An oath not easily broken

[Lassiter]

“Oh but you see, this man has escaped the goddess’ wrath for the last few months.” The half-Vahla announced with dramatic flair as she pulled the rough sack off of his head. “Hid in the slums of Alderaan thinking that we wouldn’t find him no matter where he was, but he was wrong.” She knelt down in front of him. “Weren’t you, Bolo?”

Sena had sworn to make Joycelyn her equal. Before the high priestess she had sworn that with time she would shape a second sword. A new sword that would become something that the goddess herself could be proud of, become something that Sena could never live up to yet struggled to uphold nonetheless. They didn’t see eye-to-eye most of the time, at least that was the general vibe of it. Sena had her ways of doing things, Joycelyn had hers. Perhaps that was why they had chosen this particular woman to work beside her.

Where Joy had brawn, Sena had brain. That was not to imply that the ‘master’ was in any way more clever than her apprentice as much as an indication that their mindsets were very much unlike each other. Where Sena used guile and wits, Joy would use brute force and sheer power, both of which were admirable in their dedication to the goddess. The more Lassiter thought on it the more it dawned upon her that this was exactly why she was grouped with her current apprentice; they complemented each other one way or another in many different aspects. She wasn’t fond of said idea, of course, but it was the truth and she would be a fool to deny it.

“So, we have gone over trust.” Sena said and turned her attention to Joycelyn in full. What she was referring to was the master’s betrayal in the test chambers with the hounds, of course. “You have received saber training elsewhere from what I hear,” She wasn’t exactly opposed to it. The less time Joy had to poke at Sena to check her ability the better. “Seems to me like we have no reason to delay this particular lesson any further, not that we-”

“M-my name isn’t Bo-” The man tried to plead before crying out in pain. Electricity did that.

“Speak when spoken to, Bolo.” Sena growled, the man shut up.

“Anyway,” A token smile spread on her lips again. “What does loyalty mean to-”

“Plea- AAAAAH!” The man cried out, again. In pain, again.

“What does loyalty mean, Joycelyn? What makes a man turn his back on a sworn oath much like Bolo here has done?” Sena finally turned around to look at the man. “He managed to run away a few months back and the goddess has been so very anxious to see him pay the price for it.”

“What kind of price?” The redhead shrugged. “That remains to be seen. For now we need information, and he is the only one who has it.”

“How would you go about retrieving this information, apprentice?”

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Joycelyn and Lassiter did not see eye to eye in many things. How they complemented each other went right over her head thanks to her inexperience in working along someone who was not her twin sister. Yet, despite all their differences, the Vahlacanthix had to admire the Sword's ability to hurt people without flinching. Not to mention the sheer power Darth Drethi was able to summon in the right instances. Of course, she did not overtly display any of this admiration. Such flaws of expressions had been beaten out of her as she survived in the game of successions in the courts of the Pacanth Reach. All that gave away her was a glimmer of purple in her otherwise brown eyes, and perhaps a faint empathic trail, like the faint smoke of a candle.

As Lassiter spoke, Joyce stood to the side watching the scene play out before her. Her hands were clasped behind her back in a military fashion, making her seem even taller than she already was. Yet, when the Sword mentioned trust, her eyes focused on Lassiter. The only thing Joycelyn trusted Lassiter in was to serve their fellow patron. Their bond to the Goddess and the Ember was a powerful glue, and Joyce believed neither would fade away from that responsibility. So she gave a small nod.

Ah yes, the lightsabre training. Joycelyn was about to respond when the man so rudely interrupted. However, before she could punish him, Lassiter had already released her torrent of electricity. Once more she was given a question and was about to answer before she found herself rudely interrupted. Irritation blossomed in her, but she restrained her actions until the next question came.

“How would you go about retrieving this information, apprentice?”

Before the runaway with the secrets could speak, Joycelyn slapped him across the face with the back of her hand.

"In the Pacanth Reach, we have a tradition for extracting such information. Not sorceries of the Force, but the artful tracing of a knife."

As she spoke, her left hand clamped down on Bolo's knee and squeezed while the middle and index fingers of her right traced down the reddened cheek of the runaway.

"First we cut in strategic places, slowly, shallowly to prevent bloodloss. Then we place a powerful adhesive to the edge of the skin."

Her finger trace became a slow rub, then suddenly the fist balled and pulled away as though she drew something away from him.

"-And steadily extract the hide from his flesh; foot to crown. That usually gets them talking."

As she spoke, the Panathan accent became more pronounced and a shrewd smile grew on her face, enhancing the trace of her paternal line. Turning her head to Lassiter again, she raised a suggestive eyebrow. There was no bluff in her expression. If Lassiter had other suggestions she best present them before Joyce got her knives out.

[member="Lassiter"]

 

[Lassiter]

Sadism never really fell too far from the tree. A small grin spread on the master’s lips at the mention of knives. As much as she tried to hide it there really was no use for it. On the few things that they saw eye to eye on it would seem ironic that pain was it. The man began to shake and shiver as the brute began to run her fingers down his cheek. Whimpers seemed to echo around the room disguised as heavy breathing. Bolo was the man who had been leaking members all this time before disappearing himself. He was good at covering his tracks, but not good enough to hide from the Sword.

The master’s head began to bob up and down in appreciation with her wicked grin still going. They could have used the force to retrieve the information, but why bother? This was more fun, if you could call it that. Deranged, bloody, thrilling, there were many different words that could be used to describe this particular activity and none of them would be ‘socially fit’ in their use. Exhilarating, anticipating, craving, none of them enough to describe the joy Lassiter took in her job.

Reaching for the knife strapped to her boot she handed it over to her apprentice with a sign of affirmation.

“Show me the ways of your people, please.” She almost sang. “Bolo here has been draining us of members, and I am not talking about what the high priestesses do behind closed doors.” There was never not a time for a quip.“As far as they are concerned,” Sena began as her eyes lowered for the man in question. “He is already dead.”

“And in case the message doesn’t get through your thick skull,” Sena said and gently prodded said head. “That means you are more than likely to end up that way.”

Brief pause, more drama. “Unless you talk, of course. In which case, maybe not. We’ll see.”

With a gentle wave of her hand Lassiter let her apprentice get to work. “He is all yours, Joycelyn.”

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Taking the knife, Joycelyn stepped back to inspect the edge with her fingertips; it felt sharp. She drew the blade up along the top of her arm, hearing the shearing sound of metal against skin as the keen blade shaved off some of the thin hairs on her forearm. It was no scalpel, but if it could shave, it could flay. Mentally, she was already preparing the procedure of the flaying. There were many places to start, some had symbolic meaning, some were simply practical. Yet, amidst her planning, she did catch Lassiter's words. They helped her decide, helped her focus: The toes. To flay the feet was a sign of no escape. Additionally, it was damn painful.

"Thank you, Master. I am sure he will sing."

Once more approaching the traitor, Joycelyn folded up her sleeves and placed the knife down to free her hands.

"Mr. Bolo, are you ready to begin?"

Ceremoniously, the tall, dark haired woman started removing Bolo's shoes. She didn't hurry nor use much force, but savoured every movement as it stripped away layer on layer down to the very skin she desired to strip from his flesh. It was rare to see her this focused, but she had been thoroughly conditioned to savour the agonising arts. Which added all the more to its effect. She cut seams with the knife then peeled the trouser-legs away before tracing a calculated finger along the prospected line of incision. It was very important that she avoided the major arteries, lest they lost their toy all too quickly. To be save, she made a tourniquet from the fabrics, closing off the bloodflow to the leg.

"This little bantha went to the market." With a vice-like grip, he clamped down on the big toe and ran the tip of the blade over the skin. Droplets of red emerged like liquid rubies, the flow stifled by the tied cloth. "This little bantha stayed home." She clamped down on the next toe and traced the blade down into the dip between the toes then up again to the top. "This little bantha had blue milk from mommy." What had once been little droplets was now a series of crimson streaks. Joycelyn clamped down on the next toe and repeated the cut as she pulled the skin taut. "This little bantha had none." The toe nearly cracked between her fingers as she repeated the procedure, driven by the rhyme that most certainly did not belong to such a cruel tradition. Yet, it helped her remember. "This little bantha went wee, wee, wee-" The cut around to the outside of the pinkie toe then shifted he grip to the top of the foot and drew the blade down along the outside of the sole. "And told us everything he knew."

[member="Lassiter"]

 

[Lassiter]

It was marvelous in a sense, terrifying in another. For a brief second Lassiter got to stand by the sidelines as someone else got to work and what she saw caused her to recoil; mentally. Her face remained with an impassive, uncaring look on her face as she observed her apprentice’s performance. Enthralling, exhilarating, terrifying, and it wasn’t the brutality of it that caught her off-guard, no, it was the manner in which the other half-Vahla went through with the surgical incisions. Sena was self-taught in the subject relating to their current ‘disposition,’ but with Joycelyn it almost looked professional and as if it was nothing but yet another person on a greater list of unnamed victims. Another strike in the black book, so to speak.

“I- I will tell you nothing!” Bolo panicked, yet just this once Lassiter allowed him to speak out of turn if only to hear the sweet sound of dejection in his voice once he finally chimed up like a canary in a cage too small to fit. “The people have- Aaaah! Goddess alive that-” The man cried out. Sena smirked at that particular mention. The goddess, there was irony in that. The good kind.

“If you take me out, another will take my pla- OH GAAAAH-” The man let in a sharp inhale. “You are sick! All of you!”

“You swore an oath!” Sena chimed up in anger. “An oath not easily broken, and you knew the price for that!”

“You forced me to take it!” The man spit in her face. “You and that schutta at the Temple!”

Sena said nothing and merely stared him down as she wiped the saliva off her face. Her teeth grit in frustration as the voices of her mind growled within. She wasn’t going to take this. Her hand swiftly curled up into a fist set on a collision course for the man’s nose. Hit landed, man’s head recoiled as his back arched.

“Parameter changed,” She said and looked over at her apprentice. “He’s dead. Once he has told us everything he knows he’s dead.”

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

"You and that schutta at the Temple!" ... 'that scutta at the temple' ... 'that scutta'

Oh no he didn't.

Joycelyn's knife stopped in its tracks and she looked up at his face after the words had passed his lips. She was about to rise when she felt the tremor of tension that rippled through his body in the wake of Lassiter's fist. Joyce retracted the knife so not to cut too deeply, but once his body was still, she placed it right where it belonged. The edge rounded the back of the heel, cutting a little triangle at its cusp before tracing up the other side in a single fell swoop.

"He will beg for death before I am done with him."

Joycelyn gave her master a shrewd look. There were ways to make a flayed man beg for the mercy of a cold embrace. Some she had seen in the Pacanth Reach, others she had dreamt up in her own twisted nightmares. Cruelty was in her blood, it festered in her mind at night. Now, her knife pulled at the edges of the wound she had made. loosening the skin. The tip of the knife then turned to the nails. She poked each before she once more put her vice grip on the big toe. One by one, the nails were peeled off with little grace but much ferver.

"What's wrong Bolo? We are just getting started; I am just getting into my groove."

The last of the five nails clattered to the floor. The foot was more red than pink at this point, but it did not bleed so profusely as to threaten his life. Standing up, Joyce plucked a white towel from among her things and wiped the knife and her hands. After she was done, she threw the towel into the foot, letting it soak up the excess leakage while she blended two packets of powder with plain aqua, then mixing it into a cloudy white paste.

"Mr. Bolo; confess."

Removing the towel, she smeared a line of paste over his skin with a plassteel spoon.

[member="Lassiter"]

 

[Lassiter]

“Good.” Sena growled as her stare lingered on the bloodied man. “He deserves it.”

And to think that this man was one of the few exceptions that the woman had considered for re-education other than outright death. Perhaps it was her own damn fault for assuming a key figure in the resistance movement would be reasonable; so far he had proven himself anything but. The master grabbed a nearby chair and placed it behind her apprentice before taking a spectator’s seat for the live performance. The man continued his squirming, writhing in pain as the knife traced along his edges and crannies.

In many ways she found delight in watching it happen. Something told her she wasn’t the only one.

“No!” The man shouted louder than before as he watched the black haired demon prepare the paste. “I will never betray my friends, my family!”

“You will never-” The man continued before getting interrupted.

“Shut up already about family!” Sena rose from her chair. “It’s an illusion of comfort, a weakness to not just you but everyone in our cause-”

“I am not with your cau-...” The man cut himself short in order to bit his tongue. It was a futile attempt at making the pain in his feet seem lesser. “Feth you, Drethi. Feth you and that schutta at the temple!”

“Feth you. Fethyoufethyoufeth-”

He was smacked across the face again. His head slumped down, but he wasn’t unconscious. Lassiter took her seat and continued to watch her apprentice work.

“I think he just asked you to ramp it up, Joycelyn.” Sena shrugged. “Give it to him.”

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

"With pleasure."

She spread the paste over the cut skin and placed a thin sheet of plast under his sole. Tucking it into the nooks and crannies, Joycelyn managed to get the film to hold on to the edges of his wounds.

"Now, I am not going to lie to you; this will hurt."

Tracing her finger over his toes, she traced down to the heel and deliberately gripped the corners and looked straight into Bolo's eyes. Then she pulled. First a swift yank with a squirt of red, then a slow and steady draw as the skin released its grip on the skin. The smell was unmistakable and it told her this would be a clean draw. By then, his nerves would be firing like a fireworks display on overdrive.

"I do believe I have his attention."

Half the sole of the foot was now loose, the veins and nerves beneath exposed to the elements. Now and then, a squirt of blood landed on the floor as a vein ruptured under the pull. She was no expert in this skill, but good enough to keep him alive in the process of it.

"Now, you really should stop saying that word. It is very disrespectful, Mr. Bolo."

Joyce shook her head, the smile still on her lips as she peeled the skin. Her hands moved steadily up along the removed flap of skin to keep the tension even. She was about to hit the balls of his feet after which came the most complicated bit; the toes.

[member="Lassiter"]

 

[Lassiter]

She had his attention and a lot more. The man’s head rose to try and look the Vahla-Epicanthix in the eye but was met with nothing but his own death and despair. She was a horror far worse than what he had expected and if Sena was to say anything it was that she agreed. To think that the half-Corellian would be taken aback by the sight of blood or brutality was something she had never thought to see, yet here she was and all she could do was hold her head still from the impulses that traversed across her neck and spine.

“Schutta.” The man added one last time, defiantly, before yet another round of pain coursed through his feet. “You will never-”

Sena rolled her eyes and sighed. They were getting nowhere. It would seem that the man needed motivation to spill the information that they needed. It was easy to resist when the image you were resisting was someone you hated, but when the image was of someone else, someone you care for…

“Kira?” The man suddenly hissed. “Kira what are you doing?! How?!”

Before him was no longer the woman known as Joycelyn, but a pale redhead of a woman.

“You were dead! I saw her-... I saw Drethi…” He looked at the woman in panic. It was not every day the woman you loved stood before you with a knife and wicked smile. “You’re dead. You’re dead, this can’t be real. You’re dead.”

His lips began to twist and turn into a frown. “What is happening to me?”

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Joycelyn was tempted to halt when the new name was called out. Kira? And why were his eyes so locked on her? Her hands continued the peeling-motion almost absent-mindedly as she thought. She then looked at [member="Lassiter"], then Bolo, then Lassiter again. Then, she decided to roll with it. Apparently, she was Kira now, and the traitor was scared out of his mind. Joyce put the knife under the joint of the big toe and carefully worked loose the thin skin. There were so many nerves in that little nook, so easy to make a fatal mistake. Yet, she peeled off the sole of the toe with near perfection.

"You should tell us. It will all be so much simpler if you do."

The next toe she almost botched. A squirt of blood shot out and almost hit her eye, making her jerk back and tear the skin off in a single pull. Of course, that too had an effect. She clamped down on the foot, pressing on one of the nerves as she got a new good grip on the skin and begun peeling the next, and the next. Fury gave her focus. She worked a little quicker now, but ushered on the pain all the more intensely.

"Please, pretty please."

The bloodstain trickled down the side of her face, and she caught the sanguine droplet with the tip of her tongue. Still, Joyce was unaware of who this Kira was or why he called her name. Guessing games were never her greatest forte.

When the sole was all but removed, she lifted it up in front of her and looked at how the light shone through it.

 

[Lassiter]

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

“Hoth!” The man cried out at the sight of his own sole. “They’re on Hoth, in a secret tunnel system hidden by snow! Feth, just stop!”

“Be more specifc, Bolo!” Lassiter cried out as she knelt down to stare at him face-to-face. “I want coordinates.”

“What?! I don’t- I am not-”

“Landmarks!” The redhead growled. “We’re bringing these people home tonight.”

“I can’t-”

“Yes you can.” She slapped him across his cheek. “My apprentice has already helped you see reason once. Save us the chit and give us a landmark or I’ll make you do it.”

“Feth it fine! Northern hemisphere, look for two big statues the size of skyscrapers!” The man cried out. “Are you happy? Can I go?”

Sena raised her eyebrow and looked at her apprentice with a grin. “I don’t know, can he?”

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

With a flick of her hand, Joyce threw the severed sole away as the words began to flow from his mouth like bantha urine. She turned the knife between her fingers as The Sword squeezed the proverbial lemon of his mind.

Posed with the question, Joycelyn stood up, looking down upon the fracturing man; a smile now grew on her lips.

She ran a bloody hand over the top of Bolo's foot, then wrapped the fingers around his big toe before prodding the red with the nail of her index finger. Still, she kept the bemused smile and thoughtful tone.

"He will not be going anywhere fast."

Bolo's screams reached new levels of pitch.

"But given his cooperation, we should let him walk"

The smile grew sinister as she looked into Lassiter's eyes. She put the skinning knife down. There was no question in truth; Information must be contained lest leaks continue.

"Like a wounded bantha."

Wounded banthas were put down, not nursed back to health. She gave the illusion of mercy, but her hand was already straying in the direction of the blaster at the back of her hip.

The restraints were loosened, and Bolo begun his soleless limp towards the door: He took a whole of three steps before the blaster was drawn and fired. A smoking hole now adorned his upper back. A quick death, at the very least.

[member="Lassiter"]