he wake.  Enough noise to keep any sounds she made from reaching his ears.

Read More →

HOLO 245.2.2://

!!!ALERT!!!

Visual Feed attached.  Commence playback?: Y/N

*The feed cuts into a very dark room, sliding in and out of focus until it clicks onto a face, half-covered in shadows.  There is no music in the background, only the quiet hum of a ship in port.  A bottle is brought up - not ale, something heavier and larger - and a long drink is pulled.  The voice is flat.*

I ruined everythin’.

Jerax…

*Her eyes squeeze shut.*

I lost him.

He left me.

*She takes another long pull off the bottle, the liquid splashing against the sides.*

This was supposed t’ be a job.  Jus’ another job.  Not some maker damned ambush for fuck knows why.  He wasn’ supposed t’ get hurt.  No one was supposed t’ get hurt.  

An’ he walked away when it was done.  An’ left me.

I thought we were gonna be okay.

I thought we were gonna make it through this.

I thought…

*A tiny, strangled sob chokes out, then another.  The bottle slips from her hand, landing with a cracking slosh on the durasteel as one hand comes up to cover her face, shoulders shuddering with supressed sobs.*

I ruined everything.  And now he’s gone.  

He’s gone.  

He’s…

I can’t.  I can’t.

*Her words trail off as she reaches out toward the recording device, fumbling with the buttons.  The video cuts out, leaving only the sound of sobbing, then static.*

!!!VISUAL FEED TERMINATED!!!

HOLO 23.1.136://

I gotta stop avoidin’ recording these things when I’m stressed.

It’s been a long fuckin’ week.  What once seemed like smooth sailing is now nothin’ but choppy waters.  And it’s my fault.  It’s all my fault.

Read More →

You stupid, worthless slut.

Vyen’a looked up at the face in the mirror.  The woman staring back at her had her lavender eyes, her scar and tattoos, but it wasn’t her.  The woman in the mirror’s hair was tangled from a night of fitful tossing interspersed with only the smallest pieces of sleep.  Ten here, fifteen there.  Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from the hours of sobbing, screaming at herself.

You’re fucking worthless.  How could you?

She splashed some water on her face, trying to silence the voice screaming in her head.  The events of the night before came back with the icy touch of the water.  She went to the rave.  She was having fun, finally relaxing.  Then Dhen.  Fucking Dhen had to find her and try to treat her like some maker-damned child.  Tried to send her back to her ship like she was up past her bedtime.

He didn’t give a shit anyway, you know that.  Right?  Just using your friendship to try and get in your pants.  That’s all anyone ever wants from you.

The angry words.  She tried to reason, and when that didn’t work she attacked.  Sharp words, words carefully formed to hit targets only she and he knew about.  The look on his face when he walked away.  The confusion on Nia’s face, the call, the twi’lek that appeared with his slow smile and strong hands at her waist.

So what did you do?  Told him to watch where his hands went and then teased his lekku.  Fucked him before you even left the dance floor, practically, what the shit did you expect?

She didn’t know why.  She didn’t know why she did it.  She tried over and over to find reasoning, to find something wrong with what she had.  The reasoning never came.  And when Tal had her back on her ship, stretched out naked beneath him and her hands on his belt; when she said stop he didn’t push, he just crawled off her and touched her cheek like she was some fragile sort of doll.  Not what she really was.

Nothing better than a few warm holes.  That’s all you’ll ever be good for.  Why did you think you ever deserved more?  Why did you think you could ever  have more?

She proved it, too.  She told him he could take care of himself if he had to and went to get him a towel, then couldn’t keep her hands to herself anyway.  When it was over, her mouth still against his, hand still wrapped around him, she’d breathed the threat.  

“Tell no one.”

And he’d promised.  After he’d left, she cleaned up and changed the sheets and sat in the middle of her bed.  Their bed, hers and Jerax’s.  And sobbed.

You don’t deserve him.  You don’t deserve anyone.  Go back to Mirial.  Playtime is over.  Go back to your fate.

She choked out an angry sob, staring at the woman in the mirror.

“I fucking hate you.”

The woman mouthed the words back at her before her face exploded into a million crystal shards, bits of glass embedded in Vyen’a’s fist where it had slammed into the fragile reflection.  She sunk to the floor, sobbing and cradling her hand, blood dripping down her arm as she buried her face in her knees.

Worthless.