Even though she'd tried (pathetically) to argue against medical treatment once she was there Kerith sat obediently through the triage. The blaster bolt was painful but she hid her winces and grimaces easily behind a cool facade, arm lifted up as the droid applied kolto and swabbed the injured tissue. She had done what she was supposed to do - her client, her protectee was safe, the only injuries taken were to herself and the one who had attacked in the first place.
She hadn't removed her helm, hadn't pulled off the mask she hid behind but she felt her own confusion without having to see it expressed in a mirror. She'd never truly been thanked for doing her job, even when (as the work of a bodyguard often did) it had ended in blood. Sith were not immune to threats against their life and their arcane defenses could fail them when a well-trained agent was sent. It was hard but she knew the ways to circumvent a force user's protections and take one down. It was hard but not impossible.
It was why they still had security teams, why they still needed competent ciphers and agents at their beck and call. She went in to every meeting expecting to need to use the multitudes of weapons she secreted on her person; every meeting or engagement where she didn't need to draw a vibro or rifle was one in an ever-growing list of times where duty had been pleasant.
She could claim no prescience that the Mandalorian had alarmed her, no scream of Force in the back of her mind alerting her to the imminent danger. There was been the narrowed focus - a flurry of bolts loosened in Sinclair's direction - and then there had been action. She would consider wearing heavier armor to the next engagement off the Rose but she preferred to move inside of her comfort levels. But that was a debate for another day, a discussion to have with herself weighing the quick movement and reaction times versus the heavier protections and plating.
The Aristocra had not complied with her request to lower himself to the ground behind her figure but unlike some of her protectees he was a man of action, a man of violence in his own right. She didn't expect his pride to allow him to hide behind someone, even someone who was there to protect him, for the sake of his own skin. At least she hadn't wasted the time to be angry about it, instead pushing aside the pain with rigid concentration and further focus and aiming back. Her shots had been true.
So had the rest of the party's. It was a brief exchange of fighting before the Mandalorian had been subdued. Seconds. Behind her mask her nostrils had flared, filtered air drawn in a quick breath. She hesitated on simply ending the threat, finger caressing the trigger that would put a bolt through the skull that had attacked but she stayed her hand, waiting for orders.
What had Okhirr said? He needed them as much as they needed him. Clearly he had a desire to flirt with danger and death still, as if it were his life. The glimpse into family - real family - had left her silent. It wasn't her place to intercede or interrupt between family as they argued, simply letting the droid tend her. There were implications in what had been exchanged that she didn't know. Implications that she needed to start to know, in order to be able to do her job. Ker realized the quick need to cleave to work was as much a coping mechanism as anything could be; she needed something to create the boundaries she could identify herself inside and outside of.
Okhirr had been... she hadn't wanted to pull off the helm she'd worn while standing behind the Aristocra. Anonymity had been a blessing, giving her a chance to observe and protect without worrying about being escorted to a cell by what she was constantly told were her own people. But it had been an order, however softly given, and she had removed the helm, turning and eyes blinking as she looked the once-wounded Chiss over. She had scrambled and struggled to find words, words to express how she felt for what she'd done.
A simple sorry had felt like it cheapened the pain she'd caused. But she'd meant her words however poorly they'd been delivered to Okhirr, meant the halting apology. And when he'd given her acceptance - cautious she hoped, but still real - and then forgiveness it had been a balm she had been certain she'd never get.
His words rang in her ears still, a reminder behind her own actions as she worked to rebuild herself. She had so much to prove - to the eyes watching and to her own. She'd been given a chance, one she didn't want to waste.
She could use duty and determination to keep the nagging voices at bay, ordering herself as strongly as the urges to go elsewhere were, and only occasionally did she find herself stilling and stalling, fighting a shudder that went from shoulders to feet as she forced herself to stay. Her hand went to the pouch on her belt, one which contained no weapon, no poison, no syringes or disks but instead a soft and rolled-up hood. She had made twin promises and only if she stayed would she be able to keep them.
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