Writing Prompt: September

The feeling of 'things can go up from here' was fairly strong for Aran given she had a piece of paper in her hand with an address for a job, she wasn't having to contemplate stealing a room from someone in the less-nice parts of Ul'dah just to avoid sleeping in the forest, and Jaz'neth's job was safely on-hold with the runic covered box safely tucked in a specialist's hands. It was why she was in the streets of Ul'dah again - not just because she wanted to scope out the address she would be skulking her way into shortly but because she wanted to have that moment to see it, with a more up-beat set of eyes.

She perched on a set of abandoned crates and mis-matched green eyes looked at the dust, the sand, the worn stone of the alley. The refuse and shattered stones, the scraps of paper rumbled and tossed aside, the grit-clumped tiny rocks and dust held together by fluids of indeterminable origins. Further down the alley there were hooded figures, flashes of gil in hands and what Aran suspected were bottles being passed around but she wasn't a enforcer of the law (what law there was in Ul'dah that wasn't bought by the Monetariat) so she wrinkled her nose but she didn't stop it.

Why should she? It was hard enough to have a dream sometimes, when the gil was gone and your stomach was hugging your spine so hard that you knew it had made permanent friends with the bones. Some folk turned to vices, when they could afford it, so that they had a glimmer of meaning. It was fleeting - you needed more drink, you needed more drugs, you needed more skin until the dream had consumed itself and all you were was the moments between acquisitions. But it was still there and it happened.

She couldn't stop that reality. Shifting on her feet Aran let out a low breath. What she could do was make it so that her people had better options than to fall into those shadows, more options to them than she had when she'd left home and come to Ul'dah eventually with the exodus from her home.

In a gust of wind the figures at the back of the alley shifted - no more glints of gil in hands, just a shuffle as they seemed to part as easily as they'd come together. Easing off the crates her feet hit the ground with a surety of having seen exactly where to place them, half-braided hair hanging around her face before she pushed bangs from her eyes. She moved easily, purposefully, one foot hitting exactly where she wanted it to go and fingers lightly resting on the wrapped hilts of the daggers that rarely left her side. The way she moved seemed to ensure that even though there were more people in the alley she always had just a little bit of space.

"--please you have to help me--"

It barely registered, that plea, directed as it was to someone dozens of yalms behind her, but there was a shuffle and that drew her attention.

"--looking for someone, you have to help me--"

There was a ring of desperation in the tone that even she could pick up, so far away.

She felt sorry for the poor fool. It was going to be hard to find any help in Ul'dah.

Her winding feet had taken her to the small shop she was looking for - a cut hole in the wall with threadbare canvas over the door, a small handmade chime hanging to give it charm but at the same time giving off a feeling of desperation. It was rocks and metal spines and twine and absently she gave it a twirl while stepping inside the room, the sound dull but still a greeting.

The shopkeeper's litany of rotely memorized prices was a dry ramble to her ears and she shook her head, tapping the rough wood and pulling out a small sack. It was smaller than she'd have liked but until Cordellia's approved reimbursement was paid she was left with not as much as her normal donations. She set the sack down in front of the worn and tired looking woman.

"S'me. Regular 'n on time this month."

The sack slid forward and the woman looked up and stared at her then nodded, hands reaching out to take it. "Anything else this month for the resistance?"

"Nothin' ye' but iffin sommat comes up, y' know I'll drop it by as always."

"Of course I know, but ... some folks are... discouraged."

Giving a shake of her head she was about to speak when there was a sound a yalm back, at the door. Hands on the daggers then the pair of them waited until someone shuffled inside. The man was hooded and shadowed with a clear voice that Aran recognized from the alley - the man who'd called out, asking for help.

"I'm looking for someone- you. By the Twelve, it's you!" The man's hood fell back and for a moment, a breath, Aran stared.

Nothing had changed in his face - he was well fed though his beard had gone to the wayside for some reason - but his eyes were desperate in the low light of the store.

"You have to help me Aran, you have to help me. They know I came."

The silence of her reply was measured in heartbeats before - on instinct, without thought at all - she'd had daggers out, a swarm and haze of fury behind her actions. One blade just flashed, slamming into the man's shoulder like she were using it to get ahold of him, the force of the blow enough that when he stumbled back she added a kick then slammed him, forearm across his throat, into the sturdiest wall.

"Take it outside," the shopkeeper said, the words penetrating the din and focus and Aran giving a nod, twisting the dragger as she let the man up.

"Move," she spat, and he moved, the two of them shuffling out into the alley, Aran using her dagger to painfully steer him to the very dead back, watching him just grunt and take it.

"I need your help Aran, they're after me," he pleaded tiredly, softly, pain lacing the words.

"You lost the right to asking for help," she said evenly, finding a peaceful calm creep into her mind, a stillness as she kept him driven to the furthest corner. "You lost it when you danced to the Mad King's tune, when you helped them come in after, when you stayed for Garlemald. Now, now you come here, looking for help? Wanted to see what was left of the people you betrayed?"

"And I should've let the city bathe in blood? He was mad and you know it. He needed to be removed."

"Garlemald."

The word hung like an accusation, the only break between their exchange the pained pants and gasps as every time he tried to move the dagger just remained, pinning him to the ramshackle wall.

"I need your help, I have information. You're part of the Resistance, aren't you? Wide-eyed at the hope of home. I can help you. You just need to help me hide, they're after me and I know you can hide me, Aran."

She pulled the dagger out from his shoulder, wiping the blood on his shirt as he just stood, waiting. She could read the earnest tone to his voice, the fear that was real in his eyes.

And she knew to the blood in her veins and muscle on her bones that not a single thing he ever said could be trusted.

"I'll help you," she said as the silence stretched out, offering him a hand to shake. When he took it she pulled him close. A sound then, drowned out in the alley and street bustle and he jerked a moment, coughing ragged and gasping breaths.

She helped him lean back, slump to the ground and crouched down, counting his breaths and watching until it was over. She wiped her blade again, checking to make sure nothing was on her shirt before she stood, the motion fluid. Then she breathed a few rough gulps, eyes blinking once then twice, and the control she'd held fragmented just a little bit.

Her fingers were shaking. She stared at a hand in the dim, cracked light broken apart by rafters and beams and dust and smoke and wood, taking a moment to breathe.

Her hands were still shaking but she tugged her gloves, face a mask again as she decided to head back to the disaster of an inn room she was renting, when the bed wasn't sold out to someone else out from under her.

Writing Prompt: August

"Come on Aethersmith, it's not like it's something you haven't done before, right?"

Cultured voice, coercive tones - mis-matched green eyes narrowed as they looked at the bloke across from her, both of their figures shadowed and shaded by the dim Ul'dah street lamps that flickered and swayed. The man stood hooded, he always was hooded as if it were the height of fashion, and in the darkness Aran caught a hand motion as if he made some grand gesture.

"I told y' b'fore, tha' ain't sommat I do," and she stressed that softly, words carrying a hint of steel to them.

"You did before."

"Then ain't now."

"So you're telling me you're afraid, is that it?"

Silence, heavy silence, before Aran abruptly reached out grabbed the box from his hand and flipped it in the air. "I ain't afraid 've sommat small like this..."

Which was why three days later she was staring at the box under the shading umbrella on the Free Company's lawn, empty flask uncapped and beside her and idlying drawing sigils with a finger.

Temper and pride really could get the better of her.

She needed to work on that.

The box was small but covered in gold gilt and encrusted with either cut glass or real gemstones (she hadn't stopped by an appraiser to see if they were real because if they were the box was worth more gil than she was ever going to get for the job) and the gold gilt was in clearly marked aether circles. At a glance she hoped it still looked like STOP's classic puzzle box and no one gave her funny eyes over it.

She turned it in first one hand then the other, lips murmuring as she puzzled out the symbols and turned the box this and that way.

It'd been a while, a long while, since she tried to puzzle through something like what she held in her hand, and if time was of the essence, who could she even turn to? No one she tended to work with in Ul'dah, for certain. They might have an odd feeling around her but she'd never done anything even as aetherical as light a candle near 'em. And Aethertide? She knew a few of them by face or voice (or thighs, but she shuddered to think of how Soren had dressed that night) but she didn't have a lot of experience working with them and didn't know who she could turn to.

She could reach out... except she didn't know enough about them yet to put trust to them.

But then again, maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Maybe if she reached out she could get some indication of what they were all like (when not drinking or dancing, which at the present was fine with her) and see how they'd react.

She turned it over in her fingers again and let out a breath. Eyes closed and she counted to ten, then began to quietly recite names and faces of the people who she thought might have enough workings with aether and who she could turn towards for help. A quiet litany, and one spoken a few times until she started winnowing out names, finger ticking the air as she mentally crossed a few out.

Writing Prompt - Ker & Mako'rian'thrys

49. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.“
Ker’ith’wyn (Ker), Mako’rian’thrys (Oriant)

Polishing boots, polishing guns - there was only so much operational preparedness that Ker could fit into a single day on the Rose, only so much time she could check snaps, check buckles before the rig needed to be stripped and the work checked again. And it was work, sitting in one place with stillness trained into her by years in Imperial Intelligence, to be silent and yet part of the Rose. Observing. Watching. Judging, a fixture on the deck who preferred to spend her hours kitted up in CEDF blue that she’d left behind the last time she’d left the Rose. Someone who quietly asked questions in her own head, who skirted the lines where she could, who floundered in the changed galaxy.

“You’re going to wear the buckles out, Forty-Two, if you continue this method of action.”

It was the old handle from Intelligence, adapted to her call-sign on the Rose. Few people knew the significance - they lived and breathed secrets though, so many might have guessed but none put the words to their lips, put speech to them, let the reminder drip from their tongues. She wasn’t sure why she kept it - but it was a leftover for her. Ker’s brilliant red eyes looked up, locking on the thin waif of a technician who stood at a polite remove with a datapad in her hands.

“And you are...?” Ker read the briefings when possible on crew of the Rose, but names slipped by her sometimes, the way years had without meaning in the wastes she’d been stranded on.

“Mako’rian’thrys.” At Ker’s look the young Chiss shrugged. “Firewall.”

“You inherited my blockers, then?” Ker still remembered the stick handed to the Director - before she was the Director, before she was a Hado - of programs that she shouldn’t have handed over. The night on Kaas had been dark but that time was... swathed in confusion for the former agent, a feeling she channeled into picking up the pieces of her blaster and starting to fit them together again.

“You should speak to someone about your agitation, Forty-Two. If you remain like this you will be unable to function in your role.” The technician’s voice was polite, distracted - her head was bent over her screen, messy blue hair barely near some measure of regulation, almost like a personal defiance to the mandated Way Things Were.

Ker liked it. It was a spark of... difference. What she didn’t like was the reminder that things were... always different. She’d gone home, the shambles of her Imperial conditioning around her ears, and seen her family. Strangers, strangers who shared her blood, her name, who wept quietly at seeing her alive - the Aristocra’s words had been believed, but it was different to see the truth. Her brother, her mother, her father.

“What is the issue, Forty-Two?” Mako’rian’thrys had let the tablet lower, looking at the former agent who seemed lost, swathed in drab browns with her brilliant blue and black set aside, hair tightly pulled back.

“Nothing is the issue.” Ker’s voice was even and flat, the faintest hint of an edge.

“Is that why in the past three days you’ve disassembled your firearms, sharpened the armory, and run so many test protocols that you’ve generated over a crystal of additional logs? The logs, by the way, were insightful, but protocols have changed and you should brush up on the new coding for better call checks.” Mako’rian’thrys shot a look at Ker, a sly side-eye that the agent saw and frowned at.

“You obviously believe something is wrong, with your paranoia.”

“It’s not paranoia, it’s preparedness.”

“And when you verified all of the seals and locks, all code terminals for unauthorized access - that was simply preparedness?”

“Yes.”

“And reviewing the footage of visitors to the deck, the landing pads, as well as checking the histories of all cleared visitors?”

“Yes.”

“What are you concerned will go wrong, Forty-two?” Mako’rian’thrys spoke softly, inviting confidence.

“Nothing will go wrong, we just need-”

“-to be prepared,” the tech interrupted, turning and looking at Ker, holding her gaze. “You are preparing very hard for something you will not face. What do you think will go wrong?”

A beat of silence. In the stillness Mako’rian’thrys was aware that Ker held the barrel of a blaster up towards her, the targeting flicked on. She stood still, feeling the skittish desire to back away then, as Ker held it aimed at her before it finally lowered.

“Nothing.” Ker holstered the weapon. “Nothing will go wrong.”

“You’re trying to convince yourself of that, aren’t you?” The question earned the technician a furious look, a cold look, something like ancient predator reminded that it could hunt and kill. “Why?”

“Somehow it always does, and always will.”

Writing Prompt - Aran & Molari

2. “You’re too young to hate the world.”


Aran (Book), Molari


The young Jedi looked at the older Sith and it was a moment of silence before either of them did anything.

They didn’t know each other - they didn’t have to. The Force clung to them like water to skin, diametrically opposed polarities that drew them from either side of the almost empty city to the centre, to the meeting point, a table on a dingy world with broken table legs and rickety stools and two drinks.

The Sith looked... odd. Tailored coat, red hair, a scar crossing what would have been eyelids except she had cybernetics in place, but Molari couldn’t pick everything out on what might be working and her sat uneasily for a moment before she just... smiled.

How odd, to see a Sith smile. And she was Sith - the Force wasn’t hidden around her or obfuscated and it danced and sang a dark brooding song, something cloy that was a rich rose to his nose, a delicate purr that felt like it had claws. It reminded him of the Cathar Sith who’d been touched by whispers of fate and the Force, who he hadn’t seen in over seven years but who still sometimes came to mind. But this Sith, this Sith smiled warmly at him, flagging the droid down and ordering something he couldn’t quite hear.

Which had to be surprising, given his hearing.

“I got you a wrinkled tea,” the woman said, her accent the amalgamation he used to hear on Narsh all the time, tones of too many languages woven into the words.

“And what is that?” The man had a jacket of similar cut on though he wore it drawn up almost uneasily. It had a hood but he had stayed away from them, leaving only the visor he used to wear across his eyes but with the shield tuned down to practically opaque. His voice was the most telling thing the Sith figured, watching the controlled emotions - wariness, interest, confusion, concern - float across his tones.

He was young, then. Young compared to her, at least.

“It’s tea and local whiskey.”

“I won’t drink it.”

The Sith - Aran - frowned. A finger tapped the surface of the table. “If you don’t then it will be remarked upon. You will take the drink, and drink it.”

Molari frowned but sighed - and acceded, when the tea arrived, taking the cup up and taking a sip. For her part Aran did as well, drinking in silence for a moment, just two people meeting for business.

“What is a Sith doing here?”

So much for business Aran thought, and the feeling brought a grin. “Business woman,” she corrected, waiting for the man to nod - acceptance - and then she spoke again. “I am here on business, too, though. I am looking to see if my client list can expand.”

Interest in the bright green eyes and he saw the Sith chuckle. “What.... kind of things do you sell?”

“Cybernetics.”

“Not twisted magics?”

“Your training is showing, young one.”

The exchange was polite, quick, Aran smirking at the grimacing man across from her who sat, unable to do what something in him screamed to do. Her smirk grew to a laugh, finger tapping the table top again and then pulling out a datapad.

Molari regained his control, taking a larger than anticipated gulp of the liquid then choking on it with a cough.

“You’re in the market, aren’t you?”

Green eyes looked up, trying to analyze the Sith’s face, seeing a twisted malicious amusement on her lips. He saw and felt it - claws, fangs, careful hunting, amusement. It rankled in the Force, it edged him the way Knights of Zakuul had not, most Sith had not, other Force users on Odessen had not. It was personal, focused - and yet it was not even the glint of true interest, just passing desire to play.

“I doubt from you,” he spat.

She laughed again and Molari felt the back of his neck heat, taking a shallow breath.

“No... offense... meant.”

“You are far, far too young to be swallowed by your pride yet, Master Jedi. And far too young to fall for such easy proddings. Control, my friend, control.”

Something eased - she... faded. And the revulsion that had driven some of his instinctive reactions lessened, looking at the woman with confusion.

“Why?”

“You are far too young. And besides, you might have a pocketbook that can afford my products. Business first then... whatever, later."

Knight's Trials [Molari Jayd] (Part Seven)

"But you saved me, Molari-"

There was something wrong with her saying that, something that nagged him - it was her voice, the way he imagined she'd sound if she'd lived, but Janus had rarely called him by his full name. And even then she had been one of the few who knew his name, his real name. They never called each other by their real names - that had been drilled into him since he could first understand it.

Names were power.

Even as a Jedi he had been always aware of that truism, making 'Molari' his name as far as the Republic was concerned. Sometimes even 'Molari' was too much of a name, the Knight falling back to titles when agitated or wary. Humans didn't understand the power of a name, the power over someone it gave... Few species grasped the concept, he believed, feeling names were merely monikers.

Time passed. His head swam, suppressing the sensations to show as few weaknesses as possible; the Knight rubbed his wrists, reaching up to try and slip a finger under the collar and finding no give. The cuffs had almost been more welcome than the collar - at least he could still feel the Force with the cuffs, even if it'd been harder to control without the crutch of guidance by hands. He'd still been able to feel connected but now? He could barely sense anything, able to really only 'feel' a few feet, before the only perceptions he had were with his own senses. The press of what might happen was gone, the slight edge cut off and he was left with the itch of uncertainty.

Perhaps it was better though because he couldn't feel the overwhelming press of the Dark Side now - so there was some plus to it all. He could almost pretend he was someplace else, almost... except the forcefield and the cell made that illusion fracture all too easily. But at least he could attribute any feelings of sickness to merely a physical ailment (as hard to believe as that was) instead of the corruption of the Force.

The Knight's stomach twisted, hunching over and putting hands down on the ground to brace himself. The ground felt cool and his cheeks pinched, taking in shallow gasps of air as he wondered if the room had suddenly been chilled or warmed. That was...new. It must be the stress, he reasoned, certainly not something else.

Ari...

He couldn't tell if the voice was in his head or in his ears, trying frantically to sense if there was life nearby and failing. Maybe it was in his ears, maybe she really was close by, maybe... Molari shook his head, running a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. He felt hot, splaying his fingers against the cool floor to try and draw the chill into himself.

Almost as an after-thought the Jedi thought to check his nose, the one the guard had slammed a knee into when he'd been knocked back. It was barely even tender though he could smell the blood still, the injury already mostly-healed. This was one of the few times he'd be thankful he wasn't as human as he looked, thankful because he couldn't imagine any stay on Dromund Kaas was going to be pleasant for long.

The cell faded, hazing as the dull headache started up, starting at the sound of footsteps. The ground rocked underneath him and when he looked up he wasn't in the cell, feeling the weight of the saber in his hand as he got blearily to his feet. But then the room shifted, the superimposed vision of his ship's deck fading before he was simply alone in the cell.

But her voice was in his ears again, or maybe in his head, and he found himself hoping that she ended up being only in his mind because if she was here he wasn't quite sure what he'd do.

Ari you have to make it home...

Was there someone watching? Were those footsteps he heard, the click of heels on flooring? Was Janus just past the wall of his cell, Molari moving to put a hand against the wall not protected by the field, trying to extend his senses again and finding nothing inside the short area he could reach out to.

Caged-
Collared-
Trapped-
Blood-

His eyes glazed before he caught himself, stepping away from the wall and back, facing the doorway.

Knight's Trials [Molari Jayd] (Part Six)

Two times in a span of days he came-to in restraints though this time was infinitely worse than the time he'd found himself surrounded by Chiss. At least then he'd been given medical treatment on-site, offered continuing medications, and been released after being reassured by Master Darnell Othone. This time his eyes narrowed, stretching as best as possible, rolling to the side on the provided bed before getting to his feet. The injuries he'd sustained had healed up, the Knight thanking the Force for his ability to heal so swiftly.

There was a tremor and unease in the pit of his stomach that he would need to rely on his species' traits more than he had ever before.

"You must be mistaken..."

Molari had begun to hear Janus again, catching glimpses of her again, and had followed the prompting to go to Rishi, feeling a tug that he attributed to the Force's guidance. Surely the pirate's planet would have rumors, as much as Nar Shaddaa had, and surely someone would know what had been happening.

The information he had been given by the Aide and by Master Tel-raan had been invaluable. And as the Aide had pointed out, given the fact that his condition had improved while on the medication provided to him, it was highly likely that thier insistence that he was infected was correct. Somewhere in his belt he still had their contact information, but with the cuffs it was impossible to reach.

He would admit that was more than likely why he was cuffed. His memories were hazy enough that he couldn't even be certain he hadn't actually been divested of his communication devices, the swift kick to the jaw that had sent him sprawling making everything somewhat hard to recall. And the bayonet through each thigh had been a splitting agony of pain, the knife slicing through the joints in his armor plating. Being pulled to his feet had hurt but after those injuries he was in no condition to try to run.

The Agent and the Inquisitor had been a good pairing. He might've been able to overwhelm one of them alone, the Knight finding them an even match, but together it had been too much. Their insistence that he submit to their authority and comply with their orders was more than unusual; their knowledge of who he was still was unsettling. But the Agent had relied on precise blaster fire from his bowcaster, and the Inquisitor had relied on both lightning and their saber, and he couldn't counter them both working in concert. He flexed his shoulders, feeling the pull of sore muscles but none of the tauntness of the injuries he'd sustained.

Maybe it was a failing to understand but... no one had helped. No one had interfered. No one had stopped the procession through the pirate's cove, no one had questioned a Sith and an Agent apprehending a Jedi, no one had done anything.

"Oh Ari-" He shut his eyes tightly at Janus' voice. His dreams had been chaotic, snatches of sleep punctuated by the return of a splitting headache.

He had never before been to the capitol of the Sith Empire but now he was forced to wait for Darth Digaal, to see what exactly the Sith had wanted him for. The Jedi paced the confines of his cell for a few minutes before he took in and let out a breath. Eyes closed as he sank to his knees, another breath before he let go of his worries and concerns and meditated. He would put his trust in the Force and wait. After all he had nothing else to do.

Knight's Trials [Molari Jayd] (Part Five)

He had to get home. Janus kept telling him to go home, kept telling him to get on the ship and leave. Sometimes he blearily stayed in place, a vague recollection that he was on Tython echoing behind his confusion. Other times Molari stood still and wavered, hands to his head as the pain sliced across his thoughts and pounded like a sledgehammer. The babble of the healers sometimes was sharp and vivid, challenging and getting a rise of frustration from the man, and other times it faded and was easy to listen to and obey.

Ari, you need to come home... I miss you.

He'd gotten to the point where he didn't start from hearing Janus in his ears, though he still craned his head to look for her. She kept telling him to go home, to leave, and softly she urged him to escape.

It was lunacy. Utter and complete lunacy. Sinnest had brought him to Tython to help him but every time the healers turned away Molari paced uncertainly. The healers had tried to help him, expressed their concern that he was so obviously sick, and it ate around his thoughts that they were waiting.

Watching.

They would keep him there. Lock him up.

Ari, you need to get out- And he listened this time while letting the healers work, ignoring the pounding in his skull and the way the world tilted after they professed themselves confused. One of them had tried to ease his mind to sleep and he let them think it worked, waiting for the healers to trustingly move away to the next patient before sitting up. They knew what was ailing him, didn't they, and they weren't telling him--

He wouldn't stick around long enough. His ship... where had he left it? "Send the lockdown code and I'll get you to Tython-" It was on Coruscant.

Still on Coruscant.

He was on Tython.

He had to get home.

---

Come on Ari, just around the bend, shuttle waiting for the troops she urged him, half a mind wondering why Janus darted in and out of sight before telling him everything she did. If she was there why did she want him to go home but maybe - he shook his head, swaying on his feet before he slammed into the wall. Wall. His shoulder twinged from the impact. Maybe she wanted him to go home to see their family, and tell them she was alive, because they all thought she was dead.

He hopped the shuttle though, settling in among the passengers leaving the planet and thanking the Force that whatever ailed him had begun to leave him alone again; his stomach settled, his nerves relaxed - he stretched out then wondered why he had no hood, running fingers through his hair.

When he stumbled off the shuttle he followed Janus again, trusting her to get him to a place to go home. The shuttle hadn't been bound for home but he couldn't quite make out where it'd taken him until the Chiss had insisted he was on Nar Shaddaa.

The Chiss. There'd been two of them, Janus telling him no, to keep looking for the ship and shuttle transports but the doctor had hurt himself and Molari knew it was his duty to help him. And the other one, the female, had known how to get through to the shuttles and taxis. Hunched over a bench Molari tried to order his staggered thoughts.

They'd said he was infected. He'd finally been composed enough to sense they were being truthful when they insisted it, and Master Othone had confirmed their words. He still didn't know exactly where he'd woken up but he had put his trust in the Jedi Master and pulled back from his immediate reactions.

Janus hadn't been there when he'd woken up. And, as he popped the medication he'd been given, he realized she hadn't been around again. But he'd been able to eat, been able to sleep again, and the aggression and feeling of being watched had abated.

He pulled out the datachip he'd been offered with the information on what, exactly, he'd been prescribed. He had one more dose of it.

What had they meant by infected? Why had they insisted he'd been attacked?

He scrubbed his face then looked up, blinking green eyes.

He still had to get home.