View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post
A young woman sits on a seat thats synthetic cushioning is only nominally cushioning, wondering if it means anything in particular that the shuttle has no windows. She'd hoped there would be windows. Windows meant that she could edge her way to one to look out of it to try and get an overhead view of the Sith academy, try to commit its layout to memory. Saving time not getting lost seems like it'd be a minor thing, but she's pretty sure that really, she doesn't have much going for her in the Sith murder competition. Every scrap of an advantage she can get at she has to go for, so she can maybe not die.
But realistically? She's probably going to die. In fact, most people here were going to die, and they all know it. Or were deluding themselves by trying to pretend that it was all going to be okay, that the Sith will be nice. The ones that didn't fall to delusion were afraid, including her. But she had to say that she was handling it better than some. One in the corner had burst into tears twice already, and looked ready for round three, bonus snot edition. Another two were posturing, saying how they were going to be the best Sith, how the rest of them were going to die. Regaining some scraps of resolve stolen by fear by terrorizing the people around them. What a very Sith thing to do. They must be so proud.
Nariveth, for her part, sits quietly. She doesn't dare close her eyes and try to snatch a few moments of sleep, even though she hadn't had enough. She's far too nervous, far too surrounded by strangers that might want to kill her, far too afraid to show weakness when sometimes her neck still tingled like a shock collar sat on it and she had to behave or she'd be shocked until she couldn't think from the pain. And the terror. The terror came with the pain. But, sad as it might be, terror was just a fact of her life now. What if her master is upset with her, what if her master thinks she's pretty, what happens if she ostracizes herself from her peers and they start finding ways to make her suffer, what if Imperial Intelligence decides that she's on the wrong side of the statistics the next time they deem losses acceptable, what if, what if -
Well, she doesn't have a master now. And no matter the what if, it'll be more difficult to handle if she's running mindlessly in circles like a gizka that's lost its head. She can keep her composure, and then she can deal with it. Whatever happens.
The engine's hum quiets, and the entire shuttle shakes as it meets ground, and Nariveth steadies herself with a deep breath and stands. The landing ramp lowers, and a breath of hot, dry air rushes in.
Time to go.
