And again, I find myself at a loss.

I expected a One Sith attack. I did not expect one of this... haphazard nature. It was like watching a fleet of ships raided from floating museums to years passed, refitted with haste to serve as a warfleet. Ground fighting?

I'm not entirely sold on the idea they even know what it is. I heard of some sniper fire in the capital and something about a pastry, but I can't be arsed to confirm the latter. Ya know, last time I wound up being used as a battering ram on a ship...

Well, it involved a prisoner getting his hands on a grenade and throwing it into the cockpit. I covered it with my body, but it forced the pilot away from the controls. We smashed straight into a space station. The Chancellor tried the same thing, just minus the grenade and station and plus a Sith star destroyer.

I have rarely felt so helpless. Standing in the middle of a hallway, klaxons blaring, and the collision warning going off.

And you're just there, looking around at bare metal walls going 'this won't end well.'

Because there's really no way that situation will end well.

Both parties end up venting atmosphere from several - if not all - of their decks, and it's just a horrendous situation all around.

On the bright side, no boarding actions. CQB is something of a specialty, but fighting on ships is difficult. You can't make use of your normal weapons for fear of poking holes in the hull. Scatterguns are fun, though.


I find myself reminded of the prison breaks I've had to do - both ins and outs. Not always to rescue someone, either, I'm sorry to say and not always to save myself from a life in the Pen. Funny, that. If humor involves a twelve gauge, dead guards and blown walls.

I'm sure there's a few in this galaxy that qualify that as a high brow joke. I'm not one of them.

But you get a lot of time to think in there, ya know? A lot of time to observe. You're in a little six by eight, energy field in front of you. All you have time to do is watch those around you. A simple process, really. You establish their baseline behavior.

Perhaps they just have a mean look constantly on their face - a bit of wild eyes, a grimace. Maybe, in spite of this, they're the nicest person you've ever met. They've just made a mistake along the line. But you see something in those eyes that just tells you it's something he's convinced himself of in the hopes of getting out.

So you sit, and wait. And watch as he patches his tiny abode like the caged animal he is, watching as his gaze keeps settling on your cell, as if you're a threat. You can see it in the tensing of the muscles in his arms, the set of his shoulders.

You're a target. You don't know why.

But you know that, sooner or later, it's you and him.

And sure enough, the doors open for yard time - escape is still a week or two away. You need to get your friends into good positions to maximize the chance of freedom. But your carefully laid plans mean very little, because you've been watching. You know that when your 'friend' is angry, truly angry, that he smiles.

Ironic, that.

And he's been smiling at you all week.

Someone probably paid him off. But if you hadn't been watching, maybe you'd have thought he'd taken a shine to you. It's not a particularly unnerving smile. Fairly good natured. Maybe his teeth are a little sharp.

Sharp like the feel of a blade in your back.

Sharp like the sound his neck makes as you break it.

Sharp like the scream of alarms as riot control officers barge into the cell block, weapons armed.

Sharp like the pain of failure, knowing you've confined yourself to imprisonment longer than anticipated.

Your friends over on death row will be dead by the time you leave, and there's nothing you can do now.

Life's fair, no matter what anyone else ever says.

It's fair because it's unfair to everyone. It's just a matter of realizing you can draw a new card every turn rather than just playing with the hand you were dealt.

A shame the deck dissolves in water.