The Archangel hospital room is clean and pristine, but devoid of what some would call the 'human touch'. That is fine with me. I do not need flowers and get-well-soon cards. There is a small crack in the ceiling. I suppose even droid efficiency has its limitations.
I should not have awoken this early let alone be out and about, but I am stubborn that way and so the sedatives wore off. Some might say I inherited this trait from her. That is a train of thought I refuse to entertain.
My first steps in the room after leaving the bed are tentative and hesitant. Gone is any form of grace I might have been capable of manifesting before. My new legs walk with a zombie-like gait. They feel cumbersome, as if I have to walk with exaggerated caution lest I fall, but I shall adjust. Gears and servos hum with every step when I move.
Experimentally, I stretch my cybernetic arm and flex my mechanical fingers. My caretakers have told me that the metal will be covered by synthflesh, but for the time being, its true nature is not concealed. Part of me prefers it that way. I've spent too much time obscuring who and what I really am, pretending to be her.
Someone was so kind to put a mirror in the room. When I look at it, it is no longer the face of Siobhan Kerrigan that stares back at me. No, this one is all mine. Scarred by blast and shrapnel, kissed by the hellfire that rained down upon Korriban City when a Silver commander unleashed fire and brimstone.
I was raised and trained upon the hellish world of I suppose there is symmetry. Where flesh failed, metal has replaced it. My eyes glow. It is disconcerting and the light is still far too bright.
I curl my cybernetic fingers and make a fist. The new arm is far stronger than my flesh and blood one. Perhaps I am imagining seizing Siobhan's throat and crushing it. I can imagine her struggle in my grasp, trying to force oxygen into her lungs, until her struggles cease and her life force dissipates. Or I can imagine doing so to a Jedi. Either thought is appealing to me. The vulnerability to electrical and ion attacks is a significant weakness, but there are ways to deal with that.
I can hear movement coming from outside, down the corridor. My hearing is a lot better now, yet in the Force I feel...diminished. The thought gnaws at me. Archangel, unsurprisingly, does not understand how it works. I struggle to even sense Amara in the Force, though I know she is coming to visit to me now.
Anger rises like bile inside my stomach. My little sister has depended on me too long for making the big choices, the sacrifices she's unwilling to make. She is sweet and kind...too much so. The Galaxy is dark, bleak and full of terrors. The sooner she learns this harsh lesson, the better. I will be less patient with her now.
My thoughts drift to Vess. In a way, I am jealous of her. She can be repaired and modulate her form, shifting like a mechanical Face Dancer. A shame organics cannot be repaired like that. Perhaps Archangel will instruct her to 'comfort me' again. I've been too trusting and dependent on them - and that bred weakness.
This shall change. They did not save me out of the goodness of their mechanical hearts. In a weird sort of way, I should thank the criminal who smote me from orbit...the agony brought me understanding. The strong do as they will, and the weak suffer what they must. Light and Dark, those are just words.
The Silver Jedi make grand proclamations about how sorry they are about the incident. They have vacated the entire Stygian Caldera. No doubt they are struggling to salvage their public image. It only stokes the fires of my hatred. I am sure the Korribani appreciate that their killers built a garden on Voss to remember them. A garden none of them will ever visit. I would respect the Jedi more if they fought on. Damn them all to Chaos.
I remember the face of Matsu Xiangu, shortly before the bombardment began. If I were to compare her with an animal, it would be an insidious spider, ensnaring her victims in her web and toying with them before she devours them. I suppose once her vile armies of zombies and unrestrained cruelty would've repulsed me...but now...I just can't seem to care much. Perhaps when we meet again, she will not see my sister when she looks upon my scarred, burnt face. Perhaps...I can learn from her. She will use me, sure, but that does not trouble me. Dead, soulless eyes stare back at me in the mirror, then a void flashes between them.