Power plays (unprompted fic)
There are cracks. In every construct, in every wall and ever piece of armor, no matter how impenetrable they seem, there are always minuscule cracks.
The Haitian’s unique gift was no different. It was just a matter of finding them all and letting the thin trickle of the Dark Side sink into him and give him back his strength.
When the Ambassador came back, he was no longer tied or helpless, or anywhere to be seen, until he was behind her with his hand on her neck, slamming her into the wall.
He saw surprise flicker through her eyes for the briefest of moments before it was replaced with something more akin to triumph. “It…took you…long enough,” she rasped around the pressure on her throat.
“I adapt quickly.” He removed the blaster from her belt, a knife from her boot, a cleverly hidden metal star in the bodice of her uniform. He patted her down with a firm touch and cold calculation, too far gone in anger and rage to even notice the feel of her skin and the shape of her body. Only when he was sure she was disarmed did he let her go and step back.
He had only wanted to talk, really, without his hands bound, without feeling so powerless. He wanted equal ground. It wasn’t so much to ask. But then the boy burst through the door.
He knew where his lightsaber was. He Force pulled it from the corner of the room where all of his things were piled and ignited the blade, deflecting the blasters the boy shot at him before finally pulling the blaster away from him completely.
The boy stumbled, but was well enough armed with a phrik staff--one of the few weapons that could withstand a blow from a lightsaber. “Don’t make me kill you, boy,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.
“West.” His and the boy’s gaze both snapped momentarily towards the Ambassador. Her voice was worn and husky--as though she’d actually sustained some injury, which was laughable--her lip quivering infinitesimally. “West, help…”
“Don’t believe her.” Starkiller met the boy’s eye, his expression grave. “She doesn’t care about you. Never did, never will. She wants me to kill you. Don‘t make me do it.”
“Shut up!” The boy’s lips curled in a sneer. He attacked--stronger than Starkiller would’ve given him credit for, someone had taught him how to use the thing--but still too slow.
He ended it quickly, cleanly. There was no reason for the boy to suffer, after all. He was just a fool. A poor fool that was taken in by false, pretty charms.
Those charms evaporated the moment the boy’s body slumped to the floor. The Ambassador sighed with something like relief, a cruel smirk twisting on her lips. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, turning to face her, his lightsaber blade still engaged, “that if I took your head clean off of your shoulders, it might just keep you down. I don’t think a head would grow back.”
She didn’t show fear. Part of him wanted her fear, but another part was intrigued that she refused to show it. “You’re not going to try and find out, though. Are you.”
He went very still. Considering. Then flipped the lightsaber in his hand into the Shien reverse grip, and disengaged the blade. “Let’s talk. Without the cuffs. Without weapons raised.” He paused and scowled down at his bare chest. “Preferably clothed.”
“It’d be so much more fun if we weren’t,” the Ambassador remarked thoughtfully. When he refused to react, she rolled one shoulder in a shrug. “All right. Since you took that little problem off of my hands…” She nudged the boy’s cooling body with the toe of her boot, like one would nudge a wad of bontha feces out of their path. “I guess I owe you that much.”
“You used me to kill him,” he stated, almost as an afterthought.
“Believe me, I would’ve loved to do it myself. But father would’ve been cross with me. I make it too much a habit, you see.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Killing your guards?”
“They’re stupid, and pathetic, and weak. That’s why we need you, Starkiller.” The charm returned, dark and tantalizing and full of promise; as if the Dark Side itself had taken form. Maybe he was as much a fool as the boy, because he stepped closer, a moth to a candle. “Are you ready to listen?”
He stopped. Made himself stop a few paces sort of standing before her. He backed towards the corner of the room, where his things were piled. “Give me a few moments.” When she didn’t move, he growled softly in frustration. “Alone.”
“Give me your lightsaber.”
“No.” She raised one slender eyebrow. “It isn’t just a weapon, Ambassador. I don’t expect you to understand. I give you my word that I won‘t raise it against you unless you strike first.”
She pursed her lips, considered, then rolled her shoulder again. “Fine. I’ll be outside the door. We’ll talk in my quarters. It’s more comfortable.”
Comfortable, he thought as he pulled his tunic over his head, for her. Quite unnerving for him, and judging by the smirk on her face as she gave him a slow once over and finally gave him his privacy, she knew it.
The Haitian’s unique gift was no different. It was just a matter of finding them all and letting the thin trickle of the Dark Side sink into him and give him back his strength.
When the Ambassador came back, he was no longer tied or helpless, or anywhere to be seen, until he was behind her with his hand on her neck, slamming her into the wall.
He saw surprise flicker through her eyes for the briefest of moments before it was replaced with something more akin to triumph. “It…took you…long enough,” she rasped around the pressure on her throat.
“I adapt quickly.” He removed the blaster from her belt, a knife from her boot, a cleverly hidden metal star in the bodice of her uniform. He patted her down with a firm touch and cold calculation, too far gone in anger and rage to even notice the feel of her skin and the shape of her body. Only when he was sure she was disarmed did he let her go and step back.
He had only wanted to talk, really, without his hands bound, without feeling so powerless. He wanted equal ground. It wasn’t so much to ask. But then the boy burst through the door.
He knew where his lightsaber was. He Force pulled it from the corner of the room where all of his things were piled and ignited the blade, deflecting the blasters the boy shot at him before finally pulling the blaster away from him completely.
The boy stumbled, but was well enough armed with a phrik staff--one of the few weapons that could withstand a blow from a lightsaber. “Don’t make me kill you, boy,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.
“West.” His and the boy’s gaze both snapped momentarily towards the Ambassador. Her voice was worn and husky--as though she’d actually sustained some injury, which was laughable--her lip quivering infinitesimally. “West, help…”
“Don’t believe her.” Starkiller met the boy’s eye, his expression grave. “She doesn’t care about you. Never did, never will. She wants me to kill you. Don‘t make me do it.”
“Shut up!” The boy’s lips curled in a sneer. He attacked--stronger than Starkiller would’ve given him credit for, someone had taught him how to use the thing--but still too slow.
He ended it quickly, cleanly. There was no reason for the boy to suffer, after all. He was just a fool. A poor fool that was taken in by false, pretty charms.
Those charms evaporated the moment the boy’s body slumped to the floor. The Ambassador sighed with something like relief, a cruel smirk twisting on her lips. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, turning to face her, his lightsaber blade still engaged, “that if I took your head clean off of your shoulders, it might just keep you down. I don’t think a head would grow back.”
She didn’t show fear. Part of him wanted her fear, but another part was intrigued that she refused to show it. “You’re not going to try and find out, though. Are you.”
He went very still. Considering. Then flipped the lightsaber in his hand into the Shien reverse grip, and disengaged the blade. “Let’s talk. Without the cuffs. Without weapons raised.” He paused and scowled down at his bare chest. “Preferably clothed.”
“It’d be so much more fun if we weren’t,” the Ambassador remarked thoughtfully. When he refused to react, she rolled one shoulder in a shrug. “All right. Since you took that little problem off of my hands…” She nudged the boy’s cooling body with the toe of her boot, like one would nudge a wad of bontha feces out of their path. “I guess I owe you that much.”
“You used me to kill him,” he stated, almost as an afterthought.
“Believe me, I would’ve loved to do it myself. But father would’ve been cross with me. I make it too much a habit, you see.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Killing your guards?”
“They’re stupid, and pathetic, and weak. That’s why we need you, Starkiller.” The charm returned, dark and tantalizing and full of promise; as if the Dark Side itself had taken form. Maybe he was as much a fool as the boy, because he stepped closer, a moth to a candle. “Are you ready to listen?”
He stopped. Made himself stop a few paces sort of standing before her. He backed towards the corner of the room, where his things were piled. “Give me a few moments.” When she didn’t move, he growled softly in frustration. “Alone.”
“Give me your lightsaber.”
“No.” She raised one slender eyebrow. “It isn’t just a weapon, Ambassador. I don’t expect you to understand. I give you my word that I won‘t raise it against you unless you strike first.”
She pursed her lips, considered, then rolled her shoulder again. “Fine. I’ll be outside the door. We’ll talk in my quarters. It’s more comfortable.”
Comfortable, he thought as he pulled his tunic over his head, for her. Quite unnerving for him, and judging by the smirk on her face as she gave him a slow once over and finally gave him his privacy, she knew it.