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The Short Fic Weekly Challenge Thread!


elliotcat

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Varrel has style. I like.

 

 

Umm, I know I'm kind of all over the place this week...brain is all wonky :( but a Disguise for Vierce came up. From an earlier and different time; this is set between 1.5 and 2 years before Vierce leaves his home planet. 800 words.

 

Wow, quiet time. I can see where Vierce gets all his anger from.

 

Striges: more Varrel, he is amazing :o I know he's with Jaesa, but he just seems to like Vette so much D: I'd ship it.

 

Hoyden: Solomon sounds particularly terrifying in that restrained, quiet manner. I am looking forward to seeing him again.

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Umm, I know I'm kind of all over the place this week...brain is all wonky :( but a Disguise for Vierce came up. From an earlier and different time; this is set between 1.5 and 2 years before Vierce leaves his home planet. 800 words.

Awww, so sweet. Makes what we know comes next :(

 

Thanks for the comments on Solomon, he's challenging to write!

I'm a simple man, really.

Right. :rolleyes:

Interesting. Do you overthink everything?

Hey! :mad: Quit analyzing me! Go stalk someone else!

*slow grin*

Crap. This might be a good time to hide people.

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Wow, quiet time. I can see where Vierce gets all his anger from.

 

It's a little-known fact that, while the Imperial occupation was indeed an annoyance, Vierce's real psychological scarring came from the horrors perpetrated upon him by his own friends and family. See also: Kirsk's relentless bullying in the form of beating Vierce at bumper ball all the time.

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Sorry for the lateness! Thanks Irrissa for submitting the prompts for this week. :)

 

Week of 10/31/12

Food - Everyone has to eat, and food is a major part of many cultures. It's part of your heritage and the memories you have of your family and friends. In a diverse galaxy, there are thousands of different things to eat and ways to prepare them, as well as traditions and customs involving food. Write about your characters' experiences in those realms.

Loneliness and Solitude - Our characters end up with crews of interesting folks, but that doesn't mean they never feel lonely. When you're up against some of the biggest forces in the galaxy, it's hard not to feel alone. That said, sometimes being alone is a blessing - some well-deserved solitude is a wonderful thing when you need it. Write about a time in which your character felt lonely - or when they finally got some time to themselves.

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Loneliness

 

 

 

Rochester walked into his apartment and did not turn on the lights. A storm brewed outside and the constant flashes of lightning were enough to guide him. He felt hollow and dead; and his limbs moved with a floating, far-away sensation. He looked around the rooms, picking up items and setting them down again. He wandered listlessly about, ignoring the storm as it screamed and lashed outside. A shudder ran through his body and he started, like a person woken from a dream. He gathered civilian clothing, soft furnishings: throw rugs and towels. Haphazardly he packed them into cases and boxes, before the pinch of his uniform drove him to distraction. He pulled at the collar, scratching himself on the pins and fastenings. At least he opened the collar and could breathe again. His legs gave out from under him and he landed heavily on the couch.

 

A book stared up at him from the coffee table.

Love of an Imperial Soldier

 

#

 

A knock sounded on his door. Broan wiped the tiredness from his face and reluctantly abandoned his research. Outside a servant stood, and bowed, holding an unmarked box.

 

"Who is this from?"

 

"Lieutenant Rochester left it for you, my Lord."

 

"Did he say what it was?"

 

"He did not, my Lord."

 

Broan took the box and dismissed the servant. He returned to his desk and placed the box atop it, rudely shuffling aside his slides and collected data. Inside was a blanket. Rochester had found it for him and, in turn, he had left it at Rochester's apartment. The blanket itself was light blue and geometric designs were picked out in a deep, chocolate brown. It had reminded them of the tattoos and designs of Mirialan culture. It was one of the few alien items available to the Imperial public.

 

Broan removed the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.

 

 

 

Really not sure if I'm conveying this correctly, but I've a few ideas for later. This weekend may prove... prolific.

Edited by Tatile
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Tatile, I am so very much looking forward to...probably feeling sad a lot. But I look forward to it anyway.

 

It is one thing to send a box of all your SO's stuff back to them, via an intermediary, sans note; that's a well-known clean-up-and-get-out-of-my-life thing. It'd be quite another to send just the one significant gift.

 

 

I might take advantage of the week to pretend that one very isolated NPC justifies stomping around Vierce's world with any old story that happens to involve said NPC. So yeah, some Loneliness and Solitude with Trooper Tatooine spoilers, 500 words.

 

 

 

The bombing-droid factory Fuse directed us to was entirely run by Geonosians. I would've liked to get some information out of them, only they didn't speak Basic. They didn't really speak at all so much as shoot at us.

 

I can work with that.

 

We cleaned the factory up, swiped what few files we could find to upload for analysis. There were no immediate signs of how they had gotten their orders and payments. So we headed on back to Anchorhead.

 

Fuse was on the line when we entered the mayor's office. He was apologizing. Again. I wanted to deck him. Again.

 

"I'm so sorry, Mayor Klerren. I, uh…I just, I never imagined it would come to this, you know? Innocent people dead, all because of my designs. I…I was so stupid."

 

"Can't argue with that," I announced as I walked into holocam view. "Droid factory's down. The Geonosians were working for the Imps, all right, but I couldn't get much more from them."

 

Fuse looked miserable. "I know it's…well, thanks for trusting me, after everything that's happened. I really do want to help. Colonel Gorik is…well, he isn't pleased about you being here, Lieutenant. He has the entire operation on high alert."

 

"He's right to be scared."

 

"Yeah, I'd say so," said Mayor Klerren, looking at me.

 

Fuse gestured vaguely. "I, uh, I think it's actually going to help us. See, the location of the base they're holding me in is a total secret. I have no idea where we are."

 

"You have got to be kidding me." If I could've killed him by stare alone I would've. "How do you pull together the brainpower required to breathe?"

 

"I, uh. I – look, there's not much time. Gorik's got commando teams patrolling the whole region; if you hit one they should have the coordinates. I can describe the patrol stuff I overheard, I hope it's enough for you to locate them. It, uh, it may not be long before Gorik decides to pull out entirely, Lieutenant. He's worried that more Republic reinforcements are coming. So try to move fast."

 

"I'll do that, Fuse. I am really, really looking forward to seeing you in person."

 

The mayor was eyeing me uncertainly. "You're heading out, then?"

 

"Looks like it."

 

"Good luck out there. You'll need it."

 

I led the squad back out into the glaring daylight. Fuse's stupid stuttering was still echoing in my ears. "I am going to kill that Imp-loving embarrassment," I said.

 

"At least he's sorry," said Jorgan. "With any luck he'll bring something useful back with him when he surrenders."

 

"I'd be surprised if he manages to bring both his own boots with him. Why would we take him in alive?"

 

"He is helping us. Look at him. He's got nobody in there, and even knowing we're not friends either he's trying to do the right thing. Takes guts. He could make out all right at court-martial, maybe do something with his life after. He sounds like a good kid."

 

"Jorgan. Don't say that again."

 

 

 

 

There are a couple of steps coming up that I may not get exactly game-faithful because I didn't take the requisite decisions in game. It'll all sort itself out.

 

Most possible descriptions of my characters being lonely would be really, really depressing. Maybe I'll come up with a welcome-solitude idea later.

 

Edited by bright_ephemera
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Tatile, those boys of yours are stomping on my heart.

(And Rochester is developing a mole in my head :eek:)

Need to see how this goes (oh please let it go well!)

 

Bright,

I somehow do not think this is going to end well for Fuse. Poor boy. Brilliant idiot.

 

 

Food

Night Owls

bh - Skari and Solomon Crae

no spoilers

 

I wasn't sure what sound had woken me up. The ship was never completely silent. Faint sounds from Torian and Mako's room. Creaks and groans of old metal past its prime. The hum of the engines. Pings and beeps from the control room. Devaronian snores that could level a gundark. Not that I slept much anyway.

 

I folded the blanket back and got up, tied on my vibroknife. Fully dressed, I thought with a slight grin, walking shirtless down the stairs. Walking silently is an artform. Your foot has to roll from your heel or spring off your toe if you're making some time. The edges of rooms, of stair treads - these are quieter. The center is more worn, more prone to squeaks and creaks and groans. It's easiest in bare feet, hardest in durasteel boots. I never wore durasteel boots.

 

The metal planks were cold under my feet as I made my way around the ship, leeching the warmth out of the air. I checked the airlocks, fixed a cup of tea in the galley. I'd begun drinking Denovian tea years ago when I filled a few contracts for an Imperial agent and his team. Spent some time with a wiley old snake who drank it. A snake? Maybe a spider with his web-spinning. One of the few people I've yet to figure out. I do love a puzzle.

 

I walked to the bridge where a clear view of the hanger outside was available - orbital stations mostly look the same, although this one above Brunell had a few potted plants. Ah, I thought, spotting the blue hand on the armrest of the captain's chair, that's where my cat got to. In the three days I'd been on the ship while we traveled here, I had yet to see her use the bedroom at the top of the ship. I stepped around. There were those suspicious red eyes.

 

"Need something, Crae?"

 

I smiled at the blaster she had resting in her lap and examined the screens that faced her chair, taking a sip of my tea. The screens in front of her featured various views of the interior of the ship, switching every so often to a different view. Two didn't switch. One contained the images and files Mako had compiled of Akko Nadras, everything they had been able to put together without me. The other featured my pallet. I smiled slightly.

 

"Good girl."

***

Skari watched Crae carefully, keeping her breathing steady, her muscles loose. He left as quietly as he came. On the monitors, she watched him walk through the ship, rinse his tea cup in the galley, and return to his pallet, folding his arms under his head as he settled, stretching out the whipcord-lean muscles that ridged his torso. He looked directly at the camera she had hidden in the corridor and blew a kiss to it. His gold eyes didn't gleam on the screen like they did in person, but they were just as calculating. She tightened her grip on the blaster in her lap and settled in to keep watch, the faint smell of tea still in the air.

 

Author's Note:

I think if Lokin and Crae met they would be mutually fascinated by each other. In a creepy, God-only-knows-what-they're-planning kind of way.

Oh, and if anyone was wondering what class Crae is, he's a bounty hunter, but his techniques are much much more Imperial agent than anything else.

 

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Prompt: Loneliness

Character: Aldrdinar, the Silly Sith Warrior

 

Abandoned to Hope

 

 

 

Ald had always been a bit strange. He was born to what appeared to be a pair of normal humans. His parents had obviously been expecting a normal human child of similar skin tone, eye color, hair color. A child of their own. What they got instead was a strangely orange infant with orange eyes. A pureblood in name only as he was obviously not a true Sith Pureblood. His parents took him home to raise him as their own until his sensitivity made it too dangerous to continue. So they left him. They took him to the jungles of Dromund Kaas, told him to go hide and they would come find him, and they left. They left him to thrive or die. And he thrived.

 

Some years later, he was picked up by Imperial officers. “Brute of the Jungle” they called him. He didn’t care what they called him. True, he looked a bit wild with his tattered shorts and shoulder length black hair, but he was mostly harmless with the Force dampening cuffs around his wrists. All was well until they reached Kaas City proper. “You’ll be a slave,” they said. “Harkun has been looking for another group of slaves to kill.” The young teen simply grinned, grabbed the nearest officer’s vibroknife, and killed any stupid enough to try to stop his escape. As he ran away covered in blood and rain, the remaining officers sprayed his back with blaster fire. He kept running and no one stopped him. Blinded by pain and rain and tears, the young teen slammed into the black robes of a Sith. The few brave souls who had gathered to watch the boy’s escape shuddered in unison. The boy was as good as dead. The Sith he had collided with stared down his nose at the boy, but otherwise made no move to reprimand him.

 

The officers who had opened fire were now running up on the boy. He felt them. He felt their anger and their fear. He wobbled to his feet, gave the Sith Lord a short bow then ran around him, continuing his escape. He made it a short distance before blood loss and hunger caught up to him. He collapsed, panting and full of rage waiting for the next shower of bullets to end his miserable life. None came. He heard the sound of heavy feet approaching him then saw the armored boots of the Sith Lord he had run into. No wonder they didn’t come for him. He was as good as dead already. A vice closed around his throat and he was lifted into the air. The Sith Lord brought him to face level and stared at him with a strange fascination. In that moment, the young teen gathered his hate, his fear, his loneliness, the pain of hunger and blaster fire into his hands and brought the vibroknife to life. The Sith Lord continued to watch as life blinked out of the boy. To his surprise, the boy brought the knife to his own face and began carving a pattern on his skin. The pain from his self-inflicted wounds was enough to give him a burst of energy strong enough to break the choke hold the Sith Lord had on him. He fell to the ground in a heap, coughing and sputtering for all he was worth.

 

“What’s your name, boy?” the towering Sith Lord asked.

 

“I no longer have one,” the young teen answered.

 

“You are a pureblood, but you have no name?”

 

“I was abandoned in the jungles by my parents. I abandoned my name years ago, my Lord.”

 

The Sith Lord chuckled quietly. “You know enough to have manners.” The Sith Lord paused then made a decision. “Very well. From this day forward, you will be known as Aldrdinar, apprentice to Lord Inusitus.”

 

The newly renamed Aldrdinar nodded weakly before his body gave out and he fell the short distance to the wet duracrete below.

 

Ald sighed quietly and took another sip of his drink.

 

“Are you quite alright, my Lord?” came the oddly concerned voice of Malavai Quinn.

 

Ald looked up from his seat at the officer who had appeared like an assassin in the night. He smiled and nodded at the Captain. The Captain gave him a short bow before returning to whatever he considered his duties. Vette, ever the opportunist, jumped over the galley seating, plopped down next to Ald and poured herself a drink.

 

“You look sad, Ald,” she said quietly.

 

“Thinking on my past,” replied Ald.

 

Vette frowned then embraced Ald in a side hug. The Sith Lord chuckled and hugged her back to the best of his abilities. He was happy to have a friend who would hug him when he was down, drink with him when he was happy, fight by his side, or cover his back.

 

He was happy just to have a friend.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

 

 

Ald's back story is beginning to take shape.

 

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Thank you! Ald has always had a place in my heart as my first character and my only fifty. Oddly enough, he's never had much story to him before this thread... seems to be the way it happens with me, lol.

 

Do more Ald, please.

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A widely varying batch of Loneliness/Solitude shorts. I think I'll put the less goofy ones first.

 

Wynston, 430 words, no spoilers:

The Chiss observer Chaf'al'cendan leaned against a portico column and enjoyed the last cool breeze of the morning. The sun was about to rise over this clay-baked city; it would weigh down the air, still the gauzy curtains, and remind even the despot in her palace that her comforts were subject to greater forces.

 

Said despot padded out barefoot and unselfconsciously twined her bare limbs around the Chiss who called himself Chaf'al'cendan. "The moment I saw you," she said in her lilting velvety voice, "I knew you were the one. Beautiful place to be ruling, isn't it?" She laid her head on his shoulder and looked out over the city.

 

"It is," he agreed, wrapping his arms around her. The problem was not that she ruled it; the problem was that she and the beautiful little planet she ruled didn't bend before the Empire. His mission was almost complete here. Almost.

 

He let his hands explore her. She pressed into him with a whisper and a sigh. He very quickly palmed what he would need from the alcove in the pillar beside him.

 

He felt hyperaware of every movement, given and received, left hand and right, the whole of him, the limits of him. It was time, again. Orders, authorities, greater forces, outside causes, reasonable motivations, unreasonable motivations, friends, responsibilities, crowds, witnesses, supervisors, fate, duty, love: In the moment your will translates decision into action, none of those things exist. They're excuses you put on after the fact, nothing more. The strike is always yours and yours alone.

 

Most agents survive by not believing that. Some just live with it.

 

He used one fingertip to apply the smallest smear of a numbing gel to a point near her spine. The next slow caress let one finger linger enough to press in a tiny, tiny needle.

 

The wind died when she pulled away from him. "Ah," she said, very softly. "Was that it?"

 

Damn. Had he missed the numb patch with his injection? "What?" he asked gently.

 

She smiled. "The moment I saw you, I knew you were the one." Then she hugged him in a strange tight desperate way. "I've been living on borrowed time. I knew no one, not the Ascendancy, no one, was coming here to help."

 

"But you let me in anyway."

 

Her eyelashes fluttered against his neck. "I know what you came for. But I didn't want to spend these last nights alone."

 

"I understand." He stroked her hair. "It won't hurt," he promised her. "And I'll be here."

 

For as long as she needed him, anyway. When she stopped breathing, he started running cleanup.

 

 

 

Colran Niral and Dolarra Reyne-Niral, 330 words, no spoilers:

11 BTC

 

Colran waited for his bride to wake up on her own.

 

She came to life with a lazy smile. "Hello, Mister Niral," she said, as she had said each of the previous six mornings.

 

"Hello, Mrs. Reyne-Niral," he said. "You're set to be carried away by Imperial shadowcreepers today, aren't you." Back to her work as a Cipher agent.

 

"I am! There are very interesting things afoot in places," she said with the cheerful vagueness she reserved for him. Most people got coolly professional vagueness or just silence. "Oh! But I got something for you first." She rolled over and felt around under the bed, then came up with a small box. She opened it to reveal a pair of rings, both made of a heavy silvery substance, both inset by round red stones that glowed ever so slightly.

 

Colran looked from his still-new wedding ring to the box. "What are they?"

 

"Science," she said, her blue eyes alight. "In the most romantic way possible, of course. Look. You see how there's a faint pulse pattern in the light?"

 

He stared at them. "Yes, there is."

 

"They're coordinated by nanoscale clocks. Not tied in to the usual galactic networks; these are standalone. They'll drift apart by about a second in, oh, twenty billion years. 'Til then?" She hooked her index fingers together. "Lockstep. Any place we go, we're seeing the same thing on these." She beamed at him. "Your wife was a Fixer once, so you get technical presents."

 

"My wife is amazing, all the time, and therefore I accept." He kissed her and let her slip one of the rings onto his finger.

 

She talked while he slid its mate onto hers. "There are only two with this exact design and pattern in the whole galaxy. One is mine, and I am yours."

 

Colran set his hand beside hers and watched the subtle flicker they made together. "Think of me, then," he said. "When you're out there alone."

 

"I always do."

 

 

 

Wynston talking to Quinn in the Don't Call Them Ruth-less section of the timeline, because silly is fun; 250 words, no spoilers except what's implicit about the endstate of Ruth Means Compassion:

Wynston found Quinn on the highest obervation deck of the command ship Aegis.

 

The Chiss coughed. "Quinn, would you mind leaving?"

 

Quinn, standing with his back to the stairs, turned his head only slightly. "Yes, agent, I would. Please go."

 

Wynston jerked a thumb at the stairs down. "You've been here for hours. Move it."

 

"I was thinking."

 

"You're being melancholy. Again."

 

"That is my prerogative."

 

"Hours, Quinn. I was going to be melancholy here."

 

"You'll have to take it elsewhere."

 

"This is the best solitary brooding spot on the ship and you know it."

 

"Why would you even decide to brood, except to inconvenience me?"

 

"I have perfectly good reasons, I'll have you know," said Wynston.

 

"Oh, has tragedy befallen? Were you forced to go twelve hours without female company or something?"

 

"That was only one of my reasons," Wynston said defensively.

 

"Alternately you merely wish to practice replicating my so-called air of noble tragedy in the hopes of competing with me in said female company."

 

"Perfectly good reasons," insisted Wynston.

 

"Go away."

 

"Another reason is that Pierce Junior seems to have managed entry to the hangar where you keep Ruth's old Fury. He's out for a joyride and I wanted to meditate on what a shame it is that he will inevitably crash it into- "

 

Quinn was already halfway down the stairs and running.

 

"Diversion successful," murmured Wynston, and took up parade rest at the railing, staring out at the stars. "Now then, concentrate. Tragedy."

 

 

 

And Nalenne in her Chronicles days, 300 words, no spoilers except for the existence of a military unit discussed elsewhere in the Chronicles:

On board the Method, Pierce and Broonmark were playing pazaak with the Insanity Company officers. Vette and Jaesa were shopping on planet. Nalenne was in her quarters, stretched out with a comic book, her ears ringing from the chaos of the last crazy week.

 

Some days she just wanted an hour alone with Duranium Man. Was that too much to ask?

 

The door opened to admit Quinn. "My lord."

 

"Hi," she said.

 

"The men are restless. It has been some six hours since we fought anything and furthermore they report that Lieutenant Pierce transparently cheats at pazaak."

 

"Yes, I know. I thought today's fight was good. Very stylish." Insanity Company had done the precise maneuvers while Nalenne was allowed unbridled bloodlust. Having her battle role shifted to 'the person who isn't even supposed to be disciplined' had eased the strain in Nalenne's marriage considerably.

 

"Thank you, my lord." He smiled a small pleased smile. "Still. Even as we speak there remain enemies of the Empire out there having the temerity to breathe." Quinn glared at the wall and, presumably, the offending life forms far beyond. "We should do something about it."

 

"I put in my work hours for the week. Why don't you take the boys out, finish flattening the Kovor sector or whatever."

 

"Hm." Quinn considered. "I believe I will."

 

"You'll be back before too late?"

 

"Of course." He finally came close enough to lean down and kiss her.

 

"Call me if you need me," she told him.

 

"Likewise, my lord." He looked down at her comic-book datapad. "I still don't understand what this leisure time does for you, but I won't interrupt you unless forced to."

 

He left to do his extra work. Nalenne had at least an hour and a half to herself before Insanity Company conquered anything and reported back to the ship. And that meant relaxation, comic books, and drinks in a rare, infinitely comfy night in with herself.

 

Nalenne burrowed a little further under the pillow pile and giggled. Life was perfect.

 

 

 

Edited by bright_ephemera
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Durr, also I'm commenting.

 

(Trooper Tatooine spoilers)

 

Aww, Bright. This breaks my heart especially because

 

 

If you save him, he gets put into solitary confinement on an unknown prison planet (Belsavvis would be my guess.) Poor, poor, Fuse.

 

:eek: I did not know that!

No wonder everybody headcanons a different fate for him... :(

 

 

@iamthehoyden Lokin + Crae = I hope they kill each other before they find something of mutual advantage to each other. Because boy, I don't want to see them on the same team.

 

@irishfino Vette hugs <3

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I am posting on the run, but have read and enjoyed everything! Will comment individually tomorrow when I get off work :)

 

Lonliness

Miriah and Corso, ~ 430 words, no spoilers

 

 

 

“Come on, guys, you’re going to miss the transit,” Miriah called. “Risha, get them together.” She watched as her crew grumbled and shuffled to the airlock, and then out to the orbital station. There they would board a shuttle to Coruscant and be taken to the Republic flight doc in the morning for their annual physicals. Bow was especially apprehensive, and had taken to sleeping with a large blanket wrapped tightly around him. She could see the blanket sticking out of his gear bag. Miriah sighed, a slight smile on her face. She hadn’t been aboard the Stardancer alone since she’d gotten her back. She sat in the captain’s chair, looking out at the stars, thinking about the past year.

 

She used be alone all the time, now it was something of a luxury. Corso had been gone almost two weeks, on a mission back home on Ord Mantell, and she was truly missing him. She’d grown accustomed to sleeping being held close to him, and her bed had seemed cold and empty lately, not to mention the lack of any real rest. She wandered around the ship, picking up things that had been left out. A hydrospanner left on a workbench, a cup left in the galley sink. Hmm, she thought, maybe some chocolate would be good. She’d taken a hot shower earlier and put on the shirt she’d taken from Corso’s drawer, and now she sat on the sofa in the lounge, the sleeves of the shirt flapping past her hands, flicking through the holonet. Nothing, she thought. Why is this so hard? I used to always be alone. What did I do then? She tried to read, but after rereading the first paragraph five times, and still not remembering what she’d just read, she put the datapad down.

 

I can’t believe this, she thought. I was looking forward to having an alone night, and now I don’t know what to do with it. She wandered onto the bridge, thinking of her sisters, and sat to gaze out at the galaxy, hugging her knees to her chest. She put her head on them and was just about asleep when she heard the holo chime.

 

“Miriah, darlin’, you there?” Corso’s image wavered, then stabilized. She ran to the holo and when she saw him, that empty spot she’d been carrying around for two weeks filled, and she smiled.

 

“Hey, sugar. Great to see you.” She grinned at him, the lonliness faded, and she felt warm for the first time since he’d left.

 

 

 

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@Tatile - As painful as I know the process will have to be, I look forward to seeing how Broan & Rochester's situation resolves. Rochester's half of this pieces is especially poignant, putting away his personal things but aware of the pain of the uniform/job through it all.

 

@bright - Vierce's disgust at Fuse is an almost tangible thing here. I get the feeling Vierce would almost prefer a willful traitor to a gutless follower who can't see past the end of his own nose, which... yeah. Can't really say I blame him.

 

@hoyden - Solomon continues to be wonderfully snakey and cunning. I love that he not just accepts but approves of Skari's distrust of him.

 

@irish - Vette hugs are the best. I'm curious to see how Ald evolved from the Brute of the Jungle to the Silly Sith.

 

@Magdalane - I know that feel, Miriah. The image of her wearing one of Corso's shirts is lovely.

Edited by LogicLoup
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Been kind of posting and running recently, so monster comments and replies incoming:

 

@Striges - Varrel's protection of Vette here, her spiritual well-being as well as physical, reminds me of his realization that she is his Fool back in Only Men Dance. As much as he wants her to stay Vette for her own sake, he needs her as she is to keep him grounded and human. The closing image of Varrel putting away his swords and his decency for safekeeping is beautifully "happy for deep people."

 

Varrel’s relationship with Vette is complicated, but you hit the essence of it on the head. When he met her, he’d been a widower for no more than a year (see Ceremonies). Between that, still wanting to be a decent person, and sifting through Sith political games, he wasn’t ready or even looking for a romantic relationship at that time. He’s very fond of Vette, the way he might love a favorite niece or granddaughter. He admires her strength of character; she kept her values through all the lousy things that happened to her, while he lost his. In his mind, doing good things for Vette makes up for all the awful things he does to other people.

 

He also regards the members of his crew as vassals, so he feels a responsibility toward them in that sense as well. It was not Vette’s duty to take care of the Hutt, it was his. A duty that, for a change, he had no qualms about doing. I’d intended that Vette wasn’t aware of where he’d gone, and he had no intention of telling her. I don’t know that I conveyed that well. Upon rereading, it’s ambiguous, and I think it works either way.

 

He probably would have been happier with Vette (than Jaesa) but he didn’t meet her at the right time in his life, and barring interesting biology, they can’t have children. And he might have been happy with that limitation, too, had Jaesa not reminded him of it. People don’t always make the decisions that bring them the most happiness.

 

Enough about my characters :p

 

@ LogicLoup: Maneera’s story, the metaphor with the flutterplumes, very well done. I loved your descriptions of Maneera and her reactions. All points and sharp edges. Heartbreaking, but very well done.

 

@ Bright: I always enjoy Vierce, both as a trooper and his backstory. The sillier bits (!Nerf tail!) to me come across as memories, even when they’re written as present tense. As though he’s recalling happier times despite the backdrop of Imperial occupation.

 

@ Iamthehoyden: Crae is fascinating. You show his worldview, as a predator among prey, very well and believably. Crae meeting Lokin, though…they’d either collaborate or destroy each other. Possibly both. Simultaneously.

 

@ irishfino: Aldrdinar has quite the journey from this short to where he is now. It will be fun to follow him.

 

@ Tatile: Poor both Rochester and Broan. Their relationship has been so wonderful, I hate to see it come apart. Despite the ample foreshadowing, it still hurts.

 

@ Magdalane: Touching. Miriah wanting to be alone, then realizing that’s not what she wants anymore.

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Prompt: Loneliness

 

This story goes with Lost Chance (Bad Timing prompt)

 

Character Irrissa (though she is never mentioned by name :) ) Imperial Agent. Some small spoilers.

 

Taking a Chance

 

 

She sat at the table on the outdoor patio, a cup of untouched caf in front of her. She had her datapad in hand re-reading the message she had already read a 100 times. Maybe more. She sighed softly. She was so lonely

 

Trust no one. A phrase repeated over and over to her all throughout her training. Watcher X and his paranoia, rightfully so. Betrayals by everyone around her. She trusted no one. Didn't dare. Maybe that’s why this was so hard. She really did like him. She would have saved him anyway. But he tried to say “the word” anyway. That was their business though. Well only hers now. He had gotten out. Had a government tech job.

 

Everyone had their own agenda. Her crew included. Her crew especially. She worked with them,but never let her guard down. She learned the lesson well. Trust no one.

 

It was a sweet note, sent out on the tides of luck, with the hope it would reach her. She read the last line again. Buy you a drink when I am out of rehab? It was only luck that Watcher Two,err Keeper rather, ran across the message and sent it on to her.

 

She knew he had survived,where he was,how he was doing. She didn't know why she was so drawn to him. His sense of earnestness? An odd lack of guile despite working for the SIS? His strong sense of what he was doing was the right thing? Everything that she wasn't.

 

She had to do this. Leaving a credit chip on the table next to the cold cup,she headed to the wine shop next door.

 

***

 

She sat at the table on the outdoor patio, a cup of untouched caf in front of her. She had her datapad in hand re-reading the message she had already read a 101 times. Maybe more. He had told her the night before how her emerald eyes haunted his dreams, and how much he loved them. She didn't even realize she was crying until a tear hit the datapad in her hand, blurring the words. She was so lonely.

 

 

@ Tatile Awww so sweet. I just love reading about them.

 

@ iamthethoyden Crae is so creepy, glad she is so careful

 

@ Fino. <3 Ald.

 

@ Bright, just wow. from one end of the spectrum to the other.

 

@ Magdalene I just love Mirah and Corso stories.

Edited by Irrissa
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@Magdalane Aw. A call at the right time is the best thing ever.

 

@Irrissa Noooo, Chance...and a very sympathetic Agent :(

 

 

Now, may as well dump the rest of this. Some kind of Solitude as witnessed by Vierce. Spoilers for Trooper Tatooine. 1600 words.

 

 

 

 

We breached the Imperial bunker buried under the Dune Sea. Once inside we found Fuse's jail cell before we found the command center. Lucky Fuse.

 

The pale kid was the only prisoner in the block, the only Zabrak in the base, the only Havoc failure on the planet. He looked even scrawnier in person than on holo. "Lieutenant," he said anxiously when he saw us coming. "You made it just in time – Colonel Gorik called for a full-scale evacuation. He's already at the hangar in the back of the base overseeing the evacuation – and he has my bomb designs with him. Please, you have to stop him."

 

Couldn't let that one get away. "I will," I said shortly.

 

The floor rumbled. Red lights started flashing and a voice came from every loudspeaker at once: "Warning. Warning. Self-destruct sequence initialized. All personnel evacuate to the hangar area immediately. This is not a drill."

 

I looked around. "They rigged the whole base to blow?"

 

"A research base with the kind of secrets they're developing? They would, sir," said Fuse.

 

"Great." Time to move. I took a look at the control panel for the forcefield that sealed Fuse's cell. Then I took a look at Fuse. "Have fun dying for your Empire." I turned away.

 

Jorgan clenched his jaw so tight his cheek spasmed. He gave me one look of green-yellow fire, then walked by me and punched the door release. "Come on, Fuse," he said.

 

I swung around to face him. "Jorgan, that's a hell of a lot more trouble than you want with me."

 

"He surrendered, sir."

 

There was work to do and I couldn't let loose on Jorgan, nor by extension the idiot I would have to shoot through Jorgan to get to, just then. Dorne and 4X didn't seem about to speak up; if I was the only sane person there – well, I would have to sort it out later. I made myself start walking.

 

Fuse trotted to keep up. "Sir, I'll do everything I can. I want to make this up to you. To everyone."

 

I didn't look at him. "Two hundred forty-seven civilians dead from your testing in Anchorhead. A hundred and fifty of them women and children. Now I don't know what the f*** part of this surprised you when you signed on with those people and I don't care. Stay close, stay quiet, you might live long enough to see your court-martial. Jorgan, you're responsible for him."

 

*

 

We cleaned up Gorik and every other Imperial who tried to escape the building before we took the shuttle from their hangar and got out ahead of the blast. We landed well outside Anchorhead and trudged in on foot. I gestured for Dorne to deal with Fuse when we reached our own ship. I followed Jorgan straight up the ramp, across the holo room, and into the armory, and when he turned around I threw him a right cross that slammed him into the lockers hard enough to rebound.

 

He glowered at me and checked his jaw. "Feel better?" he said in a low hard voice.

 

"No. KIA was all he deserved. Don't ever cross me on something like that again."

 

"He doesn't need to die. You see a bad order, sir, you question it. Or you refuse it."

 

"What's bad about letting a traitor burn in the fire he helped set?"

 

"We wouldn't have nabbed Gorik without him. He's got intelligence on Havoc Squad's activities and he's more than willing to help. Mission says bring him in alive if possible. We can use him." Jorgan crossed his arms. "He's earned another shot at this."

 

I hefted my rifle. "I was just gonna give him the one shot, but sure. Two works." I lowered it again. "Either way it's my call."

 

Jorgan's stare never wavered. "So do it," he said quietly. "If you want it done, do it."

 

"I might." I fished a kolto press out of my pack and tossed it to him for his already-swelling jaw. My point was made. Then I left. I went, not to the brig, but to the bridge, where I could bring up the surveillance holo.

 

It's one thing to kill a man in combat or leave him to his fate in the thick of things. It's another thing, a much colder thing, to deal the execution in a moment of quiet. I've done both as needed. Especially for traitors and collaborators. I've seen men – and women – die spitting defiance, I've seen them die laughing hysterically, I've seen them die chanting their articles of faith, I've seen them die crying and begging for their worthless traitor lives.

 

I figured Fuse would beg. He was young, after all. Stupid, stupid kid. Stupid, and others paid the price for it. I couldn't figure out a story that could stretch to explain both why he had turned on the Republic and why, when he knew it was already too late, he had helped us out.

 

He was just sitting there in his cell. He was done resisting. I guess he hadn't been resisting the whole time.

 

My stomach twisted a little.

 

Garza wanted him brought in alive and she wouldn't accept the story that he passed through Anchorhead just fine but somehow mysteriously died on the ship. That's what I told myself. From a practical standpoint I couldn't get away with giving Fuse what he deserved. That's all.

 

I washed up and then I went to sleep. Tomorrow I would return him to Coruscant. They can do firing squads just as easily there as here.

 

*

 

Jorgan was waiting for me when I got up the following morning.

 

"Was talking to Fuse," he said.

 

I didn't look at him. "I'll have to question your judgment on that, but whatever makes you happy."

 

"You know what got the old Havoc Squad to defect?"

 

"Indiscriminate malice?"

 

"No. Though maybe it wasn't much smarter than that. You remember Commander Tavus mentioned Ando Prime once or twice?"

 

"Yeah. There was some classified op there."

 

Jorgan nodded. "A classified op that went sour, and the Republic, rather than sending in support to get 'em home, cut 'em loose. They shouldn't have survived that, but Commander Tavus brought 'em out whole."

 

"What do you mean, Command cut them loose? Why would they do that?"

 

"Don't know the details, sir. I just know that's how it went down."

 

"And in response Tavus and the others decided to hop the fence."

 

"Looks like it."

 

"Idiots."

 

"Looks like it."

 

*

 

I banged into the brig a while later. Fuse was still just sitting there. He started and sat up straight while I settled on the bench opposite.

 

We looked at each other a while.

 

"Sir," he said weakly. "I'm sorry, sir."

 

"Your apologies aren't worth much," I said. I stared at him a while longer. "What the f*** were you thinking?"

 

Fuse leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His hands waved and grasped at nothing while he spoke. "You have to understand. Havoc Squad served. We were the best. We could do the impossible, and did do it a few times. The Republic owed Commander Tavus and the rest of us more than I can count. So maybe we weren't too popular with some politicians. It didn't matter. We did good.

 

"So when Ando Prime went down...when we found out support wasn't coming...it didn't make any sense. How could they throw us away like that? How could they just drop Havoc Squad? We gave the Republic everything. We would've done anything for them, for each other. And they cut us loose the second it was convenient. Can you blame Tavus for wanting out?"

 

"Out to the Empire?"

 

"Where else could we go? We're fighters. We just needed to be backed by someone who wouldn't turn on us."

 

"You knew what they were. You stupid son of a b****, you knew!"

 

"The soldiers we'd met were dedicated, courageous – honorable, a lot of them. They believed in what they were fighting for, and the Empire believed in them." He shook his head. "I know what you think, sir, but not every Imperial is a murderous psychopath."

 

"Oh? How many are, then? One in two, three, ten? All it takes is one when morons like you sign up to obey him."

 

"I didn't know, sir."

 

"Yeah. Well, I guess you found out."

 

"That's why I helped you back there. I wanted to try to set things right."

 

"Better two hundred fifty bodies late than never, huh?"

 

"If you think I don't feel terrible about that, you're wrong. I can't...I can't wash that out, I know that."

 

"If you're capable of feeling bad about it you're not much of an Imperial." I stood up. "So maybe I don't know what you are. I'll let Command sort that out." I headed to the door, stopped with one last thought. "I'm real sorry you didn't get your taxi ride home from Ando Prime. But next time you get pissed off at your bosses, don't take it out on the rest of us."

 

I headed back to my quarters. And, for some reason, took out my dress uniform. I just traced the embroidered insignia on it for a while. Back on Kegled II, we didn't leave each other. Ever. If anybody ever did...I mean, the people who got abandoned would survive. We're tough like that. I just don't know what they would do about it after.

 

The Empire, though? That move made Fuse and his friends worse than any abuse they could've taken here. I brought up my barebones mission report and added: "Only additional commentary on target's behavior is already on file as armorcam records from the day target and former Commander Tavus left Ord Mantell."

 

 

 

 

 

* Does 247 seem like a high death count? When you first enter the mayor's office in Anchorhead you hear that the "tally" (it isn't specified whether this is killed or wounded) of the most recent ripple of bombings is 64, and there have been "more than a dozen" such bombings this week. Imagine that was an uncommonly bad one; say they average 40 hits per. Imagine no more than half of those are deaths – a dramatic percentage, but again there's a nonnegligible chance that the cutscene was describing the death toll outright. The estimate is still 240 people killed. That week.

 

Umm...yeah. I hadn't heard, prior to this thread, what happens to Fuse if you let him live, because you can bet that in-game Jorgan didn't stop me. He disapproved, but he didn't stop me.

 

 

Edited by bright_ephemera
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Back to something short(-ish). Maneera Sindri, spoiler free.

 

A Gram is Better (loneliness)

 

Corellia, 3 BTC.

 

Maneera staggered in through the back door of the clinic, her hands shaking as she pressed her fists to her eyes, pushing back against the burning-itching-stabbing pain that spiked from her bored-out eye sockets straight back into her brain. Hennigan was with a patient, for which Maneera was ridiculously grateful. She dug into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out a fistful of unregistered credsticks, which she let fall in a clumsy pile onto the desk. The noise of the falling plastic knifed through her temples, and she felt a sick sense of gratitude — certainly not for the first time and probably not for the last — that Hennigan hadn’t rigged her to be able to cry.

 

The doctor had left the usual set of injectors lined up and waiting for her on a corner of the desk. Smug bastard always knew when she’d be needing another hit. Maneera pocketed the lot without a second thought. Right now, she was in too much pain to dwell on the fact that “post-op treatments” had never been anything but fiction. In a few minutes, she’d be too strung out to care that Hennigan accounted for each and every fix, stacking it up with the rest of her debt to him. Worries like that were hours away, in the narrow (thinner every day) stretch of clarity between withdrawal from the spice and withdrawal from the world.

 

Hauling herself up the stairs was a physical act of will. Already half slumped over, it was simpler to fall to hands and knees than to duck through the half-door into the attic. Maneera crawled to the back corner, slithering around dusty boxes of cooked ledgers to collapse, trembling, onto a pile of threadbare blankets. She pulled the injectors from her pocket and held them up to the fading evening light. Blue and purple went into an empty box beside her nest for safekeeping; they would keep her awake and coherent (enough) for tomorrow’s errands. The others were for here and now — red to numb the pain, pale gold to lift the crushing weight of the failure she had become.

 

She brought the two injectors up to her mouth, pulled off the caps with her teeth, then jabbed the needles into her thigh and slammed down the plungers. Even with the shakes, long practice at this let her hit the mark without devoting any real thought to the action. She turned her head, spat out the needle guards; the syringes were tossed into a pile with their predecessors from... how long ago? Downstairs, Hennigan’s patient was giving him hell about something. Maneera let the words spin out into white noise. She was past caring about anything other than the golden soap-bubble dreams she wouldn’t remember past the first stim of tomorrow morning.

 

 

 

Title from Brave New World. I find myself in dire need of a unicorn chaser.

 

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Bright: I am loving Vierce.

 

The reasoning behind Havoc's treason is somehow more infuriating than the treason itself. They're special forces. Once a soldier puts that patch on his uniform, he immediately gets put on the "disavowed" list. It's the nature of the whole military branch. They get the toughest, most impossible missions because the brass know they can pull it off...even if it ends up being a suicide mission. With my Troopers I've really, really wanted the ability to completely tear loose on Fuse and the one you capture on Coruscant, asking what makes them think they're so special compared to every other soldier in the Republic.

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Bright, Vierce is very principled, it's nice. I think it's somewhat unfortunate that this game is limited in the way companions can react to your decisions, but it does mean we can have room to write.

 

LogicLoup: Soma holiday!

 

-

 

Loneliness

Youngling Broan and Master Istier

 

 

 

"Master..." Broan looked up from his books, calling out to Master Istier's back. The older Jedi was cleaning his lightsabre and humming a popular ditty. He stopped and smiled at the youngling. "Why am I in training?" Broan swung his feet nervously.

 

"To become a Jedi, like me."

 

"What if I don't want to be a Jedi?"

 

"Everyone wants to be a Jedi, silly." Master Istier ruffled his hair and checked the notes Broan had made. Simple maths equations had given way to geometric doodles, which now covered much of the page.

 

"I... uh, saw Master Tradenshi's tattoos. I thought they looked nice."

 

"Someday soon you'll get your own ones," Master Istier picked up the slide and erased the images, leaving only numbers and signs. "Now back to work."

 

Master Istier started humming a different tune, but just as jovial as before.

 

 

 

 

Loneliness

Rochester

 

 

 

Rochester stacked the boxes at the foot of the bed. He put his books at the bottom, with his civilian clothing on top. The last box, and the smallest, was filled with the things that Broan had left behind in his frequent visits to his flat and his ship. These mementos - all tiny, insignificant things, like odd bits of clothing - were all the tangible things that Rochester had left. Even though they had been together nearly a year, there was only one picture of them together. He placed the frame on top the box and then moved the pillows down to the foot of the bed.

 

His new flat only had two rooms. He would spend a lot of time in this one. He looked up at the photograph, hugging the pillows to his chest, and wondered if he could ever make this feel homey. The growling in his stomach subsided and he slept.

 

Broan smiled down at him, from the days when they were happy.

 

 

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