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."