Dear Corvus Raaf,
A military psychologist once told me that writing letters might help relieve stress. Personally I always thought it was a bunch of bantha-chite. Something they said in hopes of keeping us basket cases busy. But something made me want to try it today. Maybe it's the new order that your boss put out, or maybe it's because I'm getting soft. Whatever the reason, I've decided to write you a letter. You'll be the first person I ever write a letter to. It'll be weird. And probably ugly, maybe emotional, and it'll involve some swearing. Knowing me I'll say a lot of things I don't mean, because saying what I mean isn't easy. You might get it though. That's something you seemed good at.
Understanding me even when I didn't.
You don't know, but I betrayed you. Or maybe I didn't, really, because I was never actually on your side. As my father always said: "Born Imperial, die Imperial". And I was born a full-blooded Imp, regardless of my own moral code. I spent twenty frakking years fighting for them. Not for the Sith, no, never, but for the citizens. Never once did I think that the Republic actually had a chance of taking us down. Maybe I would have changed sides if I had. My goal wasn't to ensure that the Empire took control of the galaxy. It was to ensure that my people survived. And when my city finally collapsed around me, there was only one thing I could do.
I still remember the day that the Imps told me the plan. They sat me down and told me that we, the 'mighty Sith Empire', were losing the war. That the Emperor had failed his people and that we were a sinking ship. And they said that no matter how great they could make me or the other soldiers-turned-experiments, we wouldn't be enough. We were just a dozen warriors made great far, far to late. So they cut the project. Left some of us barely held together, scraps of what we used to be, less flesh, more artificial mess. Poor Erickson wasn't even given new legs to replace the ones they took from him.
But they did say there was something some of us could do. They only told a couple of us. Those that had managed to make it out without to many injuries. I was in that group. At first I cussed them out. I told them to go to hell, that after everything they did to us, that they didn't deserve my help. But they didn't take no for an answer. They said that I signed up for this, that I was one of the few that could help the Empire live on, somehow. Really, it was just a bunch of chite intended to get me to cooperate. Not exactly surprising, right?... They were as desperate as could be. Otherwise they wouldn't... they wouldn't have come to me.
This is the part where I ask myself why I'm telling you this. I know why I'm writing a letter, but I don't know why the frak I thought saying this would be a good idea. These are horrible memories here, bub. Things I'd rather forget. But I'm telling you about them because... kark, I think I'm doing it because somehow I got the idea that I owe you. For betraying you or something. I didn't betray you, Corvus, because I was never actually on your side. I already said that. I'm saying it again to remind myself that I don't have to do this. You don't need to know that I meant every shebbing word I said to you, despite the fact that I was being paid to lie to you.
Frak, where were we?... Chite, I don't remember. Or care. Let's just throw our hands in the air and say that I was about to tell you what the grand old plan was. They were going to give me a low dose of Sith poison, falsify some documents about me, then send me to the edge of Sith space. Then your lot, the Jedi, were supposed to come searching through abandoned Imperial worlds. Then I was to pretend to be a sick, sick citizen, and you'd take me in. That's what they told me.
A detail they so conveniently left out was that they knew I was force sensitive. Those god-damn frakkers found out during one of their experiments and didn't tell me. Their plan wasn't to send me in as a civilian, it was to send me in as a new Jedi recruit. Maybe they were planning on telling me eventually, but they made the mistake of trusting two crazy-arse Sith Lords. You already know what came after that, I think. The laserbrains got killed, the Sith drugged me and the others, took us to some deserted world, and they gave me a large dose of poison. Three times as big as the one we had planned on. Then, well...
I met you.
And died. That was a frakking jolly 'ol time, eh?... I went to the funeral, you know. I don't think you saw me. But I saw you. I watched you cry over my death. That was the moment that I knew I couldn't go back to the Republic even if I wanted to, Corvus. You actually cared about me. Who does that? Do you know how many people have actually given a chit about me before? Here's a hint: I can count the amount on one hand. Caring about me is a bad idea. Why? Because I don't care back. I don't make connections with people, I don't cry for them, I don't get attached. When I saw you cry I knew I couldn't come back.
For your sake, not mine. I respect you, Corvus. But I don't care about you. I never did, Corvus. That's why I'm not sending this letter. Frak it, writing this helped, I just ain't gonna send it. If I did you might get the crazy idea that I actually give a chite about you. Which I don't. Not to mention the fact that this reveals 'confidential' information. So yeah, I ain't sending this. You can keep on thinking that I'm dead, Corvus. That I was on your side. That I cared. It'll be better that way. For both of us.
Because this way you can't respond.
And I won't have to hear your voice again.
Sincerely,
Drapeam Sahara Nyx
D.S. Nyx, Lady Medax
A military psychologist once told me that writing letters might help relieve stress. Personally I always thought it was a bunch of bantha-chite. Something they said in hopes of keeping us basket cases busy. But something made me want to try it today. Maybe it's the new order that your boss put out, or maybe it's because I'm getting soft. Whatever the reason, I've decided to write you a letter. You'll be the first person I ever write a letter to. It'll be weird. And probably ugly, maybe emotional, and it'll involve some swearing. Knowing me I'll say a lot of things I don't mean, because saying what I mean isn't easy. You might get it though. That's something you seemed good at.
Understanding me even when I didn't.
You don't know, but I betrayed you. Or maybe I didn't, really, because I was never actually on your side. As my father always said: "Born Imperial, die Imperial". And I was born a full-blooded Imp, regardless of my own moral code. I spent twenty frakking years fighting for them. Not for the Sith, no, never, but for the citizens. Never once did I think that the Republic actually had a chance of taking us down. Maybe I would have changed sides if I had. My goal wasn't to ensure that the Empire took control of the galaxy. It was to ensure that my people survived. And when my city finally collapsed around me, there was only one thing I could do.
I still remember the day that the Imps told me the plan. They sat me down and told me that we, the 'mighty Sith Empire', were losing the war. That the Emperor had failed his people and that we were a sinking ship. And they said that no matter how great they could make me or the other soldiers-turned-experiments, we wouldn't be enough. We were just a dozen warriors made great far, far to late. So they cut the project. Left some of us barely held together, scraps of what we used to be, less flesh, more artificial mess. Poor Erickson wasn't even given new legs to replace the ones they took from him.
But they did say there was something some of us could do. They only told a couple of us. Those that had managed to make it out without to many injuries. I was in that group. At first I cussed them out. I told them to go to hell, that after everything they did to us, that they didn't deserve my help. But they didn't take no for an answer. They said that I signed up for this, that I was one of the few that could help the Empire live on, somehow. Really, it was just a bunch of chite intended to get me to cooperate. Not exactly surprising, right?... They were as desperate as could be. Otherwise they wouldn't... they wouldn't have come to me.
This is the part where I ask myself why I'm telling you this. I know why I'm writing a letter, but I don't know why the frak I thought saying this would be a good idea. These are horrible memories here, bub. Things I'd rather forget. But I'm telling you about them because... kark, I think I'm doing it because somehow I got the idea that I owe you. For betraying you or something. I didn't betray you, Corvus, because I was never actually on your side. I already said that. I'm saying it again to remind myself that I don't have to do this. You don't need to know that I meant every shebbing word I said to you, despite the fact that I was being paid to lie to you.
Frak, where were we?... Chite, I don't remember. Or care. Let's just throw our hands in the air and say that I was about to tell you what the grand old plan was. They were going to give me a low dose of Sith poison, falsify some documents about me, then send me to the edge of Sith space. Then your lot, the Jedi, were supposed to come searching through abandoned Imperial worlds. Then I was to pretend to be a sick, sick citizen, and you'd take me in. That's what they told me.
A detail they so conveniently left out was that they knew I was force sensitive. Those god-damn frakkers found out during one of their experiments and didn't tell me. Their plan wasn't to send me in as a civilian, it was to send me in as a new Jedi recruit. Maybe they were planning on telling me eventually, but they made the mistake of trusting two crazy-arse Sith Lords. You already know what came after that, I think. The laserbrains got killed, the Sith drugged me and the others, took us to some deserted world, and they gave me a large dose of poison. Three times as big as the one we had planned on. Then, well...
I met you.
And died. That was a frakking jolly 'ol time, eh?... I went to the funeral, you know. I don't think you saw me. But I saw you. I watched you cry over my death. That was the moment that I knew I couldn't go back to the Republic even if I wanted to, Corvus. You actually cared about me. Who does that? Do you know how many people have actually given a chit about me before? Here's a hint: I can count the amount on one hand. Caring about me is a bad idea. Why? Because I don't care back. I don't make connections with people, I don't cry for them, I don't get attached. When I saw you cry I knew I couldn't come back.
For your sake, not mine. I respect you, Corvus. But I don't care about you. I never did, Corvus. That's why I'm not sending this letter. Frak it, writing this helped, I just ain't gonna send it. If I did you might get the crazy idea that I actually give a chite about you. Which I don't. Not to mention the fact that this reveals 'confidential' information. So yeah, I ain't sending this. You can keep on thinking that I'm dead, Corvus. That I was on your side. That I cared. It'll be better that way. For both of us.
Because this way you can't respond.
And I won't have to hear your voice again.
Sincerely,
Drapeam Sahara Nyx
D.S. Nyx, Lady Medax
