Star Wars: The Shadow and the Flame, Log I - Introductions
I'm gonna just jump right into this. If you'd like to see a formal introduction, feel free to check out Em's and my spanky new joint lj:
pure_genius78pure_genius78pure_genius78pure_genius78pure_genius78
That said, here is the first installment of our Star Wars Universe epic, The Shadow and the Flame. Just a warning - we have most of it loosely plotted out, and it will have a definitive end. For now, though, the fun has just begun!
Enjoy, and please leave a comment telling us what you think, if you're entertained, if we've just wasted 15 minutes of your life. Let us know ^_^ We thrive on feedback!
Star Wars: The Shadow and the Flame
Log I: Introductions
by Emaniahilel and Kysra
Sancha Rotunae of Allegra Sector was a creature of the night - a full insomniac wreck that subsisted on java and the occasional chemical high (usually from good ol’fashioned adrenaline - as her work generally carried a great deal of risk, the fatal kind).
Tonight, however, she was indulging in her hobby-cum-day job which entailed a glaring necessity of several pots of java and - subsequently - plenty of potty breaks. Of course, as her day job was as boring as watching grass grow (and considering that grass became extinct several thousands of years ago, the expression had significant meaning) to most people (most meaning everyone not Sancha), she had reported to her duties expecting a day like any other followed by a night like any other (no sleep, lots of noise and possible dismemberment).
She sat upon a backless stool (the Council had been after her for years to be more ergonomically observant) inputing, coding, and encrypting the historical archives of extinct, dead, and current star systems; verifying, cataloging and meticulously preserving artifacts; and managing the Jedi archives single-handedly. The bright blue and staid silver walls, panels, and screens produced a cold sort of atmosphere, but she had made it her home; this was her baby, and she didn’t take kindly to intruders.
Save one. (Two, actually, but only one had need to approach today.)
“When will you be finished with this lunacy?” The man/thing was twice her size and smelled like boggy fumes under a lavender shower.
“Never. New information turns up everyday; therefore, I will never be out of a job.” Sancha’s voice - generally - was low key and passive in its tone; however, she managed a sarcastic lilt in her reply.
Nordoc was of the Murachaun, a humanoid-reptilian species that was fast becoming endangered due to war and a shifting ecosystem. He was also one of the strongest Jedi in the order and - though he would never be able to explain it, he had known at first glace that there was something about Sancha that he instantly liked. As he had made this observance when she was all of four years old, he had made it his personal duty to watch over her; and he knew these long shifts in the archives pushed her innate loneliness into stark relief (though she was probably unaware of it).
“You realize you’re much too young to be so crotchety.”
“I can’t believe you just used that word in conjunction with me. I don’t know whether to be proud you even KNOW it exists or insulted that you actually think the description fits.”
He grinned like a shark. “You should be out having fun with people your own age, not wallowing away with your holo-pads and someone’s old broken junk.”
Sancha turned away from her data to give him a flat look, and though the effect of the expression was lost due to the obscurity of her visor, the thin line of her mouth echoed the sentiment, “We both know I’m not very strong in the Force. I have nothing in common with those people. Besides, I’m not wallowing. I’m paying the bills, or have you forgotten that I DO have to pay the Council back for all damages I incur in the name of research?”
Nordoc gave her an equally flat look (which gave the impression he was contemplating having her for lunch), “I just want to see you happy.”
“I am happy. Ecstatic even. Did I tell you that the new Ion drives are being tested today?”
He applauded, his tongue slithering out in a hiss then back into his mouth, “Can we look forward to another spectacular light show?”
Sancha bobbed her head, the reddish brown out-turned strands of her hair bouncing around her rounded chin as she fiddled absently with the top button of her sleeveless pale green, pleather duster. “Vancory already put me on the test schedule.”
He sighed wearily, “You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”
“Maybe. But at least I’ll go out in style.” She grinned, and he had to resist the urge to pat her on the head.
Just then a screeching wail broke through the silence and Sancha spun around to her now flashing-red console. “No way.”
The Lizard-man watched her worriedly, his blood pressure rising exponentially when he saw her grab the blaster she kept in a hidden compartment at the console and hop down from the stool. “Where are you going ? And what is that noise?”
“There’s been a security breech in the basement. Watch the books, will you?” And then she was off like a shot to defend her precious antiques and artifacts with a small he-supposed-she-meant-to-be-reassuring smile and a snappy salute.
His eyes never left her retreating form even as he began alerting the Council and all other Jedi on the premises; and though he was a powerful Jedi in his own right, he knew better than to encroach upon Sancha’s territory without his aid being expressly requested first. It wasn’t that she was privileged or extraordinary. Quite the opposite, she was fairly ordinary and quite weak by Jedi standards.
However, Sancha was an A-class shooter, an excellent fighter pilot, and a brilliant - if somewhat eccentric - scientist with a surprisingly keen spatial perception and finely tuned sense of character. He knew - without a shadow of doubt - that she would be fine; but as he watched her shuffle quickly toward the stairwell, he couldn’t help but think, I hope she doesn't fall down the stairs . . . again.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
Leihm Fimia was a very long way from her home on Vestar in the Anva System and although she rarely thought of such things, the air of comfort permeating the darkened basement brought the thought, briefly, to mind. Like her home (or what she could remember of it) this place was sparse of personal belongings and she could not tell one thing about the Keeper of Archives save that they were neat.
Not that she needed to know anything about the Keeper to accomplish her mission.
Entering a deserted archival chamber in the dead of night when even the lone Keeper would be asleep did not make use of even half of her considerable skill. Locating and taking the trinket her Master wanted would hardly make it interesting.
No, Darth Terest was not yet her Master. She would do well to remember that. It was the only reason she had not questioned his decision to send her on this mission. His decision to send Tre-Ni Gudall with her only validated her primary suspicion: this was a test.
A simple test as far as she was concerned, but that was no matter. She was certain there would be much more difficult challenges to come once she became Master Terest’s apprentice.
Darth Terest was the most powerful Sith for several star systems around and if he was going to take an Apprentice from her crop of Sith, it would be her. She would best this challenge, that was not in question. She was already in the archival level of the basement while Tre-Ni Gudall was still in the hallways outside trying to find a way in. By the time he managed ingress, she would have the artifact in hand.
She had just cracked the code protecting the inventory lists when the alarm began blaring and Tre-Ni Gudall came around the corner.
“Do you have it yet?” he asked, breathless.
Fimia shut down the inventory list and set off at a dead run for the location of the artifact, but Tre-Ni Gudall clamped a hand around her forearm and Fimia paused to glance up at him. He was a good head and shoulders taller than she, but she was not afraid. She had trained with him and she paid attention to his weakness. She could get him to let her go with one finger if she pleased. “If you don’t have it, Serei, let’s just go.”
She answered to the name the Sith had given her the way she had for years on end: blankly and without emotion. It meant nothing. It was simply a word. They did not know her other name, nor would they ever be likely to use it. “I have the location of the artifact I am to gather, Gudall,” she replied pointedly, calmly, “not the one required of you. You may leave if you wish, but I will not return a failure.” Her voice was clipped and before he could answer, she pressed and wrung the sensitive area of his shoulder that had yet to fully heal from his last training session, and he let her go with a hiss of pain. She sprinted for the location of the artifact and left him behind.
Behind her, Gudall cursed in his native tongue and turned for the index. It had just occurred to him that this was more than a mere mission as he attempted to break the encryption code in the index in earnest. Fimia would leave him behind this time, he was sure of it. With the threat of displeasing Master Terest hanging over his head, he worked faster.
And while he heard the soft sounds of Fimia climbing and working latches to grab the artifact Master Terest had asked of her, he made what would be a fatal mistake.
He realized it as soon as he had hit the key, but he was never as quick as Fimia and so he didn’t make it away from the console in time to avoid the activation of the energy field around him, keeping him in place.
He unsheathed his saber and hit the console, attempting to somehow trigger a release, but he knew it wouldn’t work.
“Serei,” he called on their communication devices. “I’m trapped, I can’t get away from the console.”
Fimia, having already acquired her artifact, a Flit fossil - an extraordinarily preserved dorsal barb, which fit neatly inside a pouch slung around her waist, paused halfway to the emergency exit she had planned to use as her egress.
“Leave him,” came Master Terest’s voice in her ear. “He has failed.”
“But he’ll be captured,” Fimia argued.
“He has failed,” Terest repeated.
Fimia glanced back and saw Gudall pacing the space like a trapped animal, and she did the only thing she could. She ran back, using her abilities to locate the energy source of the field, brandishing her saber as she neared it, and effectively deactivated the field with one precise blow. Gudall ran out of the area and flashed her a grin of thanks just before the secondary generator kicked in, encasing the area within a two foot radius around Fimia.
“Secondary power source is three feet to your left, Gudall,” Fimia said calmly.
Gudall started to move in that direction then stopped and she heard the voice through their communication system. “Leave her, Tre-Ni Gudall, Serei has failed.”
Gudall looked at her and when their eyes met she knew what he would do even before he turned on his heel and ran out using her emergency escape.
Fimia was calm and unflappable by nature, so by the time the last sounds of Tre-Ni Gudall’s egress faded, she was already focusing all of her considerable energies in an attempt to deactivate the shield on her own. She still had the artifact, the Jedi didn’t know exactly where in the labyrinthine archives she was, and she knew this test was far from over.
She felt the encroaching Jedi forces just as the shield clicked and deactivated and she took a moment to wonder at their number. ‘This Temple is supposed to be nearly abandoned,’ she thought as she hurried to her exit.
“You have failed the test, Serei,” Terest’s voice spoke just as she realized Gudall had sealed off her exit from the other side. All at once, the nearly overwhelming strength of his presence was gone, replaced almost immediately by an influx of Light Force.
“Stop where you are.”
Fimia turned, saber drawn and ready to defend herself, but then she noted their numbers. She would have to get through at least seven full Jedi of notable power for a chance to reach the exit of the Temple.
‘And go where?’ she thought.
She was strong and she was good, but was she good enough to best seven full Jedi? If she fought back, she might die.
The Sith left her here to die and the Jedi were waiting for a reason to kill her. If she didn’t fight back, what would they do? Kill her anyway? She was Sith, they would have every right. Master Terest would. Better she die fighting.
“JESUS Look what you did ”
Fimia frowned at the exclamation coming from her left, but didn’t take her eyes away from the armed Jedi before her.
“You ” she dodged a sizable chunk of metallic shrapnel coming at her and turned, surprised to face a girl with a baby-face and a ready blaster. “Do you know how long it’ll take me to re-archive all of that?”
Fimia raised her eyebrow.
“Wait.” The girl scanned the rubble more closely behind the black and silver visor. “You destroyed my archival system entirely? Oh, that’s it ” she exclaimed, approaching and removing a small vial of purple-blue liquid. “Put your weapon down. I am not in the mood to be gentle.”
The girl facing her was not a full Jedi and wasn’t even very strong as far as Jedi were concerned for that matter. Fimia knew she could beat her. But as the girl approached, Fimia knew she didn’t want to. She didn’t know why, but she found herself wondering if she could attack the others without attacking this girl.
“I’m just angry enough to blow up the half of the archives you didn’t destroy, you, you….Sith The artifacts are protected, so don’t test me ” the girl insisted.
Fimia, to everyone’s (especially her own) surprise, deactivated her saber and tossed it to the girl.
*Later that day*
The last time Sancha had been summoned to the Council, she had been four years old and inconsolably sobbing - face red and hot and wet with fresh tears. Her mother had just let go of her and her father had turned his back while this circle of strangers stared coldly down on her.
She didn’t feel that gut-wrenching abandonment now, though she was aware the echoes never dissipated entirely; and though she was no longer intimidated, she was wary of their motives in calling for her presence. The Council rarely spoke directly to lowly untalented peons like herself.
“There is much turmoil in you,” the hunched figure of Master Breetai stated serenely, his purplish skin fading to blue then gray, merging with the color of the walls.
Taking a deep breath, Sancha forced herself to relax. If they had wanted to throw her out into the street, she wouldn’t have been given the funds for supplies yesterday. “Forgive me, Masters. I’m not sure why I was sent for.”
“You are aware,” Master Vaarhil spoke in her smooth, rolling tone, “of the Sith captured within the bounds of the archives?”
So that’s what this is about. Fantasmic. “Indeed, I am.” That disrespectful, irreverent twit ruined my organization and broke at least four priceless heirlooms from the House of Vandron of the Senex Sector. It’s gonna take at least five months to clean up the mess down there, six more to restore the broken pieces, and then a year to fully update the archives I don’t get enough sleep as it is, and this stupid Council won’t give me the okay to hire an assistant just to relieve some of the pressure. The only thing that could make this situation worse is if caffeine suddenly became extinct or illegal
Master Tueli’pa, a Shistavaven from the Uvena System, growled a series of grunts and yells that were non-sensical to Sancha but was apparently a very important verbal order.
Master Breetai took pity on her woefully ignorant ass. “You will be honored to discover that the Council has chosen you to lead the interrogation.”
Whatever knowledge of protocol that had been drilled into her since that day so long ago the last time she found herself in this place with these people, promptly left as she began to have waking nightmares of even MORE time wasted because of that archive-destroying maniac. “I’m sorry . . . Could you repeat that?”
“We have chosen you. To interrogate. The Sith.” Master Vaarhil reiterated in her hypnotic voice.
Fortunately, Sancha often exhibited an attention deficit so broad, she sometimes had trouble walking from her bedroom to the adjoining bathroom. “WHAT?”
“We have chosen -“
“WHY? ” Her voice was positively squeaky, she thought in a very small, very endangered quiet corner of her mind even as she gesticulated wildly. “I’m not a Force hog like the rest of you ”
A few of the Council members looked shocked, silently mouthing the phrase ‘Force hog’ and grimacing as if the words had left a bitter aftertaste.
“Calm down.”
“No I will NOT calm down. I have bills to pay Bills that YOU are sticking to me, and I can’t PAY them until I am allowed to WORK which - in case you haven’t noticed, my work space was partially DESTROYED And you want me to interrogate the raving Dark Side Spawn who caused said destruction??? ” At this point, Sancha was stomping around in a circle, her hands bladed and cutting through the air with random precision.
There was a sigh from her right that brought Sancha to an anticlimactic halt.
“If we clear the current debt you owe, will you be amiable to our . . . . request?”
Her brown eyes - which had begun to sparkle with joy - narrowed at that last bit, and she was suddenly glad she had opted to forgo the visor for this visit. The better to glare at you, my dears.
“This isn’t a request.” She replied bluntly, thoroughly irritated and ready to drown her sorrows in a venti quadruple shot espresso and a double decker chocolate fudge espresso brownie.
Master Patmal-Akbal, also known as Calming Wind, bowed his wizened head in her direction before aiming a wry smile into her eyes. “You are correct. This is not a request; however, we would not have you do something you feel unable to handle.”’
Thinking quickly, Sancha threw a calculating look around the room. “My debts will be cleared.”
“CURRENT debts.” Master Breetai reiterated.
“Current debts. Gotcha.” Cheapskates. The lot of ‘em. “Ok. Fine. I’ll do it on one condition.”
“This is a task, young Jedi, not a negotiation.”
“But you will negotiate.” Though she was shaking inside - knowing she was playing with fire and possible dismissal, Sancha crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her gaze to a point just above Master Tueli’pa’s shaggy head. “I want to retain possession of my vials.”
Master Vaahril stood. “The holding cells are a weapons-free zone. Only light sabers are allowed on the premises.”
But Sancha was ready. “As you well know, I can’t wield a light saber. Blasters are prohibited. I’m asking for my vials. I never said what I was going to carry in them.”
At that, Master Patmal-Akbal laughed his hissing, wheezy laugh (the man was easily over 400 years old and one of the oldest members of the Council. “I think, dear girl, that we have grossly underestimated you.”
Sancha merely grinned slightly at the pseudo-compliment then bowed a jester’s bow. “Join the club. I hear they’re having a two for one deal on fees.”
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
“So,” Nordoc started as Sancha exploded out of the Council meeting room with a look that meant she would be chained to her espresso machine tonight. “How did it go?”
“WHAT IN HELL ARE THEY THINKING?” There was a vein throbbing at her temple and her eyes were rimmed with red. He hadn’t seen her like this since she was ten and someone stuck a red paperclip in her container of silver paperclips.
Nordoc put a calming hand on her arm to slow her frantic, heavy steps. They were coming to the commissary and her peers already thought she was enough of a nut as it was. “You need to calm down.” And reduce your caffeine intake.
“I need a drink.” She muttered low in answer and ran a hand over her face. This - he knew - wasn’t the end of her tantrum. Sancha often exploded for a short time, forced a façade of calm then went hyperdrive meltdown in the privacy of her building.
Nordoc made a mental note: Change the security codes on her lab tonight. In the state she was in, she would be liable to blow herself, the building, and four city blocks off the face of the planet.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“They want me to interrogate the chit that broke into my archives.”
“What?” Perhaps his hearing was going. The Masters couldn’t possibly be that foolish . . . or collectively insane.
“That’s what I said.” Perhaps they were collectively insane.
“What are they thinking?” Nordoc was stunned.
“Exactly. I mean, if they wanted to get rid of me that badly, all they had to do was give me an eviction notice.”
Shaking his broad, scaly head, Nordoc patted the top of her head lightly. “They don’t want to get rid of you, Sancha.” He sighed and mustered a craggy smile for her. “Look at this as a learning experience.”
“How to commit murder with words alone?”
“Sancha.”
“Ok, ok. Jesus, don’t you have to go hibernate somewhere so I can have a nervous breakdown in peace?”
He gave her a flat look - no mean feat as his reptilian eyes always sported a flat look.
Sancha’s long-suffering sigh reverberated off the empty metal walls as they ambled the corridor between the main training facilities and the archives. “I told them I’d do it if they let me take my vials.”
“And they gave you permission?” It would be highly irregular if they did. Jedi rule and law rarely left room for exceptions Sancha was already something of a special case in that she wore high-level explosives on her - in plain sight, no less - at all times. Thank the Maker the vials that held them were triple reinforced plexiglass with a clear petroleum based enamel finish. The result was a light-weight, flame-retardant, air and water tight material that was virtually indestructible - a blessing since Sancha’s innate clumsiness would have killed everyone a thousand times over otherwise . . . and left the Academy as nothing more than a scorched crater come to think it.
She nodded, serious. “Yeah. I had to promise to leave the dangerous stuff at home. I should be getting a brief sometime tonight and tomorrow the games begin.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Dunno. She seemed pretty strong-willed. It’s gonna be a contest to see which of us cracks first. I think she has the advantage. I’m already three quarters of the way there.”
Nordoc grinned his slimy, lizard grin (which looked freakishly evil though Sancha never told him that to his face). “Perhaps you should go have a nice quiet chat with Vancory in the hangar.”
Sancha threw him a sharp, warning look. “Don’t start that again.” She paused. “I think I’ll turn in. Heaven knows, I have to stay with the Bane of my Existence until she either turns or . . . . Well, I think that’s her only option.” Crap.
Freezing, Nordoc stared at the back of her head for long minutes until she realized he wasn’t with her and turned on a heel to look at him, head cocked and eyes squinting. “You okay?”
“You’re ‘turning in’? As in going to sleep?” He had to be dreaming. Sancha hadn’t slept for years to his knowledge.
She blinked. “Yeah. I thought I would try that new herbal tea Van was talking about. That okay?”
“You. Sleep?”
“I have an early day tomorrow and it’s not gonna be a cake walk. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Sleep?”
She grinned a little. “Good night.” Then waving a hand, resumed the walk to her quarters.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
Fimia never slept. She rested and regenerated, sometimes planned, oftentimes meditated, usually on whatever recent events had just transpired, more often than not on what she was to do after the period of rest was over. She liked to be one step ahead of her lifepath, always prepared for whatever may come. It was one of the secrets to her seemingly unflappable nature. If she anticipated any eventuality, she could not possibly be surprised when any of those came to pass.
Hence, the fact that she was sitting cross-legged on a hard metal floor resting in the cold and barren confines of a Jedi holding pen was not so much surprising as unexpected. She had been perfectly aware, when she gave up her saber to the strange girl with the very restrictive manner of dress and visor-like cover over her eyes, that capture and detention was a possibility. Her set of experiences, however, made that possibility highly improbable.
The Sith did not take prisoners, unless they were civilians. It was a well known fact that it was useless to try and gain any manner of information from a Jedi prisoner. Surely, the Jedi could think no less of her. It might not speak well of her capabilities as a Sith that she was captured in the first place and it certainly would not hold her in high standing by Sith standards that she had given herself up rather than fight to the death, but they could not truly believe she would divulge any information. The Jedi, after all, were not particularly known for their interrogation techniques.
What manner of torture could the Light Side of the force offer that she had not already experienced in the Dark?
She could think of none.
She could not, of course, have possibly foreseen Sancha.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
The holding cells were designed to calm - low lit with light blue plasma screens shone against gray and silver walls, glass plate, and holo screens; soothing scents like lavender and essence of pear wafted through the filtered air; and the rise and fall of soft music melding with ocean waves just barely registered in her ears.
It was clean, open, and sanitary- almost preternaturally so, the space used sparsely, giving an illusion of freedom and movement. An illusion shattered by the guards that stood at attention near the entrances and exits, stalked the halls, and watched the security feeds with avid interest. They didn’t even twitch when Sancha walked straight into the clear, thick glass partition.
Rubbing the bridge of her injured nose, she trekked through the quiet halls until she came to stand before cell 6B472S.
Sancha was - by necessity - a planner, and though she didn’t always take kindly to factors forcing a change in her carefully made agendas, she was also known for her adaptability. She had had one full night to scrounge together a working outline for this . . . project; and Part I of this rather detailed battle plan had very little to do with questioning and everything to do with appearance.
Her black flight suit had been donned beneath a pale sleeveless duster, every button fastened and accounted for to give a polished, military veneer. Similarly, her boots - which boasted a four inch heel in addition to a two inch platform to camouflage Sancha’s lack of stature - were black
and shined to a high gloss. The scuffed and scratched arm bracers she usually wore to protect her arms from the corrosive chemicals she often worked with were replaced by the more durable (and menacing-looking) metal variety; and her black vial belt had been seamed with new, blinding white thread and weighted down with vials of alternately clear and colored liquids.
And despite the fact that - for once - she appeared rather sharp and official, it was the black and silver plasma powered visual instrumentation system covering her eyes that was the crowning accessory. Her visor was securely placed around her head and balanced on her nose for though she hated the thing, she had it on good authority that even if she was a pro at simulating an ice cube when a serious demeanor was needed, her eyes were expressive and often gave away when she was confused, panicked, or stark raving pissed.
She knew this Sith chick was gifted with the Force, several times stronger than her (which wasn’t difficult since her own talent was mediocre at best) in fact; but Sancha expected the Sith woman to underestimate her and attempt to use the Force to overpower her. She was counting on it, and she would be ready.
Taking a deep breath, Sancha tapped in the security codes before pressing her hand to the sensors and suffering a retinal scan before deliberately pasting a pleasant smile on her face and entering the cell.
“Good morning,” she chirped brightly to the seated figure on the other side of the tiny room. “I hope you’re finding your accommodations satisfactory.” You should be cleaning up the mess you made of my archives, not sitting pretty and wasting oxygen.
Gold eyes peered from between frosty blue strands as she walked to sit - not in the comfortable looking chair at the small table but on the floor, deliberately setting herself a level beneath the fiend in skin tight blue leather.
Part I, Section A, Addendum 2b. Keep the archive killing whore off your game.
“My name is Sancha Rotunae, and I’m going to be your interrogator this morning.” Her face stretched into a smile that was thin and cutting. “I would shake your hand, but I’m afraid the glass partition won’t allow such pleasantries.”
The destructo-bimbo was giving her a bare, focused look that Sancha felt to her toes. It was the look of a Force wielder attempting to take control of a situation. The smile suddenly became genuine and just this side of wry. “Your mind tricks won’t work on me, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint, but my entire skull is reinforced with allinium plate. It’s like having a permanent anti-Force helmet.”
Yellow eyes dilated as the Sith woman visibly breathed. Sancha felt the brief thrill of triumph until she realized the silence was - in and of itself - a sign of resistance. Somehow, however, Sancha felt that the prisoner wasn’t resisting so much as testing. After all, the chit had a power signature strong enough to have had a least a fighting chance against the seven who apprehended her, and it had seemed as if she was going to gamble a pitch battle in the basement before Sancha had shown up.
Heh, that’s right Bantha-bitch fodder, fear my mad skills with a stylus and about 400 argils of niliyium.
“I see you’re just a right ray of starshine, so let me level with you: I don’t give a flitterfly’s fuck in paradise what the Jedi Masters want to know. I couldn’t care less about your Sith home or your Sithy, Sithy ways. I don’t want to know about your name, where you came from, or your opinions on navel lint.” The Sith bint narrowed her eyes just enough to be noticeable, and Sancha leaned forward, neck craned and mouth carefully drawn into an indecipherable line. “Actually, I don’t want anything from you that you haven’t already indicated a willingness to give.” ‘Cept maybe manual labor and a heartfelt apology.
Golden eyes darkened to a faint honey brown, light blue brows drawn into an inquisitive grimace, lips pursed and nose gently wrinkled as if in distaste.
But Sancha was prepared for the silent treatment. Going in, Sancha had asked her superior officer (and erstwhile Teacher) - Vancory e’Macium - for advice. He had told her that the best way to deal with a silent prisoner was to talk until they were forced to talk back.
And considering Sancha was possibly the most frustrated Jedi for lightyears around, she was more than willing to fill up the empty spaces of conversation. So, Sancha talked and bitched and raved about nothing and everything, steering clear of Jedi secrets, procedures, and ways while somehow always coming back to the other woman’s role in the destruction of an entire decade of painstaking plans, organizational brilliance, and attention to detail.
Hours passed with pauses only for eating, drinking, and toilet use, and for once, Sancha was glad to be a certified insomniac. The chit weathered the “interrogation” well, remaining - largely - stoic in the face of Sancha’s purposefully inane prattle, never breaking her silence, not once shifting her piercing gaze.
However, after three full days of seemingly endless verbal nonsense, the blue haired skin dealer finally began to show signs of outright irritation; and on the fourth day, she actually spoke, sharp voice tearing through the slightly hoarse delivery of yet another Wookie joke. “Be silent.”
Got ya. Sancha had to mentally hammer the satisfied grin fighting to curve her mouth into submission. “But this one’s a good one. I swear, it’s hysterical; and there was another one you have to hear just after, because -“
“Be. Silent.”
What and waste all of this effort and time I could have been fixing my precious archive? Bitch, please. “Not until you confirm what I already know.”
For a moment, something flickered behind the twitterpated slut’s eyes - Confusion, maybe? “I am not certain what you mean.”
Sancha narrowed her eyes, though the Sith wouldn’t know that, considering the dark electromagnetic shades spanning her eye line. “I think you do; but I’m prepared to stay here and
drive you absolutely insane by continuing this line of conversation until the universe ends. So, it’s up to you. Tell me what I want to hear or I talk until you claw your ears off.”
“How would I tell you what you wish to hear when I do not yet know what you wish to hear?”
Ah, ah, ah, Sancha’s inner self was positively giddy for though the head archivist had no talent for manipulation, she was well-practiced in recognizing when someone was trying to manipulate her. “Let me remind you how this works. I ask the questions and you answer them.”
If she had thought the Sith had an icy non-expression before, it became clear rather quickly that she had been sorely mistaken. “You have already said you wish nothing of me save some sort of confession. I merely ask for clarification.”
Calculating, reasoning - these were actions that were second nature to Sancha even if certain emotional issues sometimes got in the way. Tampering down her temper was a physical effort involving the grasp and tug of one of the vials from her belt. “It’s not that hard.” She spoke evenly, focusing on the ache of her throat and the cool glass-like firmness between her fingers as the little tube was twisted this way and that before her eyes and the Sith’s. “You’re obviously gifted, and you were going to attempt to take on seven full Jedi with hundreds more at the ready in the levels above you.” The corking mechanism was released with an ominous hiss before Sancha replaced it with her own finger. “You have guts.”
Gold eyes watched the wet tip of Sancha’s finger as the hand and arm connected to it straightened out to the side, a small droplet beginning to form away from the skin. “But you’re indecisive. You surrendered with no real fuss. Generally speaking, it’s just not something Sith do. So, I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself.”
The confused look was back, but this time, it was more pronounced and focused on the growing droplet of clear liquid catching the light and teasing the eye. “Prove myself?”
“You made a decision to hand over your weapon and throw yourself on our mercy. Are you ready to stand by that decision and become a Jedi?”
There was - at last - silence, broken by the groan of crushed leather as the Sith stood and walked to place her palms against the transparent partition; and Sancha was forced to crane her neck back till it could crane no more. Her arm and subsequent finger remained suspended, that one solitary drop jostled slightly by the movement.
“And if I am not?”
Sancha’s mouth did stretch into a vacuous grin then. “If you’re not, I blow up this entire building and everyone in it with this little drop of pure dynamite hanging from my finger.”
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
Fimia had never dealt directly with a Jedi. She had fought them, she had learned about them - in a manner of speaking - and had otherwise thought no more of them.
Fimia remained at the glass and reached out with her senses, but could read nothing from the Jedi save her utter determination to end this.
“You rest much on the assumption that I value the life of any of the people in this building.”
“Perhaps,” the so-called Sancha responded. “But it’s a sure bet. You might not care about the lives of the people in this building, but you surrendered rather than fight, so I figure you’ve got some attachment to that skin of yours.”
Fimia’s expression didn’t change. “You would be wrong.”
“Sith love themselves too much to be suicidal,” the small woman replied certainly.
“Jedi do not sacrifice others needlessly to reach their own objectives.”
“Now you would be wrong,” the Jedi said and Fimia noted the line of her jaw tighten.
In four days, Fimia had learned many of the minutiae of the Jedi’s manner. She had come to three conclusions: first, the Jedi was entirely capable of carrying out her threat to speak ceaselessly. Second, the Jedi did not wish to be there. She took no pleasure in her capture. Third, she was not a normal Jedi. Somewhere in the prattle of four days, Fimia had come to the conclusion that the Jedi cared more about her destruction of the archives than she did of the fact she was Sith and an enemy.
“Explain,” Fimia decided, seating herself once more on the floor, so that the Jedi did not have to crane her neck up to stare at her.
The Jedi looked momentarily confused. “Explain what?”
“Your objectives.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Sancha demanded.
“Telling Wookie anecdotes.”
Her blunt answer seemed to startle the Jedi and she jerked, the drop on her finger jostling violently and finally separating on a collision course with the floor.
Fimia stood and pressed against the glass, every fiber of her being attempting to stop that drop, but to no avail.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
In the blink of an eye, Sancha had summoned the vial to suspend beneath the falling, lethal droplet, the renegade unit of liquid safely finding its home within glass confines. Re-corking the tube, the Jedi rocked back on her rump, a smug look on her face. “Well, I’m still not sure if you care about my life or the lives of the other people in this building, but by the stressed look on your face just now, I’m willing to wager you’re definitely concerned about yours.”
The Sith woman’s eyes narrowed considerably, “You allowed the drop to fall on purpose.”
Sancha was unperturbed by the fact that the retort was a statement rather than a question, and did not so much as glance at the padawan that appeared behind her to hand over her lunch. “Of course. I was bluffing the whole time.” She raised the test tube and shook it blithely. “This holds nothing more harmful than a few centiliters of water.”
There was a tightening about the mouth and a slight tapping of the fingertips against the partition. Well, well, well, Sancha inwardly grinned, I’ve somehow managed to annoy her . . . I should feel ashamed, really. This time, she couldn’t suppress a pleased little mew as she took a bite of Madame Benne’s redberry pie.
“It’s very simple.” Sancha gathered herself to stand, dusting herself off as she did so, her words making it clear that she meant business . . . finally (though the image was marred by the plate of food and the frequency at which she ate the victuals). “You have two options: 1. Join the Jedi, mind, body and soul, and you are free of this prison and treated with decency and respect as a comrade. . . though, you’ll probably have a supervised trial period. We can’t just outright trust you after all; or 2. Reject the Jedi and prepare to spend even MORE time with me in this room, behind that partition and without escape.”
Silence answered Sancha, much to her disappointment, but she was not to be deterred. Time might be sifting through her fingers to pile more and more work at her feet, but she knew there must be some part of the Sith that knew a good deal when she saw it.
“I’ll let you think on it for a bit.”
“I do not need time to think.”
Sancha’s eyes widened considerably. It was the second time in four days that the other woman had managed to surprise her. Perhaps she was more annoying than she originally thought. Oh well, whatever got the job done. “Excuse me?
“I shall join your Jedi Temple; however, there is a requirement.”
This was not a negotiation, and Sancha was not about to commit the Council to anything; but she couldn’t help it, she was curious. “I’m all ears.”
Intense, darkening gold eyes leveled and honed in on the remains of Sancha’s half-eaten pie. “I want pie.”
The grin on Sancha’s face could only be called manic as she brandished her fork and let out a cheery, “DONE."
You can find future chapters as well as other goodies at our new joint lj
PURE_GENIUS78
^^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^^
- Kysra
pure_genius78pure_genius78pure_genius78pure_genius78pure_genius78
That said, here is the first installment of our Star Wars Universe epic, The Shadow and the Flame. Just a warning - we have most of it loosely plotted out, and it will have a definitive end. For now, though, the fun has just begun!
Enjoy, and please leave a comment telling us what you think, if you're entertained, if we've just wasted 15 minutes of your life. Let us know ^_^ We thrive on feedback!
Star Wars: The Shadow and the Flame
Log I: Introductions
by Emaniahilel and Kysra
Sancha Rotunae of Allegra Sector was a creature of the night - a full insomniac wreck that subsisted on java and the occasional chemical high (usually from good ol’fashioned adrenaline - as her work generally carried a great deal of risk, the fatal kind).
Tonight, however, she was indulging in her hobby-cum-day job which entailed a glaring necessity of several pots of java and - subsequently - plenty of potty breaks. Of course, as her day job was as boring as watching grass grow (and considering that grass became extinct several thousands of years ago, the expression had significant meaning) to most people (most meaning everyone not Sancha), she had reported to her duties expecting a day like any other followed by a night like any other (no sleep, lots of noise and possible dismemberment).
She sat upon a backless stool (the Council had been after her for years to be more ergonomically observant) inputing, coding, and encrypting the historical archives of extinct, dead, and current star systems; verifying, cataloging and meticulously preserving artifacts; and managing the Jedi archives single-handedly. The bright blue and staid silver walls, panels, and screens produced a cold sort of atmosphere, but she had made it her home; this was her baby, and she didn’t take kindly to intruders.
Save one. (Two, actually, but only one had need to approach today.)
“When will you be finished with this lunacy?” The man/thing was twice her size and smelled like boggy fumes under a lavender shower.
“Never. New information turns up everyday; therefore, I will never be out of a job.” Sancha’s voice - generally - was low key and passive in its tone; however, she managed a sarcastic lilt in her reply.
Nordoc was of the Murachaun, a humanoid-reptilian species that was fast becoming endangered due to war and a shifting ecosystem. He was also one of the strongest Jedi in the order and - though he would never be able to explain it, he had known at first glace that there was something about Sancha that he instantly liked. As he had made this observance when she was all of four years old, he had made it his personal duty to watch over her; and he knew these long shifts in the archives pushed her innate loneliness into stark relief (though she was probably unaware of it).
“You realize you’re much too young to be so crotchety.”
“I can’t believe you just used that word in conjunction with me. I don’t know whether to be proud you even KNOW it exists or insulted that you actually think the description fits.”
He grinned like a shark. “You should be out having fun with people your own age, not wallowing away with your holo-pads and someone’s old broken junk.”
Sancha turned away from her data to give him a flat look, and though the effect of the expression was lost due to the obscurity of her visor, the thin line of her mouth echoed the sentiment, “We both know I’m not very strong in the Force. I have nothing in common with those people. Besides, I’m not wallowing. I’m paying the bills, or have you forgotten that I DO have to pay the Council back for all damages I incur in the name of research?”
Nordoc gave her an equally flat look (which gave the impression he was contemplating having her for lunch), “I just want to see you happy.”
“I am happy. Ecstatic even. Did I tell you that the new Ion drives are being tested today?”
He applauded, his tongue slithering out in a hiss then back into his mouth, “Can we look forward to another spectacular light show?”
Sancha bobbed her head, the reddish brown out-turned strands of her hair bouncing around her rounded chin as she fiddled absently with the top button of her sleeveless pale green, pleather duster. “Vancory already put me on the test schedule.”
He sighed wearily, “You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”
“Maybe. But at least I’ll go out in style.” She grinned, and he had to resist the urge to pat her on the head.
Just then a screeching wail broke through the silence and Sancha spun around to her now flashing-red console. “No way.”
The Lizard-man watched her worriedly, his blood pressure rising exponentially when he saw her grab the blaster she kept in a hidden compartment at the console and hop down from the stool. “Where are you going ? And what is that noise?”
“There’s been a security breech in the basement. Watch the books, will you?” And then she was off like a shot to defend her precious antiques and artifacts with a small he-supposed-she-meant-to-be-reassuring smile and a snappy salute.
His eyes never left her retreating form even as he began alerting the Council and all other Jedi on the premises; and though he was a powerful Jedi in his own right, he knew better than to encroach upon Sancha’s territory without his aid being expressly requested first. It wasn’t that she was privileged or extraordinary. Quite the opposite, she was fairly ordinary and quite weak by Jedi standards.
However, Sancha was an A-class shooter, an excellent fighter pilot, and a brilliant - if somewhat eccentric - scientist with a surprisingly keen spatial perception and finely tuned sense of character. He knew - without a shadow of doubt - that she would be fine; but as he watched her shuffle quickly toward the stairwell, he couldn’t help but think, I hope she doesn't fall down the stairs . . . again.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
Leihm Fimia was a very long way from her home on Vestar in the Anva System and although she rarely thought of such things, the air of comfort permeating the darkened basement brought the thought, briefly, to mind. Like her home (or what she could remember of it) this place was sparse of personal belongings and she could not tell one thing about the Keeper of Archives save that they were neat.
Not that she needed to know anything about the Keeper to accomplish her mission.
Entering a deserted archival chamber in the dead of night when even the lone Keeper would be asleep did not make use of even half of her considerable skill. Locating and taking the trinket her Master wanted would hardly make it interesting.
No, Darth Terest was not yet her Master. She would do well to remember that. It was the only reason she had not questioned his decision to send her on this mission. His decision to send Tre-Ni Gudall with her only validated her primary suspicion: this was a test.
A simple test as far as she was concerned, but that was no matter. She was certain there would be much more difficult challenges to come once she became Master Terest’s apprentice.
Darth Terest was the most powerful Sith for several star systems around and if he was going to take an Apprentice from her crop of Sith, it would be her. She would best this challenge, that was not in question. She was already in the archival level of the basement while Tre-Ni Gudall was still in the hallways outside trying to find a way in. By the time he managed ingress, she would have the artifact in hand.
She had just cracked the code protecting the inventory lists when the alarm began blaring and Tre-Ni Gudall came around the corner.
“Do you have it yet?” he asked, breathless.
Fimia shut down the inventory list and set off at a dead run for the location of the artifact, but Tre-Ni Gudall clamped a hand around her forearm and Fimia paused to glance up at him. He was a good head and shoulders taller than she, but she was not afraid. She had trained with him and she paid attention to his weakness. She could get him to let her go with one finger if she pleased. “If you don’t have it, Serei, let’s just go.”
She answered to the name the Sith had given her the way she had for years on end: blankly and without emotion. It meant nothing. It was simply a word. They did not know her other name, nor would they ever be likely to use it. “I have the location of the artifact I am to gather, Gudall,” she replied pointedly, calmly, “not the one required of you. You may leave if you wish, but I will not return a failure.” Her voice was clipped and before he could answer, she pressed and wrung the sensitive area of his shoulder that had yet to fully heal from his last training session, and he let her go with a hiss of pain. She sprinted for the location of the artifact and left him behind.
Behind her, Gudall cursed in his native tongue and turned for the index. It had just occurred to him that this was more than a mere mission as he attempted to break the encryption code in the index in earnest. Fimia would leave him behind this time, he was sure of it. With the threat of displeasing Master Terest hanging over his head, he worked faster.
And while he heard the soft sounds of Fimia climbing and working latches to grab the artifact Master Terest had asked of her, he made what would be a fatal mistake.
He realized it as soon as he had hit the key, but he was never as quick as Fimia and so he didn’t make it away from the console in time to avoid the activation of the energy field around him, keeping him in place.
He unsheathed his saber and hit the console, attempting to somehow trigger a release, but he knew it wouldn’t work.
“Serei,” he called on their communication devices. “I’m trapped, I can’t get away from the console.”
Fimia, having already acquired her artifact, a Flit fossil - an extraordinarily preserved dorsal barb, which fit neatly inside a pouch slung around her waist, paused halfway to the emergency exit she had planned to use as her egress.
“Leave him,” came Master Terest’s voice in her ear. “He has failed.”
“But he’ll be captured,” Fimia argued.
“He has failed,” Terest repeated.
Fimia glanced back and saw Gudall pacing the space like a trapped animal, and she did the only thing she could. She ran back, using her abilities to locate the energy source of the field, brandishing her saber as she neared it, and effectively deactivated the field with one precise blow. Gudall ran out of the area and flashed her a grin of thanks just before the secondary generator kicked in, encasing the area within a two foot radius around Fimia.
“Secondary power source is three feet to your left, Gudall,” Fimia said calmly.
Gudall started to move in that direction then stopped and she heard the voice through their communication system. “Leave her, Tre-Ni Gudall, Serei has failed.”
Gudall looked at her and when their eyes met she knew what he would do even before he turned on his heel and ran out using her emergency escape.
Fimia was calm and unflappable by nature, so by the time the last sounds of Tre-Ni Gudall’s egress faded, she was already focusing all of her considerable energies in an attempt to deactivate the shield on her own. She still had the artifact, the Jedi didn’t know exactly where in the labyrinthine archives she was, and she knew this test was far from over.
She felt the encroaching Jedi forces just as the shield clicked and deactivated and she took a moment to wonder at their number. ‘This Temple is supposed to be nearly abandoned,’ she thought as she hurried to her exit.
“You have failed the test, Serei,” Terest’s voice spoke just as she realized Gudall had sealed off her exit from the other side. All at once, the nearly overwhelming strength of his presence was gone, replaced almost immediately by an influx of Light Force.
“Stop where you are.”
Fimia turned, saber drawn and ready to defend herself, but then she noted their numbers. She would have to get through at least seven full Jedi of notable power for a chance to reach the exit of the Temple.
‘And go where?’ she thought.
She was strong and she was good, but was she good enough to best seven full Jedi? If she fought back, she might die.
The Sith left her here to die and the Jedi were waiting for a reason to kill her. If she didn’t fight back, what would they do? Kill her anyway? She was Sith, they would have every right. Master Terest would. Better she die fighting.
“JESUS Look what you did ”
Fimia frowned at the exclamation coming from her left, but didn’t take her eyes away from the armed Jedi before her.
“You ” she dodged a sizable chunk of metallic shrapnel coming at her and turned, surprised to face a girl with a baby-face and a ready blaster. “Do you know how long it’ll take me to re-archive all of that?”
Fimia raised her eyebrow.
“Wait.” The girl scanned the rubble more closely behind the black and silver visor. “You destroyed my archival system entirely? Oh, that’s it ” she exclaimed, approaching and removing a small vial of purple-blue liquid. “Put your weapon down. I am not in the mood to be gentle.”
The girl facing her was not a full Jedi and wasn’t even very strong as far as Jedi were concerned for that matter. Fimia knew she could beat her. But as the girl approached, Fimia knew she didn’t want to. She didn’t know why, but she found herself wondering if she could attack the others without attacking this girl.
“I’m just angry enough to blow up the half of the archives you didn’t destroy, you, you….Sith The artifacts are protected, so don’t test me ” the girl insisted.
Fimia, to everyone’s (especially her own) surprise, deactivated her saber and tossed it to the girl.
*Later that day*
The last time Sancha had been summoned to the Council, she had been four years old and inconsolably sobbing - face red and hot and wet with fresh tears. Her mother had just let go of her and her father had turned his back while this circle of strangers stared coldly down on her.
She didn’t feel that gut-wrenching abandonment now, though she was aware the echoes never dissipated entirely; and though she was no longer intimidated, she was wary of their motives in calling for her presence. The Council rarely spoke directly to lowly untalented peons like herself.
“There is much turmoil in you,” the hunched figure of Master Breetai stated serenely, his purplish skin fading to blue then gray, merging with the color of the walls.
Taking a deep breath, Sancha forced herself to relax. If they had wanted to throw her out into the street, she wouldn’t have been given the funds for supplies yesterday. “Forgive me, Masters. I’m not sure why I was sent for.”
“You are aware,” Master Vaarhil spoke in her smooth, rolling tone, “of the Sith captured within the bounds of the archives?”
So that’s what this is about. Fantasmic. “Indeed, I am.” That disrespectful, irreverent twit ruined my organization and broke at least four priceless heirlooms from the House of Vandron of the Senex Sector. It’s gonna take at least five months to clean up the mess down there, six more to restore the broken pieces, and then a year to fully update the archives I don’t get enough sleep as it is, and this stupid Council won’t give me the okay to hire an assistant just to relieve some of the pressure. The only thing that could make this situation worse is if caffeine suddenly became extinct or illegal
Master Tueli’pa, a Shistavaven from the Uvena System, growled a series of grunts and yells that were non-sensical to Sancha but was apparently a very important verbal order.
Master Breetai took pity on her woefully ignorant ass. “You will be honored to discover that the Council has chosen you to lead the interrogation.”
Whatever knowledge of protocol that had been drilled into her since that day so long ago the last time she found herself in this place with these people, promptly left as she began to have waking nightmares of even MORE time wasted because of that archive-destroying maniac. “I’m sorry . . . Could you repeat that?”
“We have chosen you. To interrogate. The Sith.” Master Vaarhil reiterated in her hypnotic voice.
Fortunately, Sancha often exhibited an attention deficit so broad, she sometimes had trouble walking from her bedroom to the adjoining bathroom. “WHAT?”
“We have chosen -“
“WHY? ” Her voice was positively squeaky, she thought in a very small, very endangered quiet corner of her mind even as she gesticulated wildly. “I’m not a Force hog like the rest of you ”
A few of the Council members looked shocked, silently mouthing the phrase ‘Force hog’ and grimacing as if the words had left a bitter aftertaste.
“Calm down.”
“No I will NOT calm down. I have bills to pay Bills that YOU are sticking to me, and I can’t PAY them until I am allowed to WORK which - in case you haven’t noticed, my work space was partially DESTROYED And you want me to interrogate the raving Dark Side Spawn who caused said destruction??? ” At this point, Sancha was stomping around in a circle, her hands bladed and cutting through the air with random precision.
There was a sigh from her right that brought Sancha to an anticlimactic halt.
“If we clear the current debt you owe, will you be amiable to our . . . . request?”
Her brown eyes - which had begun to sparkle with joy - narrowed at that last bit, and she was suddenly glad she had opted to forgo the visor for this visit. The better to glare at you, my dears.
“This isn’t a request.” She replied bluntly, thoroughly irritated and ready to drown her sorrows in a venti quadruple shot espresso and a double decker chocolate fudge espresso brownie.
Master Patmal-Akbal, also known as Calming Wind, bowed his wizened head in her direction before aiming a wry smile into her eyes. “You are correct. This is not a request; however, we would not have you do something you feel unable to handle.”’
Thinking quickly, Sancha threw a calculating look around the room. “My debts will be cleared.”
“CURRENT debts.” Master Breetai reiterated.
“Current debts. Gotcha.” Cheapskates. The lot of ‘em. “Ok. Fine. I’ll do it on one condition.”
“This is a task, young Jedi, not a negotiation.”
“But you will negotiate.” Though she was shaking inside - knowing she was playing with fire and possible dismissal, Sancha crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her gaze to a point just above Master Tueli’pa’s shaggy head. “I want to retain possession of my vials.”
Master Vaahril stood. “The holding cells are a weapons-free zone. Only light sabers are allowed on the premises.”
But Sancha was ready. “As you well know, I can’t wield a light saber. Blasters are prohibited. I’m asking for my vials. I never said what I was going to carry in them.”
At that, Master Patmal-Akbal laughed his hissing, wheezy laugh (the man was easily over 400 years old and one of the oldest members of the Council. “I think, dear girl, that we have grossly underestimated you.”
Sancha merely grinned slightly at the pseudo-compliment then bowed a jester’s bow. “Join the club. I hear they’re having a two for one deal on fees.”
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
“So,” Nordoc started as Sancha exploded out of the Council meeting room with a look that meant she would be chained to her espresso machine tonight. “How did it go?”
“WHAT IN HELL ARE THEY THINKING?” There was a vein throbbing at her temple and her eyes were rimmed with red. He hadn’t seen her like this since she was ten and someone stuck a red paperclip in her container of silver paperclips.
Nordoc put a calming hand on her arm to slow her frantic, heavy steps. They were coming to the commissary and her peers already thought she was enough of a nut as it was. “You need to calm down.” And reduce your caffeine intake.
“I need a drink.” She muttered low in answer and ran a hand over her face. This - he knew - wasn’t the end of her tantrum. Sancha often exploded for a short time, forced a façade of calm then went hyperdrive meltdown in the privacy of her building.
Nordoc made a mental note: Change the security codes on her lab tonight. In the state she was in, she would be liable to blow herself, the building, and four city blocks off the face of the planet.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“They want me to interrogate the chit that broke into my archives.”
“What?” Perhaps his hearing was going. The Masters couldn’t possibly be that foolish . . . or collectively insane.
“That’s what I said.” Perhaps they were collectively insane.
“What are they thinking?” Nordoc was stunned.
“Exactly. I mean, if they wanted to get rid of me that badly, all they had to do was give me an eviction notice.”
Shaking his broad, scaly head, Nordoc patted the top of her head lightly. “They don’t want to get rid of you, Sancha.” He sighed and mustered a craggy smile for her. “Look at this as a learning experience.”
“How to commit murder with words alone?”
“Sancha.”
“Ok, ok. Jesus, don’t you have to go hibernate somewhere so I can have a nervous breakdown in peace?”
He gave her a flat look - no mean feat as his reptilian eyes always sported a flat look.
Sancha’s long-suffering sigh reverberated off the empty metal walls as they ambled the corridor between the main training facilities and the archives. “I told them I’d do it if they let me take my vials.”
“And they gave you permission?” It would be highly irregular if they did. Jedi rule and law rarely left room for exceptions Sancha was already something of a special case in that she wore high-level explosives on her - in plain sight, no less - at all times. Thank the Maker the vials that held them were triple reinforced plexiglass with a clear petroleum based enamel finish. The result was a light-weight, flame-retardant, air and water tight material that was virtually indestructible - a blessing since Sancha’s innate clumsiness would have killed everyone a thousand times over otherwise . . . and left the Academy as nothing more than a scorched crater come to think it.
She nodded, serious. “Yeah. I had to promise to leave the dangerous stuff at home. I should be getting a brief sometime tonight and tomorrow the games begin.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Dunno. She seemed pretty strong-willed. It’s gonna be a contest to see which of us cracks first. I think she has the advantage. I’m already three quarters of the way there.”
Nordoc grinned his slimy, lizard grin (which looked freakishly evil though Sancha never told him that to his face). “Perhaps you should go have a nice quiet chat with Vancory in the hangar.”
Sancha threw him a sharp, warning look. “Don’t start that again.” She paused. “I think I’ll turn in. Heaven knows, I have to stay with the Bane of my Existence until she either turns or . . . . Well, I think that’s her only option.” Crap.
Freezing, Nordoc stared at the back of her head for long minutes until she realized he wasn’t with her and turned on a heel to look at him, head cocked and eyes squinting. “You okay?”
“You’re ‘turning in’? As in going to sleep?” He had to be dreaming. Sancha hadn’t slept for years to his knowledge.
She blinked. “Yeah. I thought I would try that new herbal tea Van was talking about. That okay?”
“You. Sleep?”
“I have an early day tomorrow and it’s not gonna be a cake walk. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Sleep?”
She grinned a little. “Good night.” Then waving a hand, resumed the walk to her quarters.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
Fimia never slept. She rested and regenerated, sometimes planned, oftentimes meditated, usually on whatever recent events had just transpired, more often than not on what she was to do after the period of rest was over. She liked to be one step ahead of her lifepath, always prepared for whatever may come. It was one of the secrets to her seemingly unflappable nature. If she anticipated any eventuality, she could not possibly be surprised when any of those came to pass.
Hence, the fact that she was sitting cross-legged on a hard metal floor resting in the cold and barren confines of a Jedi holding pen was not so much surprising as unexpected. She had been perfectly aware, when she gave up her saber to the strange girl with the very restrictive manner of dress and visor-like cover over her eyes, that capture and detention was a possibility. Her set of experiences, however, made that possibility highly improbable.
The Sith did not take prisoners, unless they were civilians. It was a well known fact that it was useless to try and gain any manner of information from a Jedi prisoner. Surely, the Jedi could think no less of her. It might not speak well of her capabilities as a Sith that she was captured in the first place and it certainly would not hold her in high standing by Sith standards that she had given herself up rather than fight to the death, but they could not truly believe she would divulge any information. The Jedi, after all, were not particularly known for their interrogation techniques.
What manner of torture could the Light Side of the force offer that she had not already experienced in the Dark?
She could think of none.
She could not, of course, have possibly foreseen Sancha.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
The holding cells were designed to calm - low lit with light blue plasma screens shone against gray and silver walls, glass plate, and holo screens; soothing scents like lavender and essence of pear wafted through the filtered air; and the rise and fall of soft music melding with ocean waves just barely registered in her ears.
It was clean, open, and sanitary- almost preternaturally so, the space used sparsely, giving an illusion of freedom and movement. An illusion shattered by the guards that stood at attention near the entrances and exits, stalked the halls, and watched the security feeds with avid interest. They didn’t even twitch when Sancha walked straight into the clear, thick glass partition.
Rubbing the bridge of her injured nose, she trekked through the quiet halls until she came to stand before cell 6B472S.
Sancha was - by necessity - a planner, and though she didn’t always take kindly to factors forcing a change in her carefully made agendas, she was also known for her adaptability. She had had one full night to scrounge together a working outline for this . . . project; and Part I of this rather detailed battle plan had very little to do with questioning and everything to do with appearance.
Her black flight suit had been donned beneath a pale sleeveless duster, every button fastened and accounted for to give a polished, military veneer. Similarly, her boots - which boasted a four inch heel in addition to a two inch platform to camouflage Sancha’s lack of stature - were black
and shined to a high gloss. The scuffed and scratched arm bracers she usually wore to protect her arms from the corrosive chemicals she often worked with were replaced by the more durable (and menacing-looking) metal variety; and her black vial belt had been seamed with new, blinding white thread and weighted down with vials of alternately clear and colored liquids.
And despite the fact that - for once - she appeared rather sharp and official, it was the black and silver plasma powered visual instrumentation system covering her eyes that was the crowning accessory. Her visor was securely placed around her head and balanced on her nose for though she hated the thing, she had it on good authority that even if she was a pro at simulating an ice cube when a serious demeanor was needed, her eyes were expressive and often gave away when she was confused, panicked, or stark raving pissed.
She knew this Sith chick was gifted with the Force, several times stronger than her (which wasn’t difficult since her own talent was mediocre at best) in fact; but Sancha expected the Sith woman to underestimate her and attempt to use the Force to overpower her. She was counting on it, and she would be ready.
Taking a deep breath, Sancha tapped in the security codes before pressing her hand to the sensors and suffering a retinal scan before deliberately pasting a pleasant smile on her face and entering the cell.
“Good morning,” she chirped brightly to the seated figure on the other side of the tiny room. “I hope you’re finding your accommodations satisfactory.” You should be cleaning up the mess you made of my archives, not sitting pretty and wasting oxygen.
Gold eyes peered from between frosty blue strands as she walked to sit - not in the comfortable looking chair at the small table but on the floor, deliberately setting herself a level beneath the fiend in skin tight blue leather.
Part I, Section A, Addendum 2b. Keep the archive killing whore off your game.
“My name is Sancha Rotunae, and I’m going to be your interrogator this morning.” Her face stretched into a smile that was thin and cutting. “I would shake your hand, but I’m afraid the glass partition won’t allow such pleasantries.”
The destructo-bimbo was giving her a bare, focused look that Sancha felt to her toes. It was the look of a Force wielder attempting to take control of a situation. The smile suddenly became genuine and just this side of wry. “Your mind tricks won’t work on me, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint, but my entire skull is reinforced with allinium plate. It’s like having a permanent anti-Force helmet.”
Yellow eyes dilated as the Sith woman visibly breathed. Sancha felt the brief thrill of triumph until she realized the silence was - in and of itself - a sign of resistance. Somehow, however, Sancha felt that the prisoner wasn’t resisting so much as testing. After all, the chit had a power signature strong enough to have had a least a fighting chance against the seven who apprehended her, and it had seemed as if she was going to gamble a pitch battle in the basement before Sancha had shown up.
Heh, that’s right Bantha-bitch fodder, fear my mad skills with a stylus and about 400 argils of niliyium.
“I see you’re just a right ray of starshine, so let me level with you: I don’t give a flitterfly’s fuck in paradise what the Jedi Masters want to know. I couldn’t care less about your Sith home or your Sithy, Sithy ways. I don’t want to know about your name, where you came from, or your opinions on navel lint.” The Sith bint narrowed her eyes just enough to be noticeable, and Sancha leaned forward, neck craned and mouth carefully drawn into an indecipherable line. “Actually, I don’t want anything from you that you haven’t already indicated a willingness to give.” ‘Cept maybe manual labor and a heartfelt apology.
Golden eyes darkened to a faint honey brown, light blue brows drawn into an inquisitive grimace, lips pursed and nose gently wrinkled as if in distaste.
But Sancha was prepared for the silent treatment. Going in, Sancha had asked her superior officer (and erstwhile Teacher) - Vancory e’Macium - for advice. He had told her that the best way to deal with a silent prisoner was to talk until they were forced to talk back.
And considering Sancha was possibly the most frustrated Jedi for lightyears around, she was more than willing to fill up the empty spaces of conversation. So, Sancha talked and bitched and raved about nothing and everything, steering clear of Jedi secrets, procedures, and ways while somehow always coming back to the other woman’s role in the destruction of an entire decade of painstaking plans, organizational brilliance, and attention to detail.
Hours passed with pauses only for eating, drinking, and toilet use, and for once, Sancha was glad to be a certified insomniac. The chit weathered the “interrogation” well, remaining - largely - stoic in the face of Sancha’s purposefully inane prattle, never breaking her silence, not once shifting her piercing gaze.
However, after three full days of seemingly endless verbal nonsense, the blue haired skin dealer finally began to show signs of outright irritation; and on the fourth day, she actually spoke, sharp voice tearing through the slightly hoarse delivery of yet another Wookie joke. “Be silent.”
Got ya. Sancha had to mentally hammer the satisfied grin fighting to curve her mouth into submission. “But this one’s a good one. I swear, it’s hysterical; and there was another one you have to hear just after, because -“
“Be. Silent.”
What and waste all of this effort and time I could have been fixing my precious archive? Bitch, please. “Not until you confirm what I already know.”
For a moment, something flickered behind the twitterpated slut’s eyes - Confusion, maybe? “I am not certain what you mean.”
Sancha narrowed her eyes, though the Sith wouldn’t know that, considering the dark electromagnetic shades spanning her eye line. “I think you do; but I’m prepared to stay here and
drive you absolutely insane by continuing this line of conversation until the universe ends. So, it’s up to you. Tell me what I want to hear or I talk until you claw your ears off.”
“How would I tell you what you wish to hear when I do not yet know what you wish to hear?”
Ah, ah, ah, Sancha’s inner self was positively giddy for though the head archivist had no talent for manipulation, she was well-practiced in recognizing when someone was trying to manipulate her. “Let me remind you how this works. I ask the questions and you answer them.”
If she had thought the Sith had an icy non-expression before, it became clear rather quickly that she had been sorely mistaken. “You have already said you wish nothing of me save some sort of confession. I merely ask for clarification.”
Calculating, reasoning - these were actions that were second nature to Sancha even if certain emotional issues sometimes got in the way. Tampering down her temper was a physical effort involving the grasp and tug of one of the vials from her belt. “It’s not that hard.” She spoke evenly, focusing on the ache of her throat and the cool glass-like firmness between her fingers as the little tube was twisted this way and that before her eyes and the Sith’s. “You’re obviously gifted, and you were going to attempt to take on seven full Jedi with hundreds more at the ready in the levels above you.” The corking mechanism was released with an ominous hiss before Sancha replaced it with her own finger. “You have guts.”
Gold eyes watched the wet tip of Sancha’s finger as the hand and arm connected to it straightened out to the side, a small droplet beginning to form away from the skin. “But you’re indecisive. You surrendered with no real fuss. Generally speaking, it’s just not something Sith do. So, I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself.”
The confused look was back, but this time, it was more pronounced and focused on the growing droplet of clear liquid catching the light and teasing the eye. “Prove myself?”
“You made a decision to hand over your weapon and throw yourself on our mercy. Are you ready to stand by that decision and become a Jedi?”
There was - at last - silence, broken by the groan of crushed leather as the Sith stood and walked to place her palms against the transparent partition; and Sancha was forced to crane her neck back till it could crane no more. Her arm and subsequent finger remained suspended, that one solitary drop jostled slightly by the movement.
“And if I am not?”
Sancha’s mouth did stretch into a vacuous grin then. “If you’re not, I blow up this entire building and everyone in it with this little drop of pure dynamite hanging from my finger.”
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
Fimia had never dealt directly with a Jedi. She had fought them, she had learned about them - in a manner of speaking - and had otherwise thought no more of them.
Fimia remained at the glass and reached out with her senses, but could read nothing from the Jedi save her utter determination to end this.
“You rest much on the assumption that I value the life of any of the people in this building.”
“Perhaps,” the so-called Sancha responded. “But it’s a sure bet. You might not care about the lives of the people in this building, but you surrendered rather than fight, so I figure you’ve got some attachment to that skin of yours.”
Fimia’s expression didn’t change. “You would be wrong.”
“Sith love themselves too much to be suicidal,” the small woman replied certainly.
“Jedi do not sacrifice others needlessly to reach their own objectives.”
“Now you would be wrong,” the Jedi said and Fimia noted the line of her jaw tighten.
In four days, Fimia had learned many of the minutiae of the Jedi’s manner. She had come to three conclusions: first, the Jedi was entirely capable of carrying out her threat to speak ceaselessly. Second, the Jedi did not wish to be there. She took no pleasure in her capture. Third, she was not a normal Jedi. Somewhere in the prattle of four days, Fimia had come to the conclusion that the Jedi cared more about her destruction of the archives than she did of the fact she was Sith and an enemy.
“Explain,” Fimia decided, seating herself once more on the floor, so that the Jedi did not have to crane her neck up to stare at her.
The Jedi looked momentarily confused. “Explain what?”
“Your objectives.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Sancha demanded.
“Telling Wookie anecdotes.”
Her blunt answer seemed to startle the Jedi and she jerked, the drop on her finger jostling violently and finally separating on a collision course with the floor.
Fimia stood and pressed against the glass, every fiber of her being attempting to stop that drop, but to no avail.
*SWSFSWSFSWSFSWSFSWSF*
In the blink of an eye, Sancha had summoned the vial to suspend beneath the falling, lethal droplet, the renegade unit of liquid safely finding its home within glass confines. Re-corking the tube, the Jedi rocked back on her rump, a smug look on her face. “Well, I’m still not sure if you care about my life or the lives of the other people in this building, but by the stressed look on your face just now, I’m willing to wager you’re definitely concerned about yours.”
The Sith woman’s eyes narrowed considerably, “You allowed the drop to fall on purpose.”
Sancha was unperturbed by the fact that the retort was a statement rather than a question, and did not so much as glance at the padawan that appeared behind her to hand over her lunch. “Of course. I was bluffing the whole time.” She raised the test tube and shook it blithely. “This holds nothing more harmful than a few centiliters of water.”
There was a tightening about the mouth and a slight tapping of the fingertips against the partition. Well, well, well, Sancha inwardly grinned, I’ve somehow managed to annoy her . . . I should feel ashamed, really. This time, she couldn’t suppress a pleased little mew as she took a bite of Madame Benne’s redberry pie.
“It’s very simple.” Sancha gathered herself to stand, dusting herself off as she did so, her words making it clear that she meant business . . . finally (though the image was marred by the plate of food and the frequency at which she ate the victuals). “You have two options: 1. Join the Jedi, mind, body and soul, and you are free of this prison and treated with decency and respect as a comrade. . . though, you’ll probably have a supervised trial period. We can’t just outright trust you after all; or 2. Reject the Jedi and prepare to spend even MORE time with me in this room, behind that partition and without escape.”
Silence answered Sancha, much to her disappointment, but she was not to be deterred. Time might be sifting through her fingers to pile more and more work at her feet, but she knew there must be some part of the Sith that knew a good deal when she saw it.
“I’ll let you think on it for a bit.”
“I do not need time to think.”
Sancha’s eyes widened considerably. It was the second time in four days that the other woman had managed to surprise her. Perhaps she was more annoying than she originally thought. Oh well, whatever got the job done. “Excuse me?
“I shall join your Jedi Temple; however, there is a requirement.”
This was not a negotiation, and Sancha was not about to commit the Council to anything; but she couldn’t help it, she was curious. “I’m all ears.”
Intense, darkening gold eyes leveled and honed in on the remains of Sancha’s half-eaten pie. “I want pie.”
The grin on Sancha’s face could only be called manic as she brandished her fork and let out a cheery, “DONE."
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