A Day in the Life

[Geneviève Lasedri]

Morning. It is 06.07. The sun is not even more than a thin line across amber treetops on the horizon. The sky is gray and the interior climate control has not yet begun its work.

The datapad vibrates on the solid wood bedside table--a slight rumble that is enough to catch the attentive ears of the sleeping Prime Minister. Well, she was sleeping.

As her head rises, she brushes the black strands of hair out of her mismatched eyes and places open palms against her face, wiping her closed fingers down her eyelids and then her cheeks, weariness still evident in her motion. She just woke up, after all. She is still human.

Bared, pedestrian legs--something almost no one has had the opportunity to see--rotate from under the sheets and fall over the edge of the bed, soft toes hitting the carpet silently. Conditioned thighs rise after a moment's pause as her hands push and legs lift in conjunction to bring her upper body off the bed, straight and tall. A bleary-eyed yawn follows.

With a tug, she pulls her gray, ribbed tank top to its full coverage, just above the exposed navel, which is succeeded by white boy shorts. A brief glance at her reflection in the painting reveals the mangled state of her hair, and she promptly raises her toned arms and digs her fingers in to fix the mess. Some locks fall straight and naturally to her shoulders. Others will need to be tamed with the brush before they will likewise behave.

Striding towards the bathroom, she takes a slight detour to peek inside the pale girl's bedroom and confirm she is safe and sound. Present and accounted for.

She is hardly vain--about beauty, at least. A few gentle strokes are all she endeavors before unceremoniously dropping the hairbrush in the sink. Her brown-tinted contact lens is thereafter inserted into her right eye to balance with the left, concealing the ghostly white iris that she refused to have repaired years ago. Maybe she should see about having that fixed. Or maybe not. Did her daughter even know about that?

Out of the bathroom, she makes her way for the kitchen, picking up her secondary datapad on the fly, hoping for no emergency pages waiting. Nothing seems urgent, judging by the softly glowing green light situated below the screen.

What is for breakfast? Cereal in blue milk, with a little Chandrilan toast on the side.

Good morning, Geneviève.

 

[Miria Lasedri]

Hours passed, two to be exact, and the morning hour of 8:07 rolled around. As if woken by some internal alarm Miria slowly stirred, reaching up to rub the sleep from silver eyes with the heels of her hands, yawning near-silently. Taking a moment she stretched luxuriously, her back arching, a sleepy smile creeping across her face. With that morning ritual completed she finally endeavored to actually rise from the bed, pondering the dark denim shorts and the green and white striped tank top after she donned the outfit. With a shrug of one shoulder it was deemed fitting, Ryn tail swaying behind her as if in confirmation. That was one aspect of her morning sorted, and she hadn't even deigned to step from the confines of her room yet. The lights hadn't even been switched on.

With the quiet hiss of escaping air the door to her bedroom slid smoothly to one side, and she silently padded to the bathroom, considering her reflection in the mirror. Her nearly colorless hair was in some state of disarray, and she rummaged through a nearby drawer, locating her brush easily and, with a few pulls through those white locks all was relatively in order. Smoothing out the longer hair (Or was fur the proper term? She had never really bothered.) at the tip of her tail, its color matching that of the hair on her head, she walked from the bathroom to the kitchen, almost completely awake now, sleep now a forgotten thing. Now heralded the beginning of her day, whatever that would bring. Perhaps things would be ordinary for once in a long time. But, after all, she had practically asked to be the Prime Minister's daughter.

Fixing herself a piece of Chandrilan toast with bantha butter and a glass of blue milk she sat and ate, setting the dishes down with a gentle clink in the sink. Remaining seated at the table, legs dangling from the chair, she glanced to the chrono on the wall. 8:30. She couldn't decide if time was passing quickly or slowly just yet, but it certainly didn't feel like that much time had passed just yet. Maybe she was becoming more used to having a home and place to return to at the end of the day than she had expected. Whatever was the case, she couldn't complain. After all, having some stability in her life was always a good thing. It gave her time to focus on things other than simply returning to her bed after each day and completing the same routine day after day.

Once again she was on the move, this time again to her bedroom. Unlike most teens she was used to making her own bed, it having been a task assigned to her at the orphanage as well. Without protest she smoothed over the covers, administering any final touches and next turning to her pajamas, folding those and letting them sit on the end of her bed. At this point everything was more or less in order, the necessary tasks completed and everything in its proper place. It was now things could truly move on, and she was content in how the day had begun. The rest was up entirely to how things would continue to transpire, of their own accord.

Stepping from her bedroom, she began to walk. Her destination? Locating [member="Geneviève Lasedri"] herself.

 

[Geneviève Lasedri]

She always prefers a military sort of escort--partly out of respect for the servicemen, and partly out of intense needs for security hailing back to her Rebel days. A lot has changed since then. But paranoia is not something that has been so affected. Geneviève wastes no caution. She has a Republic to run; her life to preserve; a daughter to protect. So the official airspeeder the Prime Minister is to take is always guarded by no less than four weaponized aircraft to defend from whatever hypothetical threats might reveal themselves to her troubled mind.

Daughters have a tendency to be disruptive. She should know. She is a daughter and was perhaps one of the most unruly of her class. Little has changed as far as her stubborn and rebellious nature is concerned, but now she has her own girl to care for and the last thing she wants to see is young Miria turning into the mess her mom is. But there is little she can control about her girl, as her own mother could attest to with regards to Gen's raising. The only thing she can do is influence her--which she very much intends to do.

She wants Miria to be a thinker; a strong antagonist to the multitude of shallow, idiotic 'doers' out there who seek some unattainable 'peace'. There is no peace--never any peace of mind, even. Gen is certain--even as she now dons her white coat and floppy hat that make her appear so serene and dove-like from a distance--that the Jedi cannot obtain the peace that they pursue. It is a pipe dream for well-wishers and those who want to curb their own power. Not that they should be discredited for their works, but Gen believes war is inevitable. Every breath is yet a battle. And so she hopes to instill such mindfulness of conflict into the fair-haired child she has adopted.

And who should show up on the scene as that teen in question? Private schooling is what she wills for her daughter--so private as to be solitary. It is for her own protection, both mentally and physically. Besides, Miria has not yet expressed any desire for camaraderie to her knowledge. Though Gen has yet to understand friendship herself, so she may have missed some indicators. Was her daughter lonely? Maybe she should make it known that there is nothing off-limits about mingling with the senators' children.

"Good morning, Miria." Little Lasedri in all but blood.

[member="Miria Lasedri"]

 

[Miria Lasedri]

It was true that Miria was far from the average teen in any and all aspects. Whether one was considering the way she typically communicated - through sign language - or something as mundane as her unnaturally pale appearance, she didn't fit in with most others her age. Nothing entirely surprising, given who her guardian was, and that the woman ran the Republic, of all things. It gave her a sort of alienation from many, setting her apart from many teenagers but still leaving her at a distance from those senators as well, given her age. It was as if she hovered in a strange sort of purgatory, not completely living in either world.

But that didn't necessarily mean she was lonely. In fact, she was far from it. While having an absence of any true friendship, she was allowed to glimpse into the lives of others without fully intruding, giving her something of an edge over many. It allotted her experience without having to become completely immersed. It was this lifestyle that had helped groom her careful, quiet intelligence, always observant and rarely outspoken unless particularly spurned into action. But that didn't mean she hadn't formed her own opinions already, many of them closely resembling those of her adopted mother, though in far more of the beginning stages of development.

This unspoken understanding had slowly blossomed between them, forming itself tentatively and never quite fully coming to the light, always leaving the both of them guessing. For her own part she had already acknowledged it, allowing Gen her own time to come into things, never pushing outright but sometimes chancing idle comments when the two interacted. Eventually perhaps the two would make more of a traditional mother and daughter image in both the public and private eye, but for now they were at a stalemate, hovering on the line that separated the two, in some area of grey that was never really admitted aloud.

From the mode of dress Gen had chosen it was evident she was going out, her destination an entirely ambiguous thing. Whether she would be invited along was a just as unknown factor. A small smile found her lips nonetheless when Gen spoke, and she returned in kind by signing, "Good morning." A pause. "Where are you heading?"

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]

 

[Geneviève Lasedri]

It would be easier if she did not need to actually look at her daughter to 'hear' what she is saying. Then again, maybe that visual connection is better for strengthening the familial relationship between them. Despite the fact that she takes her guardianship of Miria completely to heart no matter what she outwardly expresses, Gen still does not entirely identify by the title of 'Mom'. She is the Prime Minister; was the Benefactor. Known to some as the Raven. Viola. Echo. Geneviève.

But 'Mom' was the hardest to adapt to. What makes a mother? Mom has no clue. She is just making this up as she goes, hoping it all works out snd Miria grows up to be strong like herself, but nothing like her at all. This plan is--so far--not really working out as well as she hopes. This is why she would rather the teen interact a little more with her peers than she assumes she does. She needs more varying influences. And yet she needs to not stray too far.

How does this work? Gen wants someone to write a philosophy on motherhood just like she wrote a philosophy on government. That could be handy.

"I have a dignitary to meet today. Public relations, for what it's worth. It's important--but not really." Oh, she hopes her daughter never grows into the pessimist she has become. "And where are you going today, Miria? Or are you on your own time?" Gen smiles. But that could have been taken as a bit of a threat. They both know what the girl does if she ever finds herself alone: frightening things, like touring the city.

There is an unspoken question, and Gen decides to sign back at her selective little mute. 'Do you want to come?'

[member="Miria Lasedri"]

 

[Miria Lasedri]

Conversely, it was just as difficult for Miria to adjust to the idea of being a daughter. It was a role she had taken on before, living it every day of her life for years. But, as with most things, once something was taken away it was difficult to adapt again to its presence. A family life took on that same idea of oddity, in her mind, after having lived in an orphanage for a time. There her responsibility had been to look out for no one but herself, with little attention being paid as far as her own persona needs went in the way of companionship and the like. To have another watching out for her was comforting while at the same time managing to be a strange thought in its entirety.

But somehow she had easily identified Gen with the title of 'Mom', even if such a thing hadn't been explicitly stated between the two just yet. And, well, it wasn't anything she could exactly explain either. It was more of a feeling than something that could be put to words, but the best she could describe it was a sense of the two simply belonging. Each were different enough from their fellow peers to be excluded from most classical discussions, and so were outcasts of their own brand. A sort of air accompanied them, one that spoke of a knowledge deeper than most would ever comprehend. A combination of those factors had brought them together, and now it seemed as if nothing would separate them.

And it seemed that even politics wouldn't prevent the two from spending time together, even if it wasn't of the traditional mother-daughter sort. It would have been simple for her to arrange a day alone, and Gen wouldn't have been incorrect in assuming that she would eventually find her way to wandering about the streets as she typically did. There was simply too much to see to remain in the confines of the house all day. But this time it seemed she was being given a chance to observe the politics of the Galactic Republic that her mother headed firsthand. Most teens would have immediately talked their way out of such a thing, but her inherent curiosity was only piqued. A few simple silent gestures were her only response.

"That would be nice."

[member="Geneviève Lasedri"]